Chapter 44

Iris

I scramble to my feet, my face instantly heating beneath Arthur’s confused gaze. I quickly realize that I’m still wearing his sweater, and that I fell asleep in his closet while waiting for Selina to leave.

“I… Um…” I glance around, looking for some kind of excuse. My eyes finally fall on the pile of dresses, and I scoop them up, holding them so Arthur can see. “I needed a dress for tonight. Guess I fell asleep while I was looking for one.”

Arthur furrows his brow. “Did you not sleep last night?”

“No, I mean—”

“And you never told me why you’re wearing my sweater.” He reaches up, bracing his arm on the doorframe above his head. A look of amusement flickers across his features, and I feel my heart flutter even faster at the sight of him. Here, surrounded by his scent, wearing his sweater, and looking at his handsome form, I feel suddenly small and foolish.

“I got cold,” I manage, hating how meek my voice sounds.

Arthur stares at me for a moment, and I know he doesn’t believe a word of what I just said. But thankfully, he doesn’t press. For now, at least.

“I heard about what happened yesterday, by the way,” he says, reaching out to touch one of the dresses in my arms. His finger brushes my wrist as he does, and I suppress a shiver. “At the thrift store.”

The memory pains me more than I would like to admit, and I look away. The last thing I want is to be reminded of what those women said—about how Arthur should ‘provide for his mistresses’.

Mistresses. Plural. Like I wasn’t once the fucking love of his life.

I finally manage, shaking my head, “It was nothing. I left before it got too out of control.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” Arthur quickly replies. “You should really consider wearing a disguise when you go out in public from now on. It’s okay here, because I’ve kept my identity hidden from the other residents of this building. But when you go out, at least consider wearing a hat and sunglasses like I do.”

I press my lips into a thin line and brush past him, having to duck beneath his propped arm to get through the closet doorway. I want to tell him that I hate the fact that we have to hide our identities, that none of this would be necessary if he had just chosen integrity over power five years ago, but I don’t. Instead, I just mutter a promise to be more careful and hurry away.

“Iris,” Arthur suddenly says, stopping me in the doorway.

“What?” I turn.

He nods toward the sweater I’m wearing, a silent question. Blushing, I quickly shrug it off and toss it to him. He catches it in one hand, and that look of amusement crosses his face again before I leave.

After that, I quickly get ready for the exhibition. The black dress fits perfectly, gently hugging the curve of my waist and hips. I pair it with some black heels and dark pantyhose, throwing on a subtle pearl necklace for good measure.

Then, I add some shimmery gold eyeshadow to my look, dark red lipstick, and a faint blush to my cheeks. I curl my hair and pin it up into an updo, pulling down a few face-framing pieces. Then, just to be safe, I put on my black glasses to complete the ‘Flora’ disguise.

Once I’m ready, the event is starting shortly. I leave Miles with Cliff and Augustine, who promise that they’ll have lots of fun tonight. He’s not super thrilled, but I can’t exactly bring him with me, no matter how much I want to. Besides, it’s still pouring rain outside, which somewhat deters Miles from wanting to leave the building.

Within twenty minutes, Ezra is dropping me off at the gallery. Arthur isn’t coming tonight as far as I’m aware, not that I invited him or expected him to. Ezra promises to pick me up when it’s time and I hurry inside, only getting a little wet from the rain before I make it.

“Flora!” Alice calls as I enter, rushing over to me. She takes me by both hands and kisses each of my cheeks. “You look stunning. Almost as stunning as your art.”

Before I can respond, she whisks me over to the exhibition space, where my art is hanging amongst the other artists’ work. Each piece seems to glimmer beneath the lights, or maybe that’s just an optical illusion created by the glittery flutes of champagne the well-dressed guests are holding as they mill about.

I can’t help but clutch at the pearls around my neck. “Alice, I really can’t thank you enough for this opportunity,” I say, turning to the curator. “It looks fabulous.”

Alice grins and grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to me. She clinks hers against mine and says with a wink, “This could be the first of many nights like this, if you play your cards right.”

I smile softly and sip my champagne, the bubbles tickling my nose. If Alice is serious about holding more exhibitions here even without the ‘anonymous patron’s’ funds, then I want to do my best to make a good impression tonight.

For a little while, I mingle around the event, talking to the other artists and potential buyers. I manage to sell one piece right off the bat—it’s a painting of two tall bookshelves framing a large, round window, the sun streaming onto hardwood floors. A ladder is laying on the floor, broken in half.

The buyer, an older woman with striking black hair and black lipstick to match, seems thrilled to pick it up in a couple of weeks’ time.

With the night off to a good start, I make my way over to the bar for something else to drink. I’m waiting for my drink when a gentleman in a tuxedo approaches me, tapping me on the shoulder.

“You’re Flora, correct?” he asks, leaning in.

I nod and flash him an award-winning smile. “I am. Are you interested in my work?”

“Oh, yes,” he says, gesturing to the piece depicting the park bench. “I’m actually interested in purchasing that one.”

“That one is my favorite of this batch,” I reply. “It’s listed at one thousand Ordan dollars.”

The man doesn’t flinch at the price—most of the socialites who attend events like this don’t. But then he leans closer and says, “If I offer to pay more, can I get a dance as well?” He jerks his chin toward the pianist in the corner, around which couples are swaying and chatting.

My stomach drops. I wonder if he’s joking, but he holds my gaze, and I don’t see a hint of amusement there. He’s dead serious.

“Pardon?” I blurt out.

“Twelve hundred dollars for a dance and the painting,” he says, his eyes flicking shamelessly across my chest. “A human like you would accept such an offer, wouldn’t you? After all, last I heard, someone was selling your paintings in the park not long ago…”

I stare at him, stunned into silence. His implication is heavy—he thinks that, because my paintings were being sold in the park, I should jump at the chance for an extra two hundred dollars. Like I’m some kind of escort looking to make a quick buck.

But I won’t.

“Actually,” I say, pulling my shoulders back and picking my drink up off the bar, “my offer is revoked.”

The man looks confused. “What?”

“You asked me if I would sell you the painting, and I gave you a price,” I say, smiling sweetly. “But actually, the price has just doubled. And I have no interest in selling to you.”

Before he can answer, I strut away. My knuckles are white around my drink glass, but I hope he won’t notice. I grit my teeth and move over to one of my paintings, stopping in front of it to catch my breath under the guise of admiring my work. As I’m steadying myself and sipping my drink, I look up at the painting, taking in its appearance under the studio lights.

This piece depicts a woman wearing a gown that’s been slashed down the front with scissors, and she’s holding the pieces together in an attempt at modesty. Her eyes are downcast, her face red. It’s called ‘Provider’.

It was supposed to be a commentary on the incident that occurred in the thrift store, symbolizing the naked, raw, violated feeling of being recognized and scrutinized against one’s will. Now, it just feels even more meaningful.

Suddenly, I hear a soft, low voice speak in my ear.

“For someone who sold her artwork for an eighth of its worth in the park, I’m surprised you turned down his offer.”