Page 8 of The Maverick
He looked at me, didn’t apologize, and walked off, talking into his phone.
“Do it,” he said. “She’ll pay.”
CHAPTER FIVE
VANESSA
Frustration whirledinside me as I avoided the busy crowd around the gallery. I stepped into my office, closed the door, and dropped onto the couch by the wall. I didn’t expect Emmanuel to be waiting for me outside the gallery. Fearing he’d cause trouble, I agreed to talk to him at the nearby coffee shop.
My hands trembled, remembering his threat.
“Pay up, or you’ll regret it.”
I dug into my clutch bag and retrieved my phone, checking my bank accounts. If I gave him the three hundred thousand dollars—which was everything I had—there would be nothing left to protect my mom’s safety in prison or pay for her escape to another country. That amount also included the deposit from the First Lady. Tears filled my eyes, but I willed myself not to cry. I had to be presentable. I didn’t want the media to capture me looking like a zombie.
Breathe, Vanessa.
I closed my eyes and dropped into the darkness, a place that had been my sanctuary growing up. In the dark, there wasnothing to see. Nothing could bother me here. It was in this emptiness that I could think clearly—start anew.
The darkness was my blank canvas.
Think outside your comfort zone. Reach beyond the confinement of the norm.
Emmanuel knew I’d be selling a lot of art today. He was betting on that. When would this blackmailing stop?
I got up from the couch, walked over to my desk, and turned on my computer. I clicked on the security cameras to see how many people were in the gallery. The crowd had increased since I walked in. I saw my friends and their men.
Then Attikus Mount, the investor of this gallery and the owner of this retail strip—looked right into the camera. My heart quickened. His brown eyes bore into me, and my stomach churned. The anxiety I’d felt with Emmanuel shifted to something else. The tension in my body loosened, allowing me tobreathe better.
Maybe all I needed was a distraction from Emmanuel. I needed to get through the grand opening and deal with everything else after.
Shoving Emmanuel aside, I adjusted my long, dark hair and the lotus flower clip on the side. It highlighted the red dress I wore. I looked in the mirror. For a moment, I didn’t recognize the person standing before me. My face was still the same, with my olive skin tone from my Vietnamese and Haitian heritage. I wasn’t the same girl who had wanted to paint memorable things for fun anymore. Now I painted because I needed the money to rescue my mom.
With that thought in mind, I squared my shoulders and walked out of the gallery. Today was the debut of two new collections:The Shattered LotusandBleeding Dreams. The collections both sounded morbid, but the colors I used gave hope to the hopeless. These paintings were parts of me sent outinto the world in secret. No one knew what they truly meant but me.
Inhaling a deep breath, I stepped into the main room and glanced around. People crowded around a table with refreshments and appetizers. Others scattered around the gallery, looking at the curated collection.
My nerves calmed when everything seemed to flow smoothly. Nothing urgent erupted, needing my attention. My paintings were all displayed in their proper places, being appreciated by people who had money to spend.
“Everything okay?” asked Willow Thomas, my assistant. “You look stunning, by the way.” She had been my part-time assistant until this gallery. Now she worked full time for me. Willow looked adorable in her short, black dress. A blue butterfly clip gleamed in her curly brown hair, which she wore down.
“Thank you. I’m okay, just tired and nervous. You know?” I embraced her. “Thanks for everything. The refreshment and appetizer table looks fantastic.”
“You’re so welcome. I love your work, and event planning is my hobby.” She smiled. “Everything is running smoothly. You’ve sold quite a few paintings already. Are you ready for some questions?” She gestured to a group of people standing in front of myShattered Lotuscollection.
“Of course,” I said and waved to some art collectors I recognized.
Willow led me to a group of people with questions about my lotus painting collection.
“Your paintings have transitioned to something dark, dear,” said an old man wearing a black suit with a navy tie. “It’s beautiful, though.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Change is a good thing. It’s the only thing that’s constant.”
“What inspired your paintings?” a woman with a sparkly dress and a lovely French twist hairstyle asked.
“Justice.” I smiled, surprised at my quick reply. If I had thought about it, I would have chosen a different word—a word that didn’t hint at my problems. But the truth flew out of me like a trapped bird escaping its cage.
“Justice is like karma?” asked a man in a blue-striped suit. “Do you agree?”
