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My palm goes slippery on my phone case. “What note?”
Robert laughs a little. “He left a note here on the counter. It says—D.M.’s work is underpriced. Tell her I’m offering fifty thousand. Per painting.”
A hundred thousand dollars for two paintings. Anger builds behind my shock. He’s taunting me now, offering an amount that makes my refusal seem petty. He’s going to sweep it aside with his money and pretend I never refused him.
“No, I don’t think so.” I steel myself for Robert’s disappointment, because there’s no way. There’s no way I can accept this. No way I can sell to him and give Emerson the impression that I’m for sale. It’s bad enough I let him touch me for so long. It’s bad enough I let him kiss me. It’s bad enough I wanted it, and he could tell. “I don’t want to sell to him.”
The silence goes on so long I pull the phone away from my ear to make sure we’re still connected.
“Robert?”
“I’m here. Daphne…” The ledger rustles in the background. He’s probably flipping the pages back and forth in one of his nervous habits. “It’s your call, of course, but a sale of this size…”
“It won’t end, that’s the thing.” I won’t go into too much detail about what happened last night, with Robert least of all, but I have to say something. “He doesn’t just want these two. He wants to buy all my paintings. That’s too much.”
“All of them? He wants to claim all your future work?”
“That’s what it sounded like.”
He whistles. “That would be—I mean, if this note is anything to go by, you wouldn’t have to worry about anything.”
When Robert saysanything, he means money. I wouldn’t have to worry about money. If Emerson is serious about buying even half of the pieces I plan to paint in the foreseeable future, it means a ton of money for me, and a huge commission to the gallery. Shame burns at the back of my throat. It feels bad to say no, but it feels worse that I fell for his lies. Emerson made me feel special, only to treat me like a prostitute. Like a person for sale. Why can’t I get that through my head? Why can’t I forget how good it felt to kiss him.
“I don’t think that’s true. I think I’d have quite a bit to worry about.”
“You’d be set,” he insists. “Even if he didn’t want them all, your work would be so valuable, Daphne. People would be lining up for showings.”
I can hear how much he wants this, and what I hate most of all is how conflicted I feel.
Emerson was an incredible kisser. He was also a liar. He didn’t tell me who he was until he wanted something from me, and what he wanted turned out to be everything. He wanted to make a purchase of me.
And I’ll never admit that when he said it, with his body against mine, something went hot and liquid between my thighs. Before my brain snapped back to being offended, I liked it. I liked the way it sounded when he said it. Pure possession. That’s what it was. No two ways about it.
“Just think about it.” Robert manages to say this casually, which has to be tough for him. “Don’t decide anything today. It was a big night. Take some time, okay?”
“Okay.” Mainly, I want this conversation to end. “I’ll think about it. I’ll see you later on.”
I hang up and roll facedown into the pillows.
This is not how I imagined it would go when someone finally discovered my work, if they ever did.
There’s a knock at the door. I bet anything it’s Robert, feeling weird about the conversation. “One minute,” I say into the pillow. It’s not loud enough for whoever it is to hear me. It’s more of a personal commitment to getting out of bed. I do, and throw on a hoodie and leggings. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the way past the bathroom. Good thing, too, because my hair is a mess. A bun on the top of my head is an improvement. “Coming,” I call toward the door.
No one answers.
I slide the privacy cover on the peephole out of the way and look out.
Nobody in the hall, either. Some canvases I have stored out there. A package, maybe. I usually have things delivered to the gallery, but it’s not out of the question.
I pat my hair one last time and flip the lock. Open the door.
There’s no package waiting on the navy blue doormat.
There is a single, white orchid.
Goose bumps paint themselves from the top of my head to the base of my spine. It’s all I can do to pick my head up and look down the hall to make sure there’s no one there. My heart jumps into my throat and bangs around. The hall is empty. I take two shaky steps toward the stairs and look down. They’re empty, too.
But someone was here.
