Page 33 of Stalked
I nod, scanning the pristine white walls, which are adorned with carefully curated pieces. “Tell them to add the champagne I requested. The good stuff, not the mid-tier option they suggested.”
When Elliot Chambers visited me in New York one month ago, I almost declined his offer. After building my reputation in Manhattan's cutthroat art scene, returning to my hometown felt like regression. But full creative control over a newcontemporary gallery, with connections to collectors I'd never access otherwise, and three times the pay? Only a fool would say no.
I run my fingers along the cool edge of a display pedestal. The space is stunning—all clean lines and natural light; the architectural renovation alone cost more than my parents' house. Elliot spared no expense, which makes me wonder what he really wants from this arrangement.
My phone buzzes with a text from him.
Dinner tonight to discuss the opening?
I text back.
7 pm at Orso. I'll book the private room.
I check my appearance in the polished glass of a nearby display case. The woman staring back at me has come a long way from that teenage girl fumbling through prom night.
Thinking of prom brings an unbidden memory of Vane Blackwood. I brush it away as easily as lint from my sleeve. That night was nothing but a teenage rite of passage—hormones and curiosity driving decisions that seemed monumental at the time. Losing my virginity to him was simply checking a box in the high school experience, nothing more.
“The lighting in the east wing still needs adjustment,” I say, striding toward the problem area. “And make sure the Nakamura installation has the proper documentation ready for collectors.”
It's almost laughable now, how I once thought those heated exchanges in chemistry class meant something profound. Teenage me confused antagonism for chemistry, mistook physical attraction for something deeper. But life teaches youthe difference between meaningful connections and temporary distractions.
My time in New York taught me what real relationships should feel like—mutually supportive, challenging in the right ways. Not the push-pull power struggle I had with Vane—not that we were ever in a relationship.
I tap my phone screen, reviewing tomorrow's appointments. Three serious collectors are coming in, including one who has expressed interest in the centerpiece sculpture. The thought of closing that sale brings a smile to my face. This is what drives me now—building something meaningful, creating a space for artistic voices that deserve to be heard.
That high school crush was just that—a crush. Temporary. Forgettable. Unlike the reputation I've built, which will endure.
“Is that all for today?” I ask, checking my watch. Almost five—I'll need to hurry if I want to look my best for dinner with Elliot.
“Yes, Ms. Morgan.” Noami consults her tablet, dark curls falling forward as she scrolls through our checklist. “The lighting team will finish adjustments tomorrow morning, the caterers are confirmed, and I've scheduled a final walkthrough with security for the day before opening.”
I study her for a moment. Twenty-four, fresh out of her arts administration program, eager but not desperate. I was like her once, determined to prove myself without appearing too hungry for approval. She's managed the pre-opening chaos with surprising competence, taking initiative when needed while respecting the boundaries I've established.
“I need to get ready for my dinner with Elliot,” I say, gathering my portfolio. “But I trust you to handle anything that comes up. You've done excellent work this week.”
The slight straightening of Naomi's shoulders doesn't escape my notice—nor does the careful way she masks her smile,maintaining professionalism even as pleasure at the recognition flashes in her eyes.
“Thank you, Ms. Morgan. I appreciate that.”
My former boss in New York ruled through intimidation, creating a toxic environment where we all worked in constant fear. I promised myself I'd never become that person, regardless of how high I climbed. Respect doesn't require cruelty.
“Lock up when you leave,” I add, handing her the gallery keys. “And don't stay too late.”
“Of course.” Naomi nods.
As I collect my coat and bag, I watch her directing one of the technicians with quiet confidence. I made the right choice hiring her. In this business, finding someone competent who doesn't require constant management is worth their weight in gold-leaf framed masterpieces.
I step outside the gallery onto Ravenwood's main street, immediately regretting my choice of heels as my foot lands in a puddle from the afternoon drizzle. Perfect. Nothing sayssuccessful art curatorquite like soggy Louboutins.
“Seriously?” I mutter, glancing skyward. “I left New York for this?”
A middle-aged man in a golf shirt walking past gives me a strange look.
“Just having a chat with the universe,” I explain with an exaggerated smile. “We're not on speaking terms right now.”
He quickens his pace, practically power-walking away from the crazy lady talking to the clouds. There's the Ravenwood Hollow charm I'd forgotten about—absolute terror at any behavior more eccentric than discussing lawn fertilizer.
I check my watch and decide to walk the four blocks to my apartment rather than wait for a rideshare. Ravenwood Hollow's lack of reliable taxis is something I'm still adjusting to, having spent years in Manhattan. Yesterday, my driver stopped mid-route to help an elderly woman carry groceries. Heartwarming? Yes. Efficient? Absolutely not.
