Page 4 of My Daddy Valentine

“Ella, this is Simon,” Margo says, her voice cutting through the silence. “He’s our senior curator and will be overseeing your work. Simon, this is Ella, our new intern.”

Simon gives me a curt nod, but his eyes don’t soften. In fact, I can almost feel the coolness radiating off of him. His gaze flickers briefly to Margo, then back to me.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice flat and neutral. There’s no warmth there, no interest.

I force a smile, trying to keep it together. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Margo seems oblivious to the tension between us as she claps her hands together. “I’m sure you two will get along just fine. Ella, Simon’s been with the gallery for years. He’s got an eye for art and has curated some of our most successful shows. I trust him to show you the ropes.”

Simon offers nothing more than a stiff nod in agreement, and I try not to feel like I’m being dismissed. I want to hate him for being so cold, but something about the way his jaw tightens and his eyes seem to study me—like I’m some kind of puzzle he’s trying to figure out—makes me pause.

He’s definitely not the type to smile and make small talk. But that’s fine, I can handle that. I didn’t come here to be coddled.

“Well, we have a few things to go over, but I’ll leave you two to it,” Margo says, smiling at us both. “Ella, Simon will give you a tour of the gallery, and then I’ll have some tasks for you.”

She leaves the room, and just like that, it’s just me and Simon.

I stand there, unsure of what to do next, when Simon gestures toward the door. “Follow me,” he says, and walks out without waiting for me to respond.

I trail behind him, trying not to get distracted by how his presence fills the space. He moves through the gallery with purpose, his steps sure and quick, as if he owns the place—and in a way, I guess he does.

We walk past the various exhibits, the white walls adorned with incredible works of art, the lighting carefully curated to enhance every piece. Simon doesn’t explain anything to me, not yet. Instead, he leads me to a back room where the administrative side of the gallery is.

He stops by a desk, organizing some papers before turning back to me.

“You’ll mostly be helping with the day-to-day tasks,” he says, still not looking directly at me. “Emailing artists, scheduling appointments, assisting with exhibitions. Don’t expect to be thrown into anything glamorous right away.”

I nod, trying to keep my excitement under control. “I understand. I’m just happy to be here.”

Simon finally looks at me then, his gaze hard. “Don’t mistake your enthusiasm for naiveté. This isn’t a place for dreams. This is about the business. You’ll need to keep that in mind.”

His words hit harder than I expect. I thought this was supposed to be a place where art was celebrated, where creativity flowed freely. But now, I can’t help but feel a little deflated.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, trying to sound confident despite the shift in my mood.

Simon doesn’t seem to notice my change in demeanor as he hands me a clipboard with some forms. “Here. Get started on these. The sooner you’re settled in, the better.”

I take the forms, but as I watch him walk away, I can’t shake the feeling that this is going to be a lot harder than I expected. Simon might be cold, but I get the sense he’s hiding something beneath that icy exterior. Something that maybe could be worth discovering.

For now, though, I have to focus on proving myself. I can’t let him—or anyone—distract me. I’ve got my foot in the door, and I’m not about to let it close.

Even if that means putting up with Simon’s chilly attitude.

3

Simon

I try not to let my gaze linger on Ella too long. I have enough distractions in my life. The last thing I need is to be captivated by an intern who’s fresh out of art school and full of idealistic notions about the world. But damn it, every time I look at her, my brain short-circuits.

I’ve never been one to lose focus. I’m the guy who does the job, who delivers, who doesn’t get caught up in emotions or distractions. But when I saw her standing in Margo’s office this morning, her bright eyes wide with enthusiasm, I knew she was going to be a problem.

I try to keep my face neutral as I walk down the hall, leading her through the gallery. It’s a routine I know well—showing interns around, explaining the daily grind of this place. Art shows. Gallery installations. Client meetings. But with Ella, there’s something different. She’syoung, so much younger than me. And she’s got this thing about her—this energy, this radiance. It’s the kind of beauty that would make any man pause. Herlong, blonde hair, her bright, curious eyes, the way she seems tobreathelife into the air around her.

I take a breath, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand.

This isn’t my first time working with interns. Hell, I’ve mentored dozens of them. But there’s something about Ella that doesn’t fit the usual mold. She’s eager, yes, but alsotoomuch of a dreamer for this place. Margo’s right—she’s here to learn, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to hold her hand. She needs to get real. This business is tough, and the art world is no place for naïve idealism.

But still, her presence keeps rattling my thoughts. I want to stay professional. I want to get her up to speed so I can get back to dealing with the more pressing matters—the gallery’s upcoming exhibitions, the artists we’re working with, the fact that a competing gallery is making a play for one of our biggest clients.Thatshould be the priority right now, not her.

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