Page 38 of The Spark

I hada meeting with Deirdre that morning, and I told myself it was fate. A reminder from the universe that my art—my purpose—was bigger than the whirlwind of feelings still clinging to me after last night.

Deirdre had been my agent for two years now. A beautiful Black woman in her early forties, with a warm brown complexion, deep-set eyes that missed nothing, and coiled hair always pinned in a soft, regal updo. She carried herself like a woman who had fought for every inch of her success—and won. Confident. Composed. But never cold.

She was the first person in the industry toseeme. Not just as a talented girl posting illustrations online, but as an artist. One with vision. Voice. Value. Deirdre had spoken that over me when I barely believed it myself. She pushed me, yes—hard when necessary—but always with care. And over time, we’d grown from emails and contracts into something more familiar, more personal. A quiet sisterhood.

“You killed it with that last project,” she said, flipping through a folder as I sat across from her in her minimalist office, all cool greys and soft wood. “The Luxe feature gave you way more traction than we anticipated. Your inbox must be a jungle right now.”

I smiled, though it felt a little forced. “It’s been a lot.”

Deirdre glanced up from her tablet, eyes narrowing slightly as she scanned me. “You okay? You look good. Glowing, actually.” Her mouth tugged up at one corner. “You seeing somebody?”

My cheeks warmed, but I let out a soft laugh and waved her off. No way would I be sharing the Amir escapades when I was trying to escape them. “Just working a lot.”

“Mmhmm.” She didn’t press. Just tucked her smile into the corner of her mouth and tapped something on her screen. “Well, whatever it is, keep doing it. That energy? It’s magnetic.”

She clicked her tongue, scrolling. “Anyway—I've got some things in the pipeline. A few gallery inquiries, more digital features. And—” she paused, looking at me over her glasses, “—any interest in a showcase?”

My spine straightened. “A solo showcase?”

“It’s early,” she said, holding up a hand. “Still in the soft talks. But I think it’s time. Your work is too powerful to just live on screens.”

Something tightened in my chest. A flicker of fear, yes. But also wonder. And pride.

“I’d love that,” I said, voice softer than I meant. “Just let me know what I need to do.”

Deirdre’s grin widened. “That’s what I like to hear.”

We wrapped up soon after, but as I stepped back out into the crisp morning air, a quiet thrill curled in my gut.

Something was happening. I could feel it.

But before I could dwell on it too long, my phone buzzed.

Amir.

I swallowed hard, staring at his name, before sighing and answering.

"What?" I said, becauseattitude was my only defense right now.

He chuckled. Deep. Smooth. Still thick with morning sleep."Damn, good morning to you too, Amaya."

I shut my eyes, willing my body to stop reacting to the way he said my name. "Why are you calling me?"

"I forgot my keys."

I rolled my eyes. "Sounds like a personal problem."

"Nah, sounds likeyourproblem, 'cause I know you got a spare."

I groaned, already moving toward my car. "You’re a menace."

"And you love it. Bring me my damn keys."

I hadn’t plannedon staying.

I stepped into the studio, spotted Amir and Raj mid-session, and walked straight toward him with the keys in hand. I was going to drop them off, say a quick “thanks again,” and dip. That was the plan.

But Amir glanced up at me from behind the soundboard, his eyes locking with mine just long enough to send a pulse through my chest. Then he held up a hand—just a small gesture, his fingers spread, palm steady—as if to say,wait.His other hand was still adjusting levels, his mouth moving low into the mic, guiding Raj through the next pass.

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