Chapter 5: A lifetime offer

The first notification felt like a mistake.

I was staring at my screen when the red banner appeared.

SOLD OUT.

I blinked.

Refreshed the page.

Then it appeared again and this time I wasn’t dreaming  

SOLD OUT.

Then another.

My hands started trembling over the mouse. I wasn’t breathing. I couldn’t breathe. Every canvas I had poured myself into — every sleepless night, every brushstroke that felt like bleeding onto linen — disappearing in real time.

Sold.

The numbers kept climbing. The site lagged. My inbox flooded.

I stood up so abruptly my chair rolled back and hit the wall.

“Damian,” I whispered to myself. “You did it.”

A laugh tore out of me — sharp, disbelieving, almost hysterical. For months I had painted in silence. In doubt. Wondering if I was delusional for thinking the world would ever care.

Now the world was buying me.

My chest tightened. Not with fear.

With power. It felt so good  

My phone buzzed relentlessly. Messages. Galleries. Interviews. Unknown numbers. My name was trending — trending. I pressed my hands against my face and felt how hot my skin was.

This is mine, I thought. I earned this.

A knock cut through the room.

I didn’t need to check who it was.

The second knock was heavier.

“Come in,” I said, though my voice came out rougher than intended.

The door opened without hurry.

Nickolai stepped inside.

He didn’t smile.

He closed the door behind him softly — too softly. Like he was sealing something.

“I see the numbers,” he said, his voice low, calm. Controlled. “Congratulations.”

I swallowed. “They’re all gone.”

He walked toward my desk, eyes flicking briefly to the screen. He looked impressed. He looked calculating.

“All of them,” I repeated, needing him to feel it. “Every canvas.”

“I know.”

He stepped closer.

Closer.

Too close.

I became acutely aware of the space between us shrinking. Of the heat of his body. Of the way his presence filled the room, swallowed the air.

I wasn’t suppose to feel this way for a man.

“Step back,” I muttered.

He didn’t.

Instead, he reached past me — one hand braced on the desk, the other adjusting the laptop screen slightly. His arm brushed mine.

It was accidental. I thought  

It wasn’t accidental.

My body reacted before my pride could stop it. A sharp inhale. A flicker of heat that made me furious at myself.

Nickolai noticed.

Of course he did.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I’m not.”

“You are.” He teased.

His fingers hovered near my wrist. Not touching. The space between skin and skin felt electric, like a wire pulled too tight.

“This is what you wanted,” he said quietly. “Fame. Recognition. Doors opening.”

“Yes.”

“And you think it belongs only to you?”

I turned to face him fully. That was a mistake. He was closer than I thought. My back hit the edge of the desk.

“I built this,” I said. “I painted every single piece.”

“And who called the collectors?” he asked evenly. “Who negotiated the placements? Who created the scarcity? Who made them desperate?”

The truth sat between us. Quiet and deep I couldn’t feel my legs.

Nickolai didn’t create my art.

But he created the hunger for it.

My jaw tightened. “What are you saying?”

His gaze darkened — not cruel, not gentle. Just certain.

“I’m saying this is only the beginning,” he said. “Your name is about to explode. Interviews. Contracts. Investors. International shows.”

My heart pounded harder.

“And?”

“And nothing in this world is free, Damian.”

There it was. The reason he was being nice. It wasn’t because I was his son’s friend.

The shift. 

“What do you want?” I asked.

He stepped even closer, forcing my chin up with two fingers. Not rough. Not soft. Just enough to make my breath hitch.

“I want loyalty,” he said.

“You have it.” My voice came out low this time

“No,” he corrected. “I want you.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

My pulse roared in my ears. “You already have me. I work with you.”

“That’s business.”

His thumb brushed lightly along my jawline. A slow, deliberate movement that made heat rush through me despite my anger.

“I’m talking about something else.”

The room felt smaller.

“You’re crossing a line,” I whispered.

“I’m offering you protection,” he replied calmly. I can make sure you become untouchable.”

“And the condition?”

His eyes didn’t leave mine.

“You don’t rise without me,” he said. “Every exhibition. Every contract. Every decision. I am beside you.”

“That’s not a condition,” I said. “That’s control.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes.”

Silence.

My mind screamed to push him away. To prove I didn’t need him.

But my body betrayed me — aware of his closeness, the subtle scent of his cologne, the steadiness of his breathing compared to my chaos.

“You’re enjoying this,” I accused.

His hand finally dropped from my face.

And I felt the loss of it immediately.

Hate burned in my chest.

So I did something far more dangerous.

“What if I say no?” I asked.

He stepped back then — finally giving me space.

“If you say no,” he said evenly, “you’ll still be talented.”

A pause.

“But your talent wouldn’t get you anywhere. And people are already watching you, Damian. Not all of them want to see you succeed.”

A chill ran through me.

I thought about my parents.

He walked toward the door, then stopped.

“You don’t have to answer tonight,” he said.

My phone buzzed again. Another gallery request. Another sold-out confirmation.

He glanced at the screen.

“You’re at the peak of your first victory,” he continued softly. “Decide who stands beside you.”

The door opened.

He hesitated.

“And when you’re ready to satisfy the condition,” he added quietly, “come find me.”

The door shut behind him.

Silence swallowed the room.

I looked at the screen.

My name was everywhere. My art was finally everywhere.

My success. But his shadow lingered over it.

My hands weren’t shaking from excitement anymore.

They were shaking because for the first time, I realized—

Victory had a price.

And I wasn’t sure whether I had just been crowned…

Or claimed by the most famous person.