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“Despite the intricate details of the piece, Mrs. Dupont, the quality of the materials seems, for lack of a better word, cheap.”

“How dare—”

“I’m not done, ma’am,” I warn, smiling sweetly despite my irritation. “While oil paintsareindeed expensive, I can tell they were not recently bought. In fact, most of the materials used were accumulated from Mr. Dupont’s years of being an artist. Even the canvas.

“Not only that, but this frame is something I’ve seen countless times before.Someartists unreasonably double their artwork’s price by choosing this.” I cross my arms over my chest and lean my head to the side. “Now, if I were to be asked, the price I’m offering is still much more generous than its actual marketable value.”

With a shaky voice, Mrs. Dupont asks, “And what price might that be?”

“Only €206,080. And that’s something for a piece from a…lesser-known artist.”

Mrs. Dupont’s eyes grow wide. “T-That can’t be right!”

“That’s the reality of it, ma’am.” I lean on my desk, itching to strike the final deal. “Now, will you take my initial offer, or will you leave and look for another museum to take it in?”

“But… But Ineedthe money,” she mutters, her eyes swelling with tears.

“Mrs. Dupont, for whatever price you settle for, you still get the money,” I tell her. “Please make the decision now.”

“Alright. I’ll sell it for your initial offer,” Mrs. Dupont says hesitantly.

Delighted, I present her the contract, read her the terms, and watch as she signs it. I go back to my desk and write the check, smiling as I send her off. As she leaves, I hear a bit of sniffling from the other side, and I sigh.

What can I say. I have that killer instinct. I got it from my papa. When most other Black men back in the day who managed to get into college were going into accounting or law or engineering, my Papa graduated from an HBCU, made his way to France, and put his Art History degree to good use.

He used American gumption and bootstraps and built a Black owned art museum in the heart of the lily white art world. And people flocked to him for it.

He taught me that if you work hard, no one will be able to pull you down.

“Such is the life of a person married to an individual in the arts,” I tell myself. As I begin packing up the papers, my phone rings. I pick it up, greeting, “Allair here.”

“Jenny! Wonderful timing! Is the sale finished?”

“Yes, Papa. Just finished.”

“Excellent! Let’s talk about it over dinner. Fancy eating at Chez Diane?” At my hum of agreement, he continues, “For now, hurry over to the other branch to meet me. I have something big to discuss with you.”

“Right now? I still have two clients left for the day.”

“I already asked Ainsley to take over for you. Please hurry as this is something that can greatly affect the museum.”

Interested, I pause in my task and reply, “I understand. I’ll be there in ten or fifteen, depending on the traffic.”

I place the last stack of papers on the side of my desk, pack up my stuff, and exit my office in record time.

46

REN

Igroan as I put my alarm to snooze, stuffing my head under the covers and shying away from the sunlight. Painting until three in the morning is never a good idea, but it also never stopped me from doing so.

I turn my alarm off completely after it goes off the second time, and I make a move to sit up. I run my fingers through my long hair, yawning despite the late hour.

“How long was I out?” I murmur, checking the time on my phone as I scratch my head. The screen flashes 12:13, and I sigh at the thought of losing half a day to sleep.

I get up and stretch languidly, allowing my muscles to relax. Walking to the middle of my room, aka my art studio, I observe my surroundings and laugh at the mess I’ve accumulated in the past few weeks.

It’s about time I tidy up, I guess.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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