Page 219 of King of Pain
The paintings are more abstract than portrait—but still.
Super rich people are weird, and Liz knows what will sell. She wouldn’t have offered Chance an exhibit if she didn’t think they’d buy.
“And now,” Liz says, straightening her posture, “it is my distinct pleasure to introduce you to the man behind tonight’s collection. A man who had a few non-negotiables for this show. A man whose talent is only eclipsed by his oversized heart.”
She lets the moment linger, then finishes with:
“I stand before you, proud to introduce to the art world, the man behindHIM—Chance Sullivan.”
The room erupts with applause.
Whistles and catcalls pierce the claps, and I know without turning that it’s our crew.
My eyes are locked on Chance, and his are locked right back on me as he takes the stage.
He hugs Liz quickly before she steps aside, and then…
He’s up there. Alone. In front of everyone. And honestly, he looks like he belongs there.
He raises the mic. “Wow,” he starts. “Thank you. Thank you all for coming out tonight.”
He glances to the side. “And thank you, Liz, for believing in me and making this night a reality.”
He begins pacing the stage slowly, every movement confident but humble.
“I think it’s pretty clear that when I painted all these,” he says, “I had a very specific inspiration.”
He turns, finds me in the crowd again, and holds my gaze.
“You see,” he continues, “at the time I painted most of these, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to lay eyes on the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen—ever again.”
My stomach flips.
He drops his gaze to the floor and says softly, “So I had to get every memory I could onto canvas. Every detail. Every expression.”
Gulp.
“I couldn’t risk my memory failing me at any point in a future that was certain to be a miserable existence without him.”
He lifts his head again, eyes shining under the lights.
“But that beautiful creature…” he smiles, “well, he saved me from that miserable future. And now I get to look at the original masterpiece every day.”
A murmur rolls through the crowd.
Jen whispers behind me, “Oh. My.God.”
I feel my skin burn under the attention, but I don’t look away from him. Ican’t.
“And that made it possible,” he says, “to be able to share his perfection with you all.”
My heart is raging against my chest.
“And now I’d like to invite my muse up here for the rest of what I have to say.”
What?
My pulse kicks. Chance is motioning for me to come up. “How about a hand for Anthony Pacini, everyone?”
