Chapter5
1162 Words
"Five million?" William Thorne scoffed at the diverse collection, his monocle shining under the harsh exhibition lights.
His tweed suit looked out of place among the colorful canvases and avant-garde sculptures.
I forced a grin, the constant knot in my gut hardening under his stare.
"Mr. Thorne," I said, my voice hinting at desperation, "the Evans Gallery represents a legacy.
A commitment to developing established and rising artistic talent."
William snorted, his bushy white brows knitted together. "Legacy or last gasp, Miss Evans?"
The art market is a volatile environment, and this gallery appears to be in a fading trend.”
His words stung, but I refused to let it get the best of me.
Amelia had convinced me a few days ago to host an art exhibition to raise funds for the gallery and so preparations were made in haste, but so far nothing has been achieved.
Alessandro's strange comment regarding "representation" still lingered in my mind, adding confusion to an already hazardous situation.
Why him?
What did Alessandro Volkov, a merciless business person, care about a declining art gallery on the edge of artistic significance?
Suddenly, a booming voice entered the room, cutting off William in mid-sentence.
"Miss Evans!" I'm happy to see you again, and I must say, you are looking beautiful as always”.
A big, muscular fellow emerged from behind a towering Calder vehicle, his booming laugh threatening to shake the gallery's foundations.
This was Robert Dubois, a flamboyant art collector known for his extravagant bidding battles and even more absurd collection of Hawaiian shirts.
Today, though, he wore a surprisingly elegant white suit, with a faint sheen of perspiration shining on his balding head.
"Mr. Dubois," I said, briefly relieved by the interruption.
"What a… surprise."
"Surprise? He said, "My dear, I wouldn't miss the unveiling of this little… financial dilemma for the world!"
In a fake dramatic tone. It was no longer news that Evans Gallery was on the verge of falling apart.
William Thorne snorted, evidently disliking Robert's flashy presence.
"Dubois," he said with a grin, "always the showman, never the serious buyer."
Robert grinned, his hand resting on an abstract sculpture that resembled a tangled mess of metal cables.
"Are you serious, Thorne?"
Art is about passion and pushing boundaries!
Miss Evans, is the item designed to suggest the ultimate sorrow of a stapler or…" he paused, his eyes enlarging dramatically, "a lobster caught in a blender?”
Robert's roaring laughter echoed around the gallery, bouncing off the stark white walls and causing a tremble in a poorly placed sculpture.
Mr. Thorne glared, his face turning an unpleasant tan.
"Mr. Dubois," I said with a subtle blink, "the artist was aiming for an assessment on the degrading effects of…" I halted and glared at William, "…corporate acquisitions."
William gasped, his monocle nearly falling from his eyes.
However, Robert yelled in approval.
"Brilliant! An assault against the soulless capitalist machine camouflaged as a suffering lobster! Now that is art!”
The unexpected turn of events made me feel weirdly excited.
Maybe there was a way to get through this knotted mess after all.
A method to not only save the gallery but also question the objectives of both William,
who represents a cold, calculated approach to art acquisition, and Robert, whose passion frequently overwhelmed real appreciation.
Suddenly, a flash of insight occurred to me.
Alessandro's confusing statement regarding "representation" was not about promoting his collection.
It was about turning the Evans Gallery into a platform, a voice against the art world's uniformity.
We wouldn't just be selling art; we'd be debating its entire purpose and position in a world increasingly dominated by riches and power.
My face gradually brightened. "Mr. Thorne, Mr. Dubois,"
I stated firmly, "The Evans Gallery is more than just a collection of paintings and sculptures."
"It's a platform for ideas and discomfort." Robert's eyes shone with enthusiasm.
William, on the other hand, seemed angry. This was exactly the reaction I wanted.
The realization hit me, this was no longer just about raising funds; it was about using the gallery as a weapon to challenge people who wanted to buy it.
Just when I thought I was taking charge of the situation, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I ignored William's rising rage and pulled it out, a text message flashing on the screen.
It came from an unknown phone number, the same as Alessandro's. “Speak of the devil”, I murmured.
It included only one image: a simple black-and-white drawing of a chessboard with the black king towering dangerously over the white.
Below it is a single word: "Checkmate." That feeling of danger looming surfaced.
The game changed, but was I the one in control, or was I about to deliver it?
A chilly sweat slid down my palms as the door to the gallery creaked open and a handsome figure stepped inside, sending a wave of uneasy quiet across the already tense environment.
It was Alessandro Volkov. His face held no expression.
He inspected the room, briefly focusing on the tangled metal sculpture, finally resting on me.
"Miss Evans," he said with a low tone. "It seems we have a lot to discuss.”
He moved with so much grace, amplifying his aura of power.
”Mr Volkov,” I responded, trying hard to ignore the thudding of my heart.
”Welcome to the Evans Gallery.”
He gave a wry smile and pointed to the paintings adorning the wall.
”Quite a…selection you have here, Miss Evans. Not exactly what one would expect to find under the patronage of a ruthless business person”.
I had a clue of what he was driving at, but I countered by meeting his gaze head-on.
”Mr Volkov, perhaps a ruthless business person, is exactly what the gallery needs now.”
He looked at me intently with a gesture of triumph on his face.
“Truly, Miss Evans, he said, his voice a serious murmur.” it seems we have far more in common than we initially expected.
Perhaps then, there’s room for a…revised proposition.”
Revised proposition?
What did he mean by that? My heart hammered against my ribs.
Just then he leaned closer, his voice almost a whisper that made me weak in the knees, and the heat radiating from his body was making my blood boil.
“Tell me," he breathed, his scent a potent mix of cedar cologne, "are you willing to gamble everything on a single hand?”
Just as I opened my mouth to respond, a harsh rap on the gallery entrance broke the heated mood.
Amelia rushed in, her cheeks flushed with dread. "Isabel," she murmured, her voice scarcely audible.
"The news… it's about the high-rise construction… they're…"
Her words died off as Alessandro straightened, his gaze flashing to Amelia with frightening intensity.
The game, it appeared, was far from ended, and a new player had just joined the board.
- Writer
