Page 36 of Christmas With A Billionaire

Autumn’s head snapped toward me. “There’s that ‘next’ again. What are you planning?”

“Patience.” I checked my watch. “It’s almost time. Rose, will you help me gather everyone?”

While Rose corralled guests toward the main gallery, I pulled Autumn aside. “Do you trust me?”

“You know I do.”

“Then close your eyes.”

She hesitated, then complied. I guided her through a set of doors we’d kept locked all day, positioning her just so.

“Keep them closed,” I instructed, then addressed the assembled crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us on this special night. The Benefield Project represents nurturing talent, creating opportunities, and honoring those who dedicate their lives to making dreams possible.”

I moved behind Autumn, hands on her shoulders. “Open your eyes.”

Her lids fluttered open, and she gasped. The previously empty wing had been transformed into a permanent gallery space. Above the entrance, bronze letters spelled out, “The Autumn Williams Permanent Collection.” Inside, the walls showcased artwork from every student she’d mentored and every emerging artist she’d championed.

“This space,” I continued, “will always belong to Chicago’s newest voices. Every season will bring fresh talent, guided by the woman who taught me that true luxury is creating beauty that changes lives.”

Autumn turned to me, tears streaming down her face. “Tyson...”

“You’ve spent your life fighting for others to be seen.” I wiped away her tears. “It’s time someone fought for you.”

She threw her arms around my neck as applause erupted. Against my chest, she whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you more.” I held her tight, not caring about cameras flashing or the crowd watching. “And I’ll never stop.”

A deep voice cut in. “Those pieces moved me to tears.” Corey Rome, Chicago’s top art critic, joined our circle. “The raw emotion, the technical skill. Where did you find him?”

“Working at his uncle’s auto shop,” Autumn said. “He welded during lunch breaks.”

“Not anymore.” I nodded toward Marcus, who chatted with three collectors. “He just received a grant to open his own studio.”

The room buzzed with similar stories. Denise Jordan’s grandmother had called every relative in Chicago - they filled an entire corner, taking photos and crying happy tears. Three of Autumn’s former students, now teaching art in South Side schools, brought their current students to see what was possible.

“Five thousand for the third piece in Denise’s series,” called out a collector in Italian wool.

“Seven,” countered a woman in vintage Chanel.

“Ten,” said a quiet voice. The crowd parted to reveal a teenager in jeans and a hoodie. “I’ve been saving since I heard about the gallery opening.”

“You must be Anthony,” I said, recognizing him from the community center. “The one who paints murals at dawn before school.”

He nodded, hands shoved in his pockets. “That piece... it speaks to me. About fighting for your art even when nobody believes in you.”

I caught Autumn’s eye across the room. She gave a slight nod.

“The piece is yours,” I told Anthony. “Keep your savings for art supplies.”

“But... those collectors...”

“Will find other pieces to buy. This one belongs to someone who truly understands it.”

Denise overheard and rushed over, hugging Anthony. “You better send me photos of where you hang it!”

Near the dessert table,I overheard two critics discussing the impact.

“When’s the last time you saw Aboriginal art next to South Side graffiti?”

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