Page 20 of The Founder's Power

I pause. On the surface, it’s all harmless. Charming, even. But I’ve spent enough time around powerful men to know when something’s off.

And Vincent Grey isoff. He just wears it too well.

* * *

It startswith coffee because he’s there the next day when I get some.

Then there are flowers. A tasteful arrangement of white ranunculus and pale green eucalyptus arrives at the gallery the next day with a card that reads, “For the artist who paints emotion better than anyone I’ve met. —V.G.”

I don’t respond, but I also don’t send them back.

I’m behind on work, so Damian and I haven’t been spending quite as much time together. I have a feeling he’s behind on work too, but Vincent? Maybe I should’ve sent the flowers back because he keeps showing up. Not intrusive, necessarily. Always just enough to seem harmless.

Vincent catches me after a panel event and walks me to my car. He stops by the gallery on a slow afternoon and compliments a piece that no one else has even commented on. He always leaves before it becomes too much, which is what makes it so hard to call him out.

He’s thoughtful, charismatic, and maybe too smooth, and I hate how everyone around me seems to like him.

My assistant said he’s “dashing.” My gallery manager called him “a dream to work with.” Even my friend Jules texted, asking if I’d metthe handsome donor Vincent who’s been boosting local artists.

I know I should talk to Damian. He knows businessmen, so it’s probably safe to assume they know each other, but what would I even say?

There’s a businessman charming the city, and I have a bad feeling about him.

Except I don’t know if saying I have a bad feeling is accurate. All I truly have is the sense that Vincent Grey is always two steps ahead of the room, and I wonder if his interest in me is less about admiration and more about strategy.

Sometimes I catch him watching me when he thinks I won’t notice. Just for a second too long. Not like he wants me.

More like he’s planning something.

But then he smiles, offers to carry something, or mentions an article he read about my exhibit, and the moment passes.

So I start to second-guess myself. After all, what has he really done? Nothing.

And yet, every time I see him, I feel like I’m losing a game I didn’t know I was playing.

* * *

A week later,I’m at a private preview for an upcoming charity auction. It’s a small, invite-only affair—art collectors, patrons, the usual sharp smiles and firm handshakes. I’m sipping wine and trying to decide how long I have to stay when Vincent Grey materializes at my side. He doesn’t announce himself. Just slides in with a comment about one of the bronze sculptures near the entrance, and suddenly we’re talking.

I don’t want to linger, but I don’t want to be rude, and I think he realizes that.

“You always look thoughtful at these things,” he says, his eyes on mine. “Detached, even. Like you’re cataloging the room instead of participating in it.”

I shrug. “I guess that’s how I protect my energy.”

He smiles. “Smart. People will take more than you’re willing to give if you let them.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes, almost like he’s leading me somewhere but hoping to let me think I’m guiding the conversation.

“You’ve really gotten under Damian’s skin,” he adds casually.

The wine nearly slips from my fingers, but I steady it as I glance at him. “So you do know him.”

“Of course.” Vincent’s tone is smooth, unreadable. “We have… history.”

I narrow my eyes. “That’s vague.”

“Well,” he says, swirling his glass, “so is Damian, isn’t he?”

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