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And I know for certain I shall not find it in Madeline.
She’s cold and pretentious, far too in love with the mirror and her own art, to have any room in her heart to care for someone other than herself.
Yet, Father will not let it rest. He and Madeline’s father have agreed some kind of archaic deal. One that I didn’t think could happen in 2024.
I shake off the umbrella as I reach the office building.
As I enter, I’m met with an array of pictures.
The familiar scent of oil paint and varnish does little to soothe my turmoil.
But then I see her.
She's unlike anyone I've encountered—a whirlwind of curls and eclectic fabric, standing awkwardly amidst the austere elegance of the gallery.
She turns, her hand mistakenly clasping my umbrella instead of mine.
"Good morning, Mr. Willoughby. It's great to meet you," she says, her accent a curious blend that I can't quite place.
"The Art Queen's granddaughter, I presume?" I inquire, observing her hand still gripping my umbrella.
Her eyes widen, and she retracts her hand as if it's been burned. "Oh! Sorry. I guess I'm a bit nervous." She chuckles, a sound that's unexpectedly endearing.
I place my umbrella in the stand, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“Shall we?” I gesture towards my office, intrigued by her presence.
As we walk, I sense my earlier concerns begin to fade, like shadows at the approach of light. There’s something about her—an authenticity, a spark—that’s refreshingly different from the world I’m so accustomed to.
And for the first time in a long while, I find myself genuinely curious, eager to step away from the expectations and into the unknown.
EMILY
Sasha's makeover has transformed me—a chrysalis spun from silk and chiffon—but beneath it all, I'm still the girl with curves that don't quite mirror Sasha's lithe silhouette.
I tug self-consciously at the hem of my dress, willing myself to embody the confidence I sorely need.
Today isn't about me, it's about the Art Queen, and more importantly, about seizing the opportunity that could redefine my future.
So, I guess today is a little bit about me.
I swallow nervously as I follow the businessman who is giving me serious Mr. Darcy vibes.
His dark hair is the perfect mix of thick and bouncy, making him look like one of those hot guys in a shampoo commercial.
And he’s the kind of guy who was made for a suit. It’s tailored to his physique, and he walks with his shoulders pulled back.
He takes me through an exhibit, and as we cross the paintings, he casually remarks on them.
William Willoughby is the epitome of what an art curator should be—suave, attentive, with an air of knowing exactly where every piece in his gallery belongs.
As we weave through the corridors lined with canvases and sculptures, William pauses before a vibrant abstract painting, his eyes reflecting its myriad of colors.
"What's your take on this?" he inquires, gesturing to the chaotic swirls on the canvas.
Sasha was right. If she was put on the spot like this, there’s no telling what kind of foolish thing she’d come out with.
But that said, I don’t exactly think of myself as a total pro at discussing art. After all, it’s so personal.
