Chapter 4 : The Quiet Between us
1007 Words
Maximilian Vance. Thirty-eight years old.
He ran Titan Conglomerate. Shipping. Pharmaceuticals. Private banking. And things that did not appear on any public record but kept the whole structure standing. He had taken over from his father at twenty six and doubled it in four years and doubled it again before he was thirty-two.
Monaco knew his name before he walked into a room.
His father had built the foundation. Max had built everything above it. Methodically. The way he did everything. He was not a man who needed to be loud. He had learned early that the quietest people in the room were usually the ones who had already decided what was going to happen.
He had a wife he no longer knew how to reach. A son he loved without condition. A penthouse at the top of the city that felt emptier the higher you went.
And a study he slept in more nights than not because sleep in his own bedroom had stopped coming years ago.
Most people saw power when they looked at him. He had stopped feeling it a long time ago. He did not plan to change that.
He had been driving since seven. He left home for work. Monaco moving past the windows. No destination. Just the road and the early morning and the quiet he could not find anywhere else.
He passed the gallery on Rue Harbour.
Then he came back.
The light through the large windows stopped him. The way it fell across the floor in long slow strips. He stood outside long enough that a woman walking past looked at him twice.
He pushed the door open and went in.
Cool and still inside. No one at the front.
Just the art and the light and the silence.
He stopped in front of the large canvas. Red and black. One line of gold all the way across. He stood there without moving.
He did not hear her come in.
"I did not expect you this early."
He turned.
Elena was near the back of the room. Hair loose. A simple dress. She was holding two cups.
I was passing, he said.
You were standing outside for four minutes.
He said nothing.
She crossed the room and held one cup out to him. Chamomile.
He looked at it. Then at her.
How do you know what I need.
I don't, she said. But it never hurt anyone.
He took it.
They stood in front of the canvas together. The morning light moved slowly across the floor. Neither of them spoke.
You love art, she said.
It asks nothing of me.
She looked at the painting. My father used to say the same about music.
Smart man.
Yes, she said quietly. He was.
He looked at her then. At the past tense. At the way she carried it. Like something old and heavy, she had learned to hold without letting it show.
He did not ask about it.
They drank their tea.
"A single mother," he said after a while. "A gallery. Dancing like that. What else."
She almost smiled. "Art lover. Same as dance. A few more things I have not decided to share yet."
Fair.
He looked back at the painting.
He wanted to ask more. He wanted to stay. Something about being in the same room as her settled something in him he had not known was unsettled. He wanted to be closer. Close enough to hear her breathe. He did not know what to do with that. It had arrived without asking permission and he had no drawer to put it in.
He set the cup down.
I should go.
He turned toward the door.
The room tilted. Just slightly. He put one hand on the wall.
She was beside him immediately.
You don't look good, she said. Are you alright?
I'm fine.
Do you mind?
No, thank you I can...
She cut him off gently. Let me help.
He stopped.
She led him into her office. One wall lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves. She pressed a small hidden button between two stacked books and a door opened quietly inward.
A warm room. A wide couch with soft cushions. A canvas on an easel in the corner is half finished. Sketches pinned to the wall above it. A small table with brushes and colour. Two windows. Bright morning coming through.
She crossed them and pulled the cotton curtain across gently until the light went soft and warm.
This is where I rest my mind, she said. Lie down.
Miss Rivera...
Elena, she said. And lie down.
He looked at the couch. At the room. At her.
He sat down.
Then lay back.
The window light was soft. The lamp warm. The gallery was completely silent around him.
He closed his eyes.
Just for a moment, he thought.
He woke to darkness.
Full night. Monaco humming outside the window. The lamp is still on.
He sat up slowly.
She was at her desk in the corner. A notebook open. Pen in her hand. She had not heard him wake.
He watched her for a moment.
Then she looked up.
Neither of them spoke.
"Eight hours," she said.
I never sleep eight hours.
You did tonight.
On the table beside the couch was a glass of water and two tablets in a small dish. He looked at them.
For the headache, she said.
He took them. Drank the water. Set the glass down.
Stood. Straightened his jacket. Picked up his phone. Eleven missed calls. He put it away without looking at them.
At the door he stopped.
"The large red painting," he said.
Yes.
I want to buy it.
She looked up. That one is not for sale.
He almost smiled. Everything has a price.
Almost everything, she said.
He left.
The night air was cool on his face. Monaco bright and alive around him.
Then he walked to his car.
And for the first time in years, Maximilian Vance left a room wishing he had stayed.
- Writer
