Page 19 of Inheritance
He let me go, gentler this time. “Now go change. Put on your makeup. Walk into tonight knowing you belong there.”
I nodded slowly. Not because I agreed. Just because I was too drained to keep fighting.
He stepped back, the air loosening with his retreat.
I cleaned off my face, applied foundation, then reached for concealer.
Sophia
Gabriel’s hand at my lower back felt like it was only there to move me from the mansion to the car.
The drive to the museum had been quiet, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of silence that grows between people who want to move on from their last conversation but can’t stop mentally replaying it. He hadn’t looked at me once after we started driving, but I’d spent most of the ride staring out the window anyway, so how would I know? Maybe it was just me who wanted to forget.
I hadn’t asked what he was thinking. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to risk hearing the answer.
The museum came into view, but I barely registered it.
"We'll pick you up in an hour," he said.
I stepped out of the car, not having to try much at looking the part of a snobby rich artist with how irritated I felt. Behind me, Gabriel’s staff carried the painting with reverent care, like it mattered.
I squared my shoulders. Lifted my chin. Tried to feel as if the role I was playing were the truth about me.
I climbed the steps to the museum’s entrance, and a man leaving held the door open for me. Staying true to my feelings, and my role, I didn’t thank him.
A tall, thin man with thick glasses at the front desk read me with a tired glance. “This way, please.” I followed him, ignoring the calculating stares from two huge security guards. Somehow my heels clicking against the marble floor gave me a little confidence.
He opened a door and motioned for me to enter. The hallways here were different than the display areas—less showy, more functional. The walls were lined with pieces waiting for their turn to be paraded before the highest bidders, paintings and sculptures lined up carefully in order of presentation. There were better works than mine here, and worse ones. I let out a quiet, disbelieving breath as I passed a painting that looked like someone had just thrown paint at the canvas. Another was little more than a single line across a blank canvas. Blatant money laundering.
I’ll just paint a line next time.
Gabriel’s men set mine down right at the front of the line, unboxed it, leaning the wet painting encased in glass against the wall, then looked at me, expectantly.
"You can go, I guess."
They shared a glance, then sauntered off.
“This way.” The man continued without pause, leading me into the next area. The auction room. “I know you’re a new name here, but next time, use the black service door behind the museum.”
I inhaled slowly, wiped my clammy hands on my dress, and stepped into the room.
Rows of upholstered chairs fanned out in a semicircle, each one facing the low stage framed by velvet curtains. A wooden podium stood at the center, a microphone perched on its edge.The room hummed with quiet energy, the low murmur of voices blending into the background of wealth and power.
I moved through the rows of chairs with slow daintiness, choosing a seat near the edge. A few seats away from a group in the same row. My childhood dream had been to sit in a room like this, waiting for my art to be shown to a gasping, applauding crowd. Then I got older and adopted the realistic goal of simply selling art to strangers at a cost too low for me and too high for them. And now, life was challenging my goals again.
This had been framed as my moment to rise. A chance to break into a higher market, to make connections, to be seen as an artist with vision, someone on the pulse of high art. A name that belonged in the mouths of people who saw themselves as better, as superior to the world around them. But looking around now, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to belong to the hushed conversations, sharp glances, and the kind of forced civility that masked how these people really felt about each other. Every whispered exchange seemed to carry weight, a power play disguised as small talk. Gabriel’s family wasn’t welcome here, which meant I wasn’t either, not really. These weren’t people I could network with, let alone trust. The idea that this would somehow elevate me, open doors, legitimize me as an artist, that would never happen.
The lights dimmed slightly as the auctioneer stepped onto the stage. He looked like the kind of man who could make anything sound priceless, even when it wasn’t. He adjusted the microphone like he’d been waiting his entire life for this exact moment, then leveled the room with a single, sharp glance. Conversation died instantly.
“We begin tonight’s bidding with a piece from a highly revered European artist, Claudia Rousseau.”
A weighted pause, then an overhead light drifted towards me.
Oh shit.
The auctioneer gestured toward me flamboyantly. “New to the country, but not to acclaim.”
Heads turned appraisingly. I smiled like I was restraining a huge ego, and as the spotlight left me, everyone looked back to the stage.
