Chapter one
I counted the money in the tin box for the third time. It was still the same, two hundred and thirty dollars. The rent was two thousand dollars.
I put the lid back on the tin and looked around the studio. Paint brushes stood in old containers, canvases leaned against the walls.I had finished working on some. Why are some still under painting, My mother's easel is beside the window, but empty now, the way it had been since she died.
This art studio was the only property my parents left me. My father built the studio. My mother had painted a design filled with sunflowers that still looked new after all these years. I could not lose this place. It was not just a building. It was the last memory I had left with them.
My phone Beeps on the table. It was another message from the homeowner. I did not open it right away. I already knew what it would be, because I had read the last two sentences, pay soon, or leave the house.
I picked up my brush and tried to paint a design. My hand would not stay steady… I put the brush down and rested my hands on the table.
"You will figure this out," I said to myself. I said it every day. Some days I even believe it.
Someone rang the studio doorbell. I was not expecting anyone. Most customers call first. Why do some just want to see the latest design? Not many people buy designs anymore, not from a small art studio like mine, tucked between a laundry and a shoe repair shop.
I cleaned my hands on my dress and walked to the front door. I saw a man standing outside, tall, handsome, in a dark suit. It cost more than my house rented for a year. He was looking at one of my mother's designs, the one with the harbor at sunset.
"Can I help you?" I asked.
He turned around. His eyes were bright,
The kind of eyes that seemed to study everything at once. He did not smile, just focused and calm, like a man who did not waste time on things that did not matter.
"I am looking for designs for my office," he said. His voice was soothing.
I almost laughed. Most people who walked in looking polished wanted a design that met their expectations, a design that would not offend a client and suit their taste. I pointed to a few pieces near the window instead, ones with more colorful design,
He walked past them without much interest. Then he stopped in front of a design I had done myself, not my mother's work. It was a small canvas, dark blue and gold, showing a single boat on a stormy sea. I painted it the month after my parents died. I never planned to sell it.
"This one," he said. "Who painted it?"
"I did," I said. "But it is not for sale."
He looked at me, Everything has a price.
"Not this one," I said. My voice came out sharper than I meant it to be... He stared at me for a while, like he was trying to figure something out… Why would a small design mean so much to a woman struggling to pay her bills? He said, he sighted the unpaid message on the table. I quickly covered it with my hand…but it was already too late.
"I understand," he said, and to my surprise, he let it go, showed me something else. Something that means less to you, but still has that same feeling in it, he said.
I studied him for a second. Most rich men who walked into my studio treated me like nobody and did not appreciate my work. This one actually looked at me when he spoke. He is different.
I showed him three more designs. He chose one quickly, a smaller piece with a cool design and paid for it without looking at the price. He paid in cash, more than the real price of the design, and did not wait for change.
"Don't worry about the change," he said, when I tried to hand him back the extra change.
"I don't need a charity," I said, holding the money out again.
"It is not a charity," he said. "The designs are worth it.
He picked up his design, wrapped it in brown paper, and walked toward the door. Then he stopped, like he had forgotten something. He turned back to look at me one more time… his eyes moving over the art studio, the paint containers, the unpaid notices I had not fully hidden, and finally back to me.
"What is your name? He asked.
"Sophia," I said. "Sophia Carter."
He nodded once, gazing at me." Lucas Sterling," he said.
The name hit me harder than I expected... Sterling Holdings is one of the biggest companies in the city. I had read about the Sterling family in magazines, very wealthy and influential, always in the news. I had never expected one of them to walk into my small art studio and buy a design like it meant nothing to spend that kind of money.
"Thank you for the designs, Sophia Carter," he said, and left.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the door. The way he said my full name made me feel like he wouldn't forget it. The cash in my hand was more than I expected, but still not enough to sort my bills and to save the studio.
I did not know it yet, but Lucas Sterling was not finished with me. He would be back within the week, and this time, he would not be buying a design.
