Page 6 of Shatter Me

“Unique indeed.” Dmitri’s smooth voice cuts me off. “Though I wonder if the museum has fully considered the complexities of acquiring such pieces.”

My jaw clenches. “The provenance is impeccable. Every piece has been thoroughly authenticated.”

“Of course.” His smile is forced. “But there are other considerations. Political sensitivities. Current events.”

The rest of the board appears uncomfortable. I know what he’s doing—using the current tensions with Russia to cast doubt.

“The art transcends politics,” I counter. “These pieces belong to humanity’s cultural heritage.”

“Noble sentiment.” He leans forward. “But perhaps we should table this discussion until next quarter. Allow everyone the chance to reflect.”

I watch the rest of the board members nodding along, already swayed by his influence. The acquisition I’ve worked so hard for, slipping away because Dmitri Ivanov has decided to play games.

His eyes meet mine again, challenging. This isn’t just about the art—it’s about power. And he’s showing me exactly how much he has.

“With respect, Mr. Ivanov, tabling this discussion serves no purpose except delay. The Petrov collection is a time-sensitive acquisition.”

I spread the photos across the mahogany table. “These pieces represent over two centuries of Russian artistic achievement. The Fabergé eggs alone?—”

“Which makes them politically sensitive in the current climate.” Dmitri’s voice carries that edge of authority that probably works wonders in his corporate takeovers.

“Art should transcend politics.” I meet his stare head-on. “Our museum has always stood for cultural preservation above all else. That’s why we have Egyptian artifacts, Greek sculptures, and yes, Russian masterpieces.”

“Noble ideals.” He picks up one of the photos, studying it. “But ideals don’t pay bills or navigate international sanctions.”

“No, but integrity does.” I pluck the photo from his grasp. “Our reputation for ethical acquisition and display has made us one of the most respected institutions in North America. That reputation is worth more than any single donation.”

A flash of something crosses his face. Our fellow board members watch our exchange like a tennis match.

“You seem passionate about this, Ms. Blackwood.”

“I’m passionate about preserving art and historical artificers for future generations. That’s literally my job.” I tap the proposal. “Every piece in this collection has been verified. It is legal. The only thing stopping us is fear, and since when does this museum bow to political pressure?”

“Since reality dictated we must,” he counters. “Or did you think history exists in a vacuum?”

“No, but neither should it be held hostage to temporary political winds. These pieces belong visible in a museum, not stashed away in private vaults because we’re too scared to do what’s right.”

The spell breaks when Gerald Thompson clears his throat. I’d almost forgotten everyone else here, so caught up in my clash with Dmitri.

“Both of you raise valid points,” Gerald says, adjusting his bow tie. “Perhaps we should put it to a vote?”

Martha Chen leans forward. “I agree with Ms. Blackwood about the collection’s significance, but Mr. Ivanov’s concerns about timing can’t be ignored.”

“The timing will never be perfect,” I say, but my voice has lost its edge. The room feels different now since the intensity between Dmitri and me has dissipated like smoke.

“We could establish a committee,” Robert Walsh suggests, “to evaluate the political implications more thoroughly.”

I catch Dmitri’s subtle eye roll. For once, we share the same thought—committees are where good ideas die.

The remaining board members jump in with their opinions, their voices overlapping. I sink back into the comfort of my chair, the adrenaline from my confrontation with Dmitri fading. His presence still prickles at my awareness, but the moment of electric connection has passed.

Sarah takes rapid notes as the discussion devolves into the usual bureaucratic circus. I steal a glance at Dmitri, finding him already watching me. His expression is unreadable.

“Let’s schedule another meeting,” Gerald announces. “Give everyone time to review the materials more thoroughly.”

Just like that, the energy drains from the room. Board members gather their papers, already discussing lunch plans. The passion and tension of moments ago feel like a dream.

The boardroom empties in a shuffle of papers and muttered goodbyes. I gather my materials, eager to return to my office and lick my wounds.

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