Chapter 1: The Buyer

Ava - 4 Years Later

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“Up next, please put your hands together for Ava Allard!”

I startle at the sound of my name and the polite applause that follows it. I didn’t expect I'd have to go on stage anytime soon, but I guess that’s part of the curse of having a last name that starts with the letter A.

I walk up to the stage, and my head immediately begins to swim with how many people are present. Jesus Christ. There must be at least a hundred people sitting in this room, all of them pining over the different paintings from all the incredible painters around New York. And now it's my turn to face them.

Fuck.

I adjust my curly red hair with a steady hand as the smiling presenter hands me a microphone to address the crowd. Even in my 6-inch stilettos, I don’t reach the presenter’s neck.

When I hesitate at the curtain, his smile twitches in agitation, and he pushes me out to face the crowd head-on.

I was wrong before, there must be thousands of people here, not hundreds.

My breathing quickens, and I have to remove the mic from my face so no one hears how nervous I am. That’s not what I need right now, all these rich art collectors thinking I'm terrified of them. What if they sense my fear, and use that as an excuse not to buy my art?

I gulp at the thought, thinking about how The Madame who heads my run-down apartment wouldn’t accept another excuse for my late payment of the rent. I’d be on the streets by next week if I can't get one, just one, of these rich assholes to invest in my work.

“Hello everyone,” I say into the microphone. My voice comes out shaky as I mentally curse myself. Already, most of them look bored, and a frontman even dares to yawn.

Well, that doesn’t help my self-esteem.

“My name is Ava.”

“We’ve been told.” The man who yawned says, causing a small ripple of laughter to run through the crowd. I hope my face doesn’t redden as every man and woman present seems to mock me.

Well, all except one.

At the very back of the crowd, right next to one of my paintings, one of the most beautiful men I've ever seen remains silent where he’s sat. His arms are crossed across his chest, and even in one of the most fine-pressed suits I’ve ever seen in my life, a suit I’m sure could pay my rent for the next year, I can make out the shape of lean muscles. He has wavy dark hair, ending just above his ear, and a bit of stubble along his sharp jaw.

But what has me entranced are his grey eyes. They’re looking right at me as if they can see all the hideous secrets I've kept hidden. Like he can see right to “the incident” that caused me to escape to New York, still on the run.

If he, or anyone here, will pay for my art, not only will I have a home for another month, but maybe the leftover money could help pay me to protect myself against the man I'm sure is still trying to hurt me.

I clear my throat, now rejuvenated by my goal not to be thrown out on the streets.

“My name is Ava Allard, and I have three paintings for you today.”

I impress myself as I talk about the inspiration for all three pieces with a clear voice, no longer afraid of the people here. Some of them have even leaned in to listen as I talk about my second piece, Sunrise and Surprises. My hope spikes as I think about the possibility that they may actually invest in me.

Right when I'm about to move to my third and final piece, however, the large doors of the gallery glide open, and a hooded man walks in, leaning by the door.

I gasp, stopping my speech abruptly.

He has the same build as the man I've been running from, and his head is lowered so I have no chance of glimpsing his face, but even then I'm not willing to risk it.

The microphone slips from my grasp, falling to the ground with a clatter that makes the speakers whine. I watch as people in the crowd cover their ears from the piercing noise.

I try and make some words, even try and point at the hooded man who I’m sure has come here to finish what he started with me 4 years ago, but I can't. I can’t do anything. I’m frozen and sure I'm on the verge of a panic attack until I see the man lift his head in confusion before moving to empty the bin at the back of the room.

It’s not him.

A wave of relief floods me, but this is quickly followed by the realization I've messed up. The art collectors are murmuring between themselves, shooting daggers at me as if I insulted all their children and lovers.

Embarrassment takes over as I bend and fumble for the microphone, trying to apologize to the people present.

“I-I’m sorry I-”

The presenter rushes in to fix the situation, a fake smile plastered on his face for his irritated buyers in the audience.

He snatches the microphone from my hands, “I’m sorry for that, everyone. Ms Allard is one of our amateur artists. These types of people are bound to make mistakes.”

Now I'm sure my face reddens as the crowd bursts out in laughter, none of them taking me seriously as I try to say I've been painting for years.

It's too late, already the presenter is peering at his list of artists, trying to get the next person to come and talk about their art. I feel like I can see my rent money just slipping through my hands. It almost makes me break my promise to never cry, but I haven't wept since 'the incident" and this crowd of rich people wouldn't stop my 4 year streak.

Right as I'm about to rush behind the curtain in shame, I see the grey-eyed man by my painting rise, stretching to at least 6 feet. Even though he’s at the very back, the entire room falls into a deafening silence.

There’s something about him that forces attention, and right now, he has everyone mesmerized. Yet, his bored gaze remains fixed on me.

“I’ll take them.” His deep voice rumbles out.

The presenter gasps, breaking his fake-cheerful character. He takes a moment to recollect himself, his eyes darting around the other confused attendees.

“Sorry, Mr Sinclair, you’ll take what?”

Mr Sinclair, why does that sound familiar?

“Her paintings.” He clarifies, “All of them.”

Holy shit.

The presenter lets out an unsure chuckle, “Are you sure, sir? There’s supposed to be an auction for these pieces, starting at $1,000 per painting and-”

Mr Sinclair raises a brow that shuts the presenter up immediately.

“I’ll pay you $100,000.” He says, “Each.”