Chapter 2: The Presenter

Ava

~~~

I’ll pay you $100,000. Each.

The words ring in my head as I make my way through the crowd, feeling weightless. I still can’t believe they were said for my work. I’ve never sold a single painting over a few hundred dollars, and even then, most of that money goes to my rent, the rest I spend on TV dinners that barely help me through the month. This was meant to be my big break, but I never thought it’d be this incredible.

After the presenter collects his finder’s f*e of 10% for each artwork, I’ll still be left with a whopping $270,000.

I nearly drop my phone, staring at the calculator app like it’s going to save my life, and technically it is.

That kind of money will change the trajectory of my life. Not only is it enough to get me out of that terrible apartment with a leaking roof and a horrible landlord who forces us to refer to her as The Madame, but I can finally afford to escape America entirely, and start my life somewhere the man from ”the incident” will never find me.

As I move past other artists and buyers, I can't help but feel like all eyes are on me. The fact I’m wearing one of my only good dresses; a green sweater dress I thrifted for 4 dollars because it matches my eyes, doesn’t seem to help. It feels like everyone here is trying to get a piece of me.

And it's all because of that man.

He’s standing alone, talking on his phone in words I can’t decipher. As I get closer, I realize it's because he’s speaking Spanish. Of course he’s the sort of man fluent in something that isn’t English.

What do I say to him? Thanks for saving my life? Are you sure you can part with all that money? As I step closer, I see the phone he’s clutching is an Axion Tech device, and all my anxiety about his money flies out the window. That’s the most expensive phone in the entire world.

As I scan through my mental catalogue of different ways to say ‘thank you.” I feel someone rest a hand on my shoulder and spin me around.

It’s the presenter, looking more pleased with me than he ever has.

“Ms Allard?” He says, his eyes fixed on my chest, ‘Please, may we have a word?”

Uncomfortable, I try and look back at the buyer, but the presenter is already ushering me out of view, taking me to a room away from everyone else.

The room is poorly lit, and this seems like something that’s done purposefully. The moment I’m in, I already feel the need to escape.

“Mr Presenter,” I say, barely masking my caution, "Can’t this wait until after the event? I'm sure the man who bought my paintings is waiting for me.”

“Call me Mr Riggs.” He says, eyeing my chest once again and ushering me into the only chair in the room. Reluctantly, I sit.

The dark room and the strange man with a predatory look in his eyes all feel too familiar, like “the incident” is happening all over again. I breathe out, not letting my anxiety take over. I'm a lot braver than I was 4 years ago, and no overweight presenter will move me to panic.

“Have I done something wrong?” I ask.

His smile stretches, “The opposite, Miss Allard. Your works have brought us more profit than any other artist all year! You should be proud.”

I try and feel proud, but my instincts about him only cause me to reach slyly for the knife I always keep in my pocket. I curse myself when I find my pocket empty, remembering security made me submit it.

“So why am I here if I’ve made you $30,000 in one day?” I say, naming his finder’s f*e.

“Because you haven’t made me only $30,000 in a day. You’ve made me $300,000.”

The blood drains from my face as I realize what he’s saying, “You want to take all my money? You asshole.”

The insult just happens to slip out, but Mr Riggs doesn't take it lightly. The smile on his face drops completely, and he rushes over to me. Before I can blink, his thick fingers are wrapped around my neck.

My vision clouds with stars as I lose breath, my heart threatening to beat too fast, but since "the incident," I’ve learnt to control my panicked breaths when attacked, instead saving my energy to find a way out. I messsed on stage today, but I wouldn't fuck up again.

“My money.” He spits at me, “You only made that kind of sum because I took a chance on a poor, desperate artist like you. I would rather die than let you run away with my earnings.”

A voice cuts fiercely through the room, “I can arrange your death if that is what you want.”.

Mr Riggs goes ghostly white, and I feel the pressure of his fingers release from my neck as I gasp for air, falling on my hands and knees as I try and still my traitorous heart.

There, with Mr Riggs and me, stands Mr Sinclair, his face furious.