Chapter 3
1169 Words
The man on the sofa was about thirty, strikingly handsome and tall, dressed in a custom-fitted suit. As he locked eyes with Joelle, she noticed that his features bore a resemblance to Rowan Wolfe.
Dragging her suitcase, Joelle broke the silence first. "Hello, I'm—"
Before she could finish, he interrupted coolly, "I'm Rowan's cousin. Here's my card."
Joelle walked over, took the card carefully in both hands, and after a quick glance, confirmed his name was Eric Grant, manager at a talent agency.
The connection between Eric Grant and Rowan was more than blood. Rowan was the creator; Eric was the man behind the scenes—in any industry, success depends on marketing and promotion.
Without public exposure, even the best pieces easily fade away. Joelle understood this well.
But Rowan had other plans.
He took over a thermos, pouring himself a cup of tea. Tea leaves danced, steam curling up. He stood by the wall, glancing at Joelle's suitcase, steering the subject away. "You brought it all back. Good thinking. If you're missing anything, there's a small grocery store ten minutes north, by foot."
It was a thoughtful touch.
But then he added, "If you want something, go buy it yourself."
He spoke as he opened the curtain, letting light fall across an oil painting swaying in the gentle breeze.
Unlike Eric Grant's suit, Rowan was dressed casually. Outwardly, he seemed scattered and careless, but his work was painstakingly realistic—landscapes, vivid and true.
He was skilled in sculpture, too.
Especially figures with swirling cloaks or flowing garments. More than the character, Rowan loved carving the details—the marble became clothing and accessories, alive with movement.
But in a big city, there's never a shortage of talent.
Thinking of this, Eric Grant laughed. "The store is just ten minutes from here. If she wants to go, you can take her. Also, Rowan, your show opens in two weeks—bring your girlfriend along."
He'd clearly misread Joelle and Rowan's relationship.
You couldn't blame him.
The girl was living there. It could only mean one thing, Eric thought.
So he advised, "Kevin, you want an exhibit, and the agency set up a perfect opportunity. Timing and location are ideal. You don't need fame, I won't push. But now, think about your family..."
Rowan put down his tea and sat on the far side of the couch.
He and Eric Grant were over a meter apart. Rowan took a pillow, squeezed it, then replied, "Don't go in circles. Just tell me—is it only me in this exhibit?"
"Counting heads doesn't help," Eric said. "It'll only cloud your judgment."
He pulled a folder from his briefcase and placed it on the table.
The contract had no less than twenty pages.
Eric Grant turned to the last page, indicating a blank signature spot. "Sign here—full name and spelling."
Rowan hadn't spoken, but Joelle leaned close.
She said, "Mr. Grant, I studied law—let me take a look at the contract."
Eric nodded.
So Joelle sat down next to Rowan.
A cool breeze slipped through the window, drifting into the living room. Rowan leaned forward, catching a faint whiff of Joelle's perfume—it was light and fresh, like rose petals in the sun.
He sat upright, drawing away.
Joelle, still holding the contract, leaned near his ear and whispered, "You're planning to do a solo show at this gallery, right? But there are five artists, every piece posted and priced. When guests pay, they take the painting home."
Whatever she said, Rowan wasn't really listening. For a moment, her lips almost touched his ear.
He did not react.
The illusion lasted only a second. Joelle sat upright, saying, "I'm guessing you hate mixing your artwork with others..."
"You've got it," Eric said, sipping his coffee. "But many people would kill for this chance—few can get it."
He cradled his mug, half-smiling. "Every art school graduates dozens. How many are remembered by name? Kevin, you work slowly, your output's small, you can't run a studio. You need to take a hard look at reality."
Reality can be cold and competitive.
For Rowan, reality required the right context.
A sacred statue in a monastery draws awe, bows, devotion. In a public square, people touch, hug, even climb.
Years pass, weather takes its toll—it fades into moss.
Everyone has interests. Rowan's was never to lower his standards.
But Eric wanted his work anyway.
"You're twenty-four, graduated three years ago. Got any groundbreaking pieces? In your line, you need at least one—a name or a fortune."
Rowan was considering.
He stood up. "I'll think about it, answer you in two days."
Eric Grant grinned, hopefully. "So, you'll sign the contract then?"
Rowan replied honestly, "I plan to refuse."
Eric spread his hands. "You might as well refuse now, while I've still got time to reason with you."
Rowan explained, "I'm really not interested in lectures right now."
The living room was tense, as golden sunlight poured in. The rain had cleared, clouds parted—everything gleamed.
Silence stretched.
Eric Grant remarked, "Any street has sketched artists—they do portraits in twenty minutes, fifteen pounds each. Rowan, if you end up there..."
Rowan shrugged. "If I do, you'll know where to find me."
He paused, smiling. "I'll give you a discount."
Rowan stood tall behind the table, but what Joelle noticed most—this was the first time she'd seen him smile. She watched, appreciative.
Though it was a mischievous smile.
Eric left, less than satisfied.
Joelle alone saw him out.
Outside, shadows covered the yard. Eric, briefcase in hand, turned to her. "I still don't know your name—you're my cousin's girlfriend, right?"
Out of politeness, he added, "Must be tough."
He'd misunderstood from the start. Rowan could have set it straight, but wouldn't—likely to avoid mentioning his father.
Joelle played along. "It's fine, not hard."
She lied lightly, "Rowan calls me Jo."
Eric raised his brow, doubtful.
As an elder, he asked, "You study law? Still in college?"
"I'm twenty-three," Joelle replied. "Graduated last year."
Eric mused, "He's twenty-four. You two make a good match."
He hadn't forgotten his purpose, quietly hinting, "It's hard to be famous young—plan for the future."
Joelle understood, smiling. "Bernini finished 'Apollo and Daphne' at twenty-four. Raphael completed 'The Pietà' at that age. I'm sure you know more than I do."
She glanced at the church. "If luck's generous, no matter the path, the result is the same."
Eric fell silent. After a pause, he left.
Joelle watched him go.
On her way back, Rowan was standing at the door—he'd overheard everything and addressed her naturally. "Jo."
Joelle replied, "What did you say?"
"Jo," he repeated. "Just calling you."
He only used her name as a label.
Rowan pointed to a few bags of trash by the door. "Take out the garbage—and sort it, please."
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