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"It's time," he announces. Tension courses through me. Of course, it's time to go the second I mention it. My words work against me like curses. At least I had all that time to let my feet recover. Exiting the door, I follow the suited man. Guards assume their positions around us like a bulky fence, again blocking most of my view. Slivers of silvery decor and awful 'modern' furniture decorate the otherwise elegant halls.
The guards allow us space to move—staff bustles. Sets are changed. A slender mic that stage-hands tape to the back of my ear is hooked to my top. The wire tickles, but I bite my lip and don't ask for readjustments due to the staff's solemn faces and hurried strides. Black curtains don't hide the audience because I see a fraction of the thousands waiting for Blackburn to return to the stage from where I stand.A hand squeezes my shoulder.
"You'll be okay," his words are the same as earlier, but his serene demeanor appears more authentic this time. Comforting? Either way, I acknowledge it. I can't gawk at him for long.
He smooths his suit and walks out onto the stage from behind the curtain. I have to follow. The sound falls on deaf ears. Blinding white lights beam on us, much hotter than I thought, reminding me to be grateful for the sunglasses shielding my weary eyes. Not a single face in the crowd is recognizable; they are all shadows or distant blurs. They aren't that far, are they? I sit on a stool beside Evan's, hoping I don't come across as idiotic as I feel.
The interviewer is a striking middle-aged woman. Her shoulder-padded blazer and coal black pants rival the pristineness of the CEO's own suit.
"I'm joined here today by Evan Blackburn and local artist Isabella Garcia, making a first observation of the portrait this beautiful young woman painted of the innovative billionaire that will be hung in New York, Manhattan's Artistry Historium Museum. Can you tell us more about your creative process?" Her sharp voice is as quick as the inquiry she shoots at me. I wasn't expecting them to want a response from me so fast, but I cleared my throat and articulated the first artsy response that popped into my head.
"With portraits…I like to—well, how I like to say—meditate with that person's energy as to…properly capture their essence on a canvas," I leave dramatic pauses between my speech, accentuating every placed word. If crafted personalities surrounded me, I might as well play along.
"Wow, interesting," she draws out her syllables, inviting the crowd to marvel and overanalyze my meaningless sentence.
"I'm sure with such an easy-going client like Mr. Blackburn, that must've been an enjoyable process," she chirps.
Yeah, sure.
"Evan is a…peaceful client. In silence is how I prefer to work.…let his aura do the talking. Words aren't necessary for art," I can't discern if I'm taking my character too far. By the appearance of things, people are captivated by my hippie-ish, spiritual view of art. Blackburn hasn't interjected so far; I must be doing well. It's relatively easy. This is the first art most creative people learn to master early on.
The art of bullshit.
The interview only lasts for a little while longer. I don't realize how on edge I am until I walk off stage into the shadowed areas hidden from the audience.
"Excellent job," Evan praises.
That is the end of the interaction. Returning to the room to await his conclusion, I realize this is the final occasion he requires my presence. Soon, we'll head back to INNO CORP, and I'll be free to return home. There, I can engage in activities like sleeping, painting, or enjoying a cup of tea. Countless other portraits await my creation, but nothing will draw me back to him. So what is wrong with me?
Suddenly, time flies with agile wings, breaking the hourglass and allowing the sand to flow. Every moment is too fleeting to savor. Evan says goodbye to fans, and we are back in his limo, only a few minutes from the familiar, steely building.
"What was that? At the interview," he questions. Not in a scolding tone. Not condescendingly. With an amused grin, I'd only seen once before.
Shrugging, I respond with uncertainty, "Fun?" He hums with a grin that lingers.
"A criminal's wit," he conveys under his breath.
"Not a criminal," I remind him. He hadn't acknowledged my sentiment. As soon as we reach INNO CORP, he'll never have to acknowledge me again. Tires roll onto the smooth pavement of the fancy skyrise, our doors are opened, and I step out. The night sky blankets the city, yet it is nowhere near dark or quiet.
"Remember, you have another interview at your home tomorrow. Don't make me look bad," Blackburn is back to himself.
"Okay," I declare. In the midst of my deliberations regarding whether to offer a farewell or say goodnight, he has already made his choice.
"Isabella," he initiates, his voice soft with a husky edge that captures my attention. "My apologies to you are in order."
My eyebrows raise, surprised by his admission. "Oh?"
He takes a deep breath. "It has come to my attention that my demeanor over the past few weeks may have been off-putting. The immense pressure I was under is no excuse, and I regret any unintended negative impact it may have had on you.
His honesty disarms me. It's not what I expected, especially after our numerous exchanges of judgy glares and silent standoffs. "Everyone has their moments," I reply, choosing to extend the olive branch.
Evan looks up, and the sincerity is evident. "How about a nightcap? Somewhere quieter. There's this private club nearby..."
It's still a surprise. With his striking features and piercing eyes, Evan Blackburn wants to spend more time withme. I nod, curious about this change, "Sure. Lead the way."
The club Evan introduces me to feels like a hidden gem, shielded from the city's clamor. Velvet curtains, soft jazz, and the intimate ambiance hint at the night's potential.
"Did you have a pleasant evening?" he asks, his demeanor much warmer now.
