CHAPTER 1: Too good to be true

CHAPTER 1: Too good to be true

Mia's Point Of View:

I stared at the cracked phone screen yet again, reloading my chats. Nothing. Zero messages.

“Fuck it!!” My teeth ground as I slid the phone in my pocket.

A sudden chill ran down my spine, and I turned to Mom who laid helplessly on the hospital bed. But it’s not her presence that shook me to the bone. It’s the continuous dry cough that ripped through the walls of her throat. The fear of losing her to the cruel embrace of her chronic lung condition.

Oh, the way she looked at me with those eyes, the same shade as mine. But now they were swallowed by eye bags, wide and dark as saucers.

She didn't say a word because well, she couldn't. Yeah, it's that critical.

But eyes don't lie. I could tell she was betting all her hope on me.

It all started with an explosion that affected her lungs years ago. The same explosion that took my Father's life on the night I turned sixteen. Something the news described as a ‘robbery gone wrong’.

The door creaked open behind me. I turned. It's the doctor. He stepped closer to me, his smile as fake as Barbie.

“We really need money for her surgery, Miss. Carpenter,” He addressed, almost emotionless.

The same thing he's been saying for years now, but I trust him. I knew he'd do something to keep her alive with the little money I could afford to pay as usual.

“We can't keep her in this condition anymore, I'm sorry. She needs the surgery, or….”

His words stole the breath from my lungs, “Or what?” I managed to whisper.

He didn't respond, only shook his head. I didn't need him to tell me anyway, I figured.

My body had always felt heavy since the day of the explosion. But my heart? Never. Until now. This time, I could feel it sinking, like it had fallen straight into my stomach.

I've tried everything to make money. Or maybe just one thing. Art. But that was everything I had, everything I knew, everything I could do, aside from my freelance job. How else would you expect a twenty-one year old final year drop out to make money without a college certificate?

And art? It never worked out. The industry was flooded with talent. Too many artists chasing the same dream, and I was just another name lost in the tide.

I kept going. I kept drawing. I kept painting, till my wrists screamed and the clock hit 3AM, but still? Nothing. Just hope. No visibility. No likes. No orders. No recognition. No one gave a flying fuck. No one wanted art from some random girl named Mia. Or maybe they would’ve…. if they had discovered her.

I blinked hard, realizing moisture had gathered in my eyes. I was just about to turn to Mom when the doctor hit me with another one, “The deadline is a week,”.

Fuck him.

Dead ass, fuck him.

I turned regardless, bending slightly to reach Mom's face.

“You'll be fine, I promise,” My voice broke.

That was an empty promise. I had no idea how to get the money. But I just knew I would. Somehow.

The corners of her lips trembled into a shaky smile, handing me what’s left of her trust.

Without another word, I turned and exited the hospital ward. My body trembled, not from cold, but from the fear of what lay ahead.

I tried to convince myself that somehow, just somehow, I’d find $250,000 for her surgery. But how could I, when I didn’t even have $200? When I was on a budget so tight, even tampons felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford? One I had to live without, so my bank wouldn't end up with a wound.

A phone pinged. Mine. I halted, already outside the hospital, fetching it from my pocket.

I stared at the message for a long time, reading it twice before the meaning settled in. A car horn blared, and for once, it didn’t make me flinch.

I blinked, reading the words again, as if they might change. They didn't. A small sigh escaped my lips. For the first time in years, my heartbeat didn’t sound like a countdown. And I finally digested everything…. Someone was interested in my art.

‘Good day Mia Carpenter, I hope you're having a good day. I'm Rihanna Voss, and I'm reaching out as a representative from a private art agency. We're on the lookout for fresh talent, and your artwork really caught my eye. Each piece is a unique masterpiece, and we believe they would be a perfect fit for our agency's interests. Our clients are generous and are offering half a million dollars ($500,000) for a session showcase of a masterpiece. The best part is that you retain 100% rights and credit for your work, and the agency only takes a 10% commission. This means you're displaying your work in a private setting. If you're interested, please let us know. We'd love to arrange a physical meeting. Looking forward to hearing from you soon.’

I scrolled through the woman’s messages as I walked down the hospital steps. I couldn't bring myself to reply yet. I tightened my grip on my phone and kept walking.

My mother’s breathing machine was still working somewhere inside that hospital. The sound followed me everywhere, even now, echoing in my mind with every step I took.

My last freelance payment barely covered food. The landlord had called in the morning, reminding me, again, that rent was due last five weeks.

I stopped beside a billboard, shading myself from the sun, and read the message once more.

The offer seemed too good to be true. A generous payment, and a chance to showcase my art in a private place. It just has to be real. Because I was running out of time.

I took a deep breath and replied, ‘I’m interested’.

I resumed walking.

My mind drifted back to how art used to be therapy. When Dad died, art was the only beautiful thing about life.

Now, it’s just a weight to carry. Another reminder that ‘beauty’ doesn’t pay bills, and that talent doesn't guarantee success. My hands that once painted masterpieces now trembled at the thought of hospital bills.

My phone pinged again. I paused, looking at the screen once again.

‘I’m glad you're interested. Meet me here by 1pm sharp tomorrow. Don't show up late.' was her response before she shared a location.

There was something rehearsed about her messages. Either way, I couldn’t look away.

‘Thanks for the opportunity. I won’t’ I replied, hitting send before my courage could fade.

The message went through instantly. Then, before I could lock the phone, a new notification appeared: ‘Perfect. We’ve already made arrangements for you.’

A strange chill crawled down my spine. I looked up, realizing for the first time that a black car had been parked across the street the whole time with its engine off, windows tinted, unmoving.