Chapter 15

Iris

The curator was right.

Over the days since my seminar, it seems that my ‘mysterious’ identity as ‘Flora the artist’ has drawn even more interest in my work than ever. My collection is being talked about all over online forums, with local Ordan critics writing articles on the symbolism.

And then, of course, there were my… ‘bold’ statements.

Truthfully, when I said those things about Arthur and his views on equality during the seminar, they just sort of… came out. It’s not that I didn’t mean what I said—I really do think that Arthur has done pretty much nothing when it comes to increasing equality in Ordan over his five years as Alpha President—it’s just that I never expected myself to say them.

Especially not with so much passion.

But maybe it’s time. Arthur used to lay in bed with me and talk late into the night about his hopes for the future of this city, how he wanted nothing more than a world that was no longer divided between humans and werewolves but rather united.

Too bad that was all a lie. A lie just to keep me, his human mistress, around for just a little while longer to sate his needs. Until he could find a more suitable woman to be his Luna, of course. A werewolf woman.

Still, I try not to dwell on it too much. Right now, I’m more consumed by my art career. The value of my art has shot up more in the past few days than it has in years, and I’ve already been receiving calls and emails from interested buyers.

One offer in particular catches my eye. Someone is interested in purchasing ‘Wet Nurse’, the star piece from my collection. And whoever it is must be high-profile, because the email I receive is from an assistant and not the actual buyer.

I happily agree to meet the potential buyer at the gallery, then get dressed and head out. I don’t bother with my disguise today, since I’ll be meeting the buyer alone. Rather, I opt for a smart pair of trousers and a button-down shirt, wanting to look as professional as possible but also low key.

When I arrive at the gallery, I head in the back door after having learned my lesson the other night—I don’t want to be seen by any lingering journalists.

Although most of the recent buzz surrounding my involvement with Arthur has subsided, Arthur and Selina are still under intense scrutiny, so it’s best to lay low until I head back to Bo’Arrocan.

I’m just turning the corner to the back entrance when I see her.

She’s wearing dark cat eye sunglasses and a silk scarf to cover her bleached blonde hair, but I would recognize Selina anywhere. Her face seared itself into my memory five years ago, and nothing I’ve done since then has been able to get it out.

I’ve tried therapy, meditation, even the more unconventional methods (at Brian’s suggestion) like energy healing and sound baths.

Nothing has worked. Selina’s smirking face, her eyes glittering with malice, haunts my dreams on a regular basis. So when I see her now, it’s only natural that I stop in my tracks, my hand fluttering up to touch the locket around my throat.

She sees me, too. Her mouth tugs up into that smirk that I know too well the moment she spots me, and she straightens, adjusting her designer purse on her shoulder. She’s with a sandy-haired man that I vaguely recognize, although I can’t quite put my finger on it.

He seems to recognize me as well, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Well, well. Long time no see,” Selina says. “Hello. Iris, was it?”

I want to tell her to shove her greeting where the sun doesn’t shine, but instead, I pull my shoulders back and stride past her. “You’re visiting the gallery?” I ask.

She nods and follows me inside with the man on her heels. Unfortunately it would be unbecoming of me to shove the future Luna of Ordan out on her ass, so I have to let her come in. Although I don’t bother holding the door for her.

“I’m here to purchase some artwork,” she says, her heels clicking on the tile floors.

She pulls her sunglasses off once we’re safely inside, and her eyes—gray and cold, like the kind of dirty ice that forms along the side of the road toward the end of winter—flick over me. “You must work here.”

I want to tell her that I’m an artist myself, but I don’t think it would make a difference. Not that it matters if I had anything to say anyway, because she goes on, “I could really use some coffee before I meet with the artist. They’re a big name in the art world, you know, and I feel a little drowsy after a late night rubbing elbows with the city’s elite. Not something you’d understand, I’m sure.”

I stare at her, not really sure what her hangover has to do with me.

My hesitance seems to make Selina bristle. “Well?” she asks, snapping her fingers—snapping them. “Be a dear and fetch some coffee for the future Luna of Ordan, will you?”

The man goes to say something, but I shake my head and plaster a smile on my face. Despite what I really want to say to Selina, she is an authority figure in this city, where I just so happen to be building a reputation as an artist. I don’t need more bad press right now.

Without another word, I head over to the nearby coffee bar and begin to pour a cup. The coffee must be freshly made, because the dark liquid steams as I prepare it. Behind me, Selina daintily sits at the table and crosses her legs, checking her watch rather impatiently.

“So,” Selina says, tapping her foot, “Iris, what is your position here at the gallery? Docent?”

I bristle a little as I return with her coffee. “I’m an artist,” I reply calmly.

Selina glances up at me, and for a moment, I’m not sure if she believes me. Finally, she retorts, “Ah. I did hear that the gallery provides free arts and crafts classes for kindergarteners on the weekends.”

My lips pinch together and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from retorting before I’ve had a chance to truly consider my words. The coffee cup is still held between us, the hot liquid scalding my hand slightly through the cardboard.

Selina doesn’t take it, but rather flicks her eyes to the empty space on the table.

“Set it there. And add some cream and sugar, will you?”

That’s about the end of my rope. Selina is treating me like a waitress, expecting me to not only brew coffee for her, but to also set it in front of her and prepare it to her liking.

“For the record,” I say bitterly, moving to set it down, “I don’t teach the kindergarteners. I’m the star artist of the month.”

Selina snorts. “Flora? Oh, please. You couldn’t hold a candle to her talent. In fact, I’m purchasing one of her paintings today. We’re going to ask her to endorse us publicly, too, in the light of the controversy that you caused. She’ll accept a tidy sum from us. Something you should have done years ago instead of causing trouble.”

Her words make my hand jerk in surprise—not because of the insult, but because of the implication. She’s the buyer I’ve been so excited to meet?

Without entirely meaning to, I tip the cup a little in my haste to set it down, sending hot coffee splashing onto Selina’s priceless heels. She jumps up with a screech, doing a little dance to get the coffee off. I don’t feel very bad for doing it, even if it was just an accident.

“You little human bitch!” she shrieks, raising her hand as if to slap me.

I brace myself for the slap, but it never comes. The man she’s with has just made a sound, a low rumble in his throat—a warning. That’s when it hits me: this is Arthur’s Beta. I’ve only seen him in pictures since our breakup five years ago.

Selina stiffens, quickly lowering her hand and smoothing down her shirt. A smile is immediately plastered across her face, and I realize that it’s only because the door behind me has swung open and the gallery curator has come in.

“Oh, I’m so glad you came,” Selina says, hurrying over to the curator. She points at me. “Your employee has just spilled coffee on me.”

The curator glances at me, then at Selina. “You mean Iris? She’s not an employee, Miss. She’s our star artist. The one you scheduled to meet.”

Selina’s face goes pale as she turns to me. I feel a smug sense of righteousness coming on when I see the realization dawn on her, but most of all, I just feel angry—angry that a prejudiced woman like Selina would try to buy my star painting, which is steeped in symbolism.

Not only that, but she wants me to back them in public? Fat chance of that happening.

And I’m going to make sure she knows just what I think.

With a deep breath, I lift my chin and say, “Miss Selina, let me make myself perfectly clear: I will not sell my painting to you, nor will I endorse you. No amount of money in the world will make me do either of those things.”