The Billionaire's Muse

Episode 3

The sun was far too bright when it crawled across my floor the next morning. It felt like a physical weight pressing against my eyelids, forcing me back into a reality I wasn't ready to face. My body felt like it had been dismantled and put back together incorrectly overnight. Every joint creaked, and my head throbbed with the rhythmic pulse of a caffeine withdrawal.

I stayed on the floor for a long time, staring at the ceiling. The cracked plaster looked like a map of a country I didn't want to visit. I thought about the hundred-dollar bill I had given to Sarah. Part of me regretted it. That money could have bought groceries for a month. But another part of me, the part that still held onto a shred of dignity, knew I couldn't have kept it. Taking money from a man like Kelvin Clark felt like signing a contract written in disappearing ink. You never knew when the terms would change.

I eventually forced myself up and dragged my soul toward the kitchenette. I filled a cracked mug with tap water and drank it in one go. My reflection in the small mirror above the sink was horrifying. My hair was a bird’s nest, and my skin was the color of old parchment. I looked like the personification of a struggle, which I supposed was accurate.

I walked over to my sketchbook, which was still sitting on the small table by my easel. I hesitated before opening it. I felt exposed, knowing those grey eyes had looked at my private thoughts. To an artist, a sketchbook is more intimate than a diary. It’s where the failures live. It’s where the ugly, messy, half-formed ideas wait to be discarded or saved.

I flipped to the back. There he was.

In my exhaustion the night before, I had captured him with a few jagged, aggressive charcoal lines. I hadn't even realized I was doing it. The sketch didn't look like a man; it looked like power. I had drawn the sharp angle of his jaw and the way his shoulders seemed to hold up the ceiling. But I had left the eyes blank. I hadn't been able to capture that storm-grey depth, or maybe I had been too afraid to try.

A sharp knock at the door made me jump so hard I dropped the book.

My heart climbed into my throat. The homeowner. It had to be. I hadn't heard from him since the notice, and he wasn't the type to wait. I looked around the room, panicking. There was nowhere to hide, and I certainly didn't have the rent.

I walked to the door, my legs feeling like jelly. I peered through the peephole.

It wasn't the homeowner.

A man in a crisp suit, holding a high-end tablet and a heavy-looking envelope, stood in the hallway. He looked completely out of place against the backdrop of my neighbors' trash bags and the flickering hallway light.

I unlocked the deadbolt and cracked the door open just a few inches. Can I help you?

Kelly White, he said. It wasn't a question.

Maybe, I replied, keeping the chain on. Who’s asking?

I’m Marcus, an assistant to Mr. Clark. He asked me to deliver this to you personally.

He held out the envelope. It was thick, creamy paper with a discreet gold embossed seal. It looked like it belonged in a museum, not in my grease-stained hands.

I took it slowly. What is it?

An invitation, Marcus said, his face a mask of professional neutrality. There is a car waiting downstairs to take you to a viewing.

I looked down at my oversized, moth-eaten sweater and my paint-stained leggings. I haven't even had coffee yet. And I’m not going anywhere in a mysterious car.

Mr. Clark anticipated you might be hesitant. He told me to tell you that the Emerge Gallery is currently reviewing portfolios for their spring showcase, and he has secured a private viewing for your work. Today. At noon.

My heart stopped. The Emerge Gallery was the holy grail for local artists. It was the place that turned struggling painters into household names. I have sent them my portfolio three times in the last two years. I had three polite rejection letters saved in a drawer to prove it.

I looked at the envelope. This is because of him, isn't it?

Mr. Clark simply opened the door, Marcus said. Whether you walk through it with your paintings or stay there is entirely up to you. However, the car leaves in thirty minutes.

He nodded politely and walked away, his expensive shoes silent on the dingy carpet.

I closed the door and leaned against it, the envelope crinkling in my hand. My mind was screaming. This was exactly what I had feared. It was a golden cage. If I went, I would be admitting that I couldn't do it on my own. I was accepting a handout from a billionaire who didn't even know me.

But then I looked at the orange slip of paper that I’d tucked into a bowl on the counter. I looked at my canvases. If I stayed here, my work would end up on the sidewalk in a rainstorm within the week.

Pride is a luxury I can't afford, I whispered to the empty room.

I moved faster than I ever had in my life. I splashed cold water on my face and scrubbed the paint from under my fingernails until my skin was raw. I didn't have many nice clothes, but I had one black dress I had bought at a thrift store for a funeral two years ago. It was simple and fit well enough. I threw on a trench coat to hide the fact that the dress was slightly faded.