Chapter 2: The Art of the Deal
558 Words
Rain drummed against the studio’s tin roof as Alex stared at Elias, water pooling at his polished Oxfords. The words hung between them, sharp and surreal. Pretend to be in love with me.
Alex barked a laugh. “You’re joking.”
Elias didn’t blink. “My board thinks I’m a machine. They’re voting next week to replace me unless I ‘humanize’ my image.” He stepped inside, droplets glinting in his dark hair. “Your mural stunt made headlines. Now they want a scandal. Give them a better one.”
“So I’m your… what? Decoy heartthrob?” Alex crossed their arms, smearing charcoal on their sleeve. “Hard pass.”
“Two million.” Elias pulled a contract from his coat. “Three months of public appearances. Fund your art residency. Buy a new studio. Whatever you want.”
Alex’s throat tightened. The number glowed like a neon lifeline. But they shoved the paper back. “I don’t sell my integrity.”
“You already did.” Elias’s gaze flicked to the mural sketches pinned to the wall—the forest breaking through circuits. “You took my money to paint your manifesto. This is no different.”
The truth bit deeper than the cold. Alex gripped the doorframe. “Why me?”
A pause. “Because you see the cracks,” he said quietly. “And you’re not afraid to break things.”
The contract was bulletproof, ruthless, and typed in Helvetica.
Clause 4a: No physical contact beyond “socially appropriate gestures.”
Clause 7e: All joint appearances require pre-approval of attire by Thorn Industries PR team.
Alex scrawled a giant X over Clause 7e. “I wear what I want.”
Elias leaned against their splattered worktable, sleeves rolled to his elbows—a disarming glimpse of ink on his wrist. A quote? A date? Alex looked away.
“Fine,” he said. “But if you show up to the Met Gala in a ‘Eat the Rich’ t-shirt, I’m deducting it from your fee.”
“Deal.” They initialed the page. “One more rule: no lying about who I am. I won’t play some polished prop.”
Elias’s pen hovered. “…Agreed.”
First test: a charity luncheon.
Alex arrived in paint-streaked overalls and a leather jacket, smirking at the sea of blazers. Elias stood at the podium, commanding the room with icy charm. His eyes locked onto theirs—a flicker of panic—before he smoothly improvised.
“My partner prefers to let their art speak for them,” he said, gesturing to Alex. “Though I’ve begged them to at least try a suit.”
The crowd tittered. Alex flipped him off under the table.
Afterward, in the limo, Elias loosened his tie. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re welcome.” Alex grinned. “They ate it up. Admit it—I’m genius at this.”
“You’re a liability.” But his mouth twitched. “Next event is a tech summit. Black tie. Try not to burn the place down.”
“No promises.”
That night, Alex found another note slipped under their door:
“The forest does not beg forgiveness from the axe.
It grows.”
They traced the words, wondering when Elias had written it—and why it felt like a confession.
- Writer
