Chapter 3: Chapter 3
The scent of turpentine and old paper in Doreen’s office clung to Ivy for hours. It was a greasy film on her skin, mixing unpleasantly with the memory of the woman’s eager, sweating face. She’d nodded, mumbled something about considering the ‘mentorship’, and practically fled. Now, in the vast, sun-washed expanse of the life-drawing studio, she tried to lose herself in the clean, demanding lines of a charcoal study.
Her hand moved automatically, shading the musculature of the model’s back. The scrape of charcoal on paper was a sane, solid sound. But her mind kept snagging on Rossi’s words, offered like a conspiratorial gift in that tomb-like hallway after Doreen’s office. ‘A gathering. Influential people. People who appreciate… specific beauty.’
“You’re murdering that paper,” a voice said beside her.
Ivy jumped. Leo, from her sculpture class, was leaning over, squinting at her drawing. His hands were permanently stained with clay. “Your line’s all tense. What’s up?”
“Nothing.” Ivy smoothed the edge of the shoulder she’d nearly blacked out. “Just tired.”
“You’ve been getting a lot of ‘special attention’ lately,” Leo said, not looking at her. He kept his voice low. “Doreen follows you with her eyes like a sad puppy. And now the Queen of the Undead is summoning you to her crypt. Saw you talking yesterday.”
A cold trickle went down Ivy’s spine. “Dr. Rossi is just being helpful. She has connections.”
“Yeah.” Leo finally looked at her. His expression was flat. “Connections. To what, exactly?”
“To galleries. To agencies. Things that actually matter,” Ivy snapped, sharper than she intended. She felt a hot flush of defensiveness. He didn’t understand. He was happy here, in the dusty studio, with his lumpy clay figures. He didn’t have the same clock ticking in his head, the one her mother’s voice fed with coins of doubt. ‘A pretty face fades, Ivy. What will you have then?’
Leo held up his grimy hands in surrender. “Okay. Cool. Just… be specific about what you’re trading, you know?”
He walked back to his station. The model shifted, and the class murmured, a wave of soft sketching. Ivy stared at her drawing. The figure was technically proficient, perfectly proportioned, and utterly dead. It had no life, no pulse. Just like she felt here. A specimen under glass.
After class, the note was in her campus mailbox, typed on heavy, cream-colored paper.
Ivy,
The address. Friday, 9 p.m. Dress is elegant. Discretion is appreciated. A car will collect you from the east gate at 8:45.
- S.R.
No questions. No alternatives. Just an expectation, smooth as marble. Ivy’s thumb brushed the embossed letterhead. It smelled faintly of mothballs. Her heart hammered, a frantic, hopeful little bird. This was it. The door. All she had to do was walk through.
Friday evening stretched, taut and slow. She put on the only thing she owned that qualified as ‘elegant’—a simple black silk slip dress she’d found at a thrift store, the fabric whispering against her thighs. She looked older in the mirror. Her blonde hair fell straight and pale, a stark contrast. Her own blue eyes looked back, wide and uncertain.
The car was a silent, black sedan. The driver didn’t speak. The city lights bled into the darkened windows as they left the university district, climbing into the wooded hills where the old money lived. The house wasn’t visible from the road, just a wrought-iron gate that swung open silently. They followed a long, winding drive, and then it appeared: a modernist cliff of glass and steel, jutting over the city lights below.
Music, low and thrumming, vibrated through the soles of her shoes as she was led inside. The interior was all cool surfaces and curated art—sharp, abstract pieces that looked violently expensive. The people were like the art. Older, impeccably dressed, their conversations a murmur of cultivated laughs and jargon she didn’t understand. She saw no other students.
“Ivy. You came.”
Dr. Rossi appeared, a different creature outside her tweed. She wore a dark, flowing tunic of raw silk. She took Ivy’s arm, her grip firm. “Come. There are people you should meet.”
The introductions were a blur. A gallery owner with cold, assessing fingers. A critic who spoke about the ‘commodification of innocence’ while his eyes never left her collarbone. A woman who produced ‘experiential films’ and asked if Ivy was afraid of heights. They all nodded, smiled, asked questions that felt like probes. They called Rossi ‘Seraphina,’ with a familiar deference.
Rossi never left her side, a plump, steely shadow. Her hand on Ivy’s back was proprietary. “You see?” she murmured into Ivy’s ear, her breath carrying that faint, dusty scent. “This is the periphery of the world you want. To step inside requires a patron.”
“I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do,” Ivy whispered back, the confession torn from her.
“For now? Be seen. Be the promise. The canvas before the paint.” Rossi’s glasses reflected the shifting colored lights, turning her eyes into opaque discs. “The commitment comes later. It’s an exchange, like all art. You give something, you get something. The question is the valuation.”
She guided Ivy towards a quieter terrace overlooking the dizzying cityscape. The air was cool. Ivy felt exposed, the silk doing little against the chill.
“Ivy? My god, what a surprise!”
The voice was jarringly familiar. Doreen stood by a potted olive tree, holding a wine glass too tightly. She wore an ill-advised sequined top, her face flushed. She looked wildly out of place, a frantic sparrow among hawks.
Ivy’s stomach dropped. “Doreen.”
“Seraphina was kind enough to extend an invitation,” Doreen said, her eyes drinking Ivy in, from her hair to the hem of her dress. “I told her I’d seen your potential. Such raw potential.” She took a step closer. The smell of her sweat cut through the night air, mingling with cheap perfume. “You look… breathtaking.”
Rossi watched, a faint, unreadable smile on her lips. She had orchestrated this, Ivy realized. Brought Doreen here, to this place of power, to show Ivy the hierarchy. To show her that Doreen’ fumbling, desperate admiration was the basement. This—the glass house, the cold-eyed critics—was the penthouse. The choice was being framed, neatly.
“Doreen was just telling me about your latest series,” Rossi said smoothly. “The vulnerability you capture. It’s quite a theme for you, isn’t it? Vulnerability.”
Doreen nodded, eager. “Yes! The way the light falls, it’s like it’s undressing the form, not just illuminating it—”
“Excuse me,” Ivy blurted out. “I need the restroom.”
She fled inside, the murmur of the party swelling around her. She pushed past a laughing couple, her vision blurring. She found a hallway, blessedly dim, and leaned against the cool wall, trying to breathe. The enormity of it pressed down on her. This wasn’t an opportunity. It was a transaction. She just didn’t know the currency yet.
A door cracked open further down the hall, spilling a wedge of brighter light and a peal of laughter. As it closed, Ivy caught a glimpse inside. Not a bathroom. A study. And on the wall, illuminated like a shrine, was a large, beautifully framed photograph.
It was of a girl. Maybe a few years older than Ivy. Blonde. Smiling, but her eyes were like glazed porcelain. She was wearing what looked like a classical Greek chiton, draped artfully. And standing beside her, a hand resting on her bare shoulder, was Dr. Seraphina Rossi, smiling her scalpel smile.
The door clicked shut, plunging the hallway back into semi-darkness.
Ivy stood frozen. The model’s perfect, empty smile hung in her vision. The promise. The canvas.
The car would be waiting to take her back whenever she wished. She could walk out now, call it a night, return to her cramped dorm and Leo’s worried questions. She could.
From the main room, the music shifted, deeper, more insistent. She heard Rossi’s laugh, a dry, precise sound. She looked down at her own body, sheathed in black silk, worth more than her monthly food budget. This was the threshold. This was the cost of admission.
She pushed off from the wall. She straightened her shoulders. She did not turn toward the exit. Instead, she walked back towards the light, the music, and the waiting smile of her patron.
The murmur of the party wrapped around her again, a warm, expensive blanket. Rossi’s smile widened a fraction as Ivy re-approached, a teacher observing a correct decision. “There you are,” Rossi said, as if Ivy had merely stepped out for air. “We were just discussing the new acquisition for the faculty lounge. Doreen has such… passionate opinions.”
Doreen’s eyes were a little too bright, her gaze darting from Rossi to Ivy like a spectator at a tennis match. “I was just saying it lacks soul, Seraphina. Corporate art. All surface.”
“And what is soul, Doreen?” Rossi asked, her tone light but her eyes sharp. “Isn’t it just a story we project onto a form? A narrative of vulnerability, perhaps?” She let the word hang, then turned to Ivy. “Come, my dear. Let’s find you a proper drink. Soda water with lime? You should stay clear-headed.”
She led Ivy away, leaving Doreen sipping her wine, slightly deflated. The kitchen was a cavern of stainless steel. Rossi handed Ivy the cold, bubbling glass. Her fingers brushed Ivy’s. “You handled that well. Eagerness is so common. It lacks grace.”
“The photograph in the study,” Ivy said, the words out before she could cage them. “Who was that?”
Rossi didn’t blink. “Mara. A former student. Very gifted. She modeled for a series by a photographer I represent.” She took a slow sip of her own drink, something amber in a crystal tumbler. “She’s in Milan now. Working for Vogue Italia. The narrative we built for her opened that door.”
“A narrative.”
“A story of discovery. Of a rare beauty guided into the light.” Rossi’s glasses slid down her nose slightly. She peered over them. “It’s what people buy. Not the face alone, but the myth around it. The… provenance.”
A man in a velvet blazer joined them, his attention settling on Ivy like a physical weight. “Seraphina, you’ve been hiding the evening’s main attraction.”
“Ivy, this is Marcus. He runs the Vanguard Gallery downtown.” Rossi’s hand returned to the small of Ivy’s back. “Marcus has an eye for what’s next.”
“I certainly do.” Marcus’s smile was all perfect, white teeth. “Seraphina tells me you’re a painter. But the canvas…“ He made a vague, elegant gesture toward her. “Sometimes the most compelling medium is living. Have you ever been photographed? Truly photographed?”
“School portraits?” Ivy offered, trying for lightness. Her voice sounded thin.
Marcus chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. “We’ll have to remedy that. Seraphina, bring her by the gallery next week. We’ll do some tests. No obligation, of course. Just to see.”
After he drifted away, Rossi leaned in. Her scent of mothballs and old books was a stark contrast to the citrus of Ivy’s drink. “That’s a significant offer. Marcus rarely does test shots himself anymore.”
“I don’t know anything about modeling.”
“You know how to be seen. That’s all he needs you to know right now.” Rossi’s voice dropped, confidential. “Doreen would tell you to focus on your brushstrokes, to hide in the studio. She’d keep you small, because that’s where she lives. In the small, safe, dusty rooms.”
Ivy thought of Doreen’s chaotic office, the desperate hope in her eyes. She thought of Leo’s clay-stained warning. Then she looked through the glass wall at the glittering city below, a map of possibilities.
“I want to do the test shots,” Ivy said. The statement felt like stepping off a ledge.
“Good.” Rossi patted her back, the gesture final. “Now, circulate a little more. Be a ghost in the room. Listen. Absorb. The car will take you home at eleven.”
Ivy moved through the clusters of people, a silent, blonde specter. She caught snippets: deals, divorces, critiques of artists she admired. Their language was a code, and she was illiterate. A woman in architectural glasses touched her arm. “That dress is perfection on you. Vintage?”
“Thrift,” Ivy said.
“Even better. It has a past. Nothing is truly new, is it?” The woman smiled and moved on.
At ten-fifty, she felt a presence at her elbow. Doreen. Her sequins looked tawdry under the pristine lighting. “You’re still here.” The statement was an accusation.
“Dr. Rossi arranged a ride.”
“Of course she did.” Doreen’s voice was low, thickened by wine. “She collects pretty things. She’ll polish you up, show you off, and then you’ll be on a shelf. Or in a study, in a frame.” Her breath hit Ivy’s cheek. “You think I don’t see what she’s doing? I was at that opening for Mara’s series. The photos were… clinical. They stripped her soul out and called it art.”
“She’s in Milan,” Ivy countered, parroting Rossi’s line.
“Is she?” Doreen’s laugh was a short, bitter puff. “Or is that just the story Seraphina tells?” She reached out, her fingers surprisingly strong, and gripped Ivy’s wrist. “You have real talent. Don’t let her turn you into a product. Come by my office Monday. We’ll look at your portfolio, the real work.”
The black car glided to the curb at eleven precisely. As Ivy slid onto the cool leather, she looked back at the glass house. Rossi stood at the window, a plump silhouette against the light, watching her leave.
The city lights streamed by. Ivy’s phone buzzed in her small clutch. A text from Leo: You survive the den of vampires?
She stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered. She typed, It was interesting. Got a gallery contact. She deleted it. She typed, It was weird. She deleted that too.
She finally sent: Yeah. Home soon.
The silence in the car was absolute. She leaned her head against the window, her reflection a pale ghost over the passing streets. The silk of her dress felt less like armor now and more like a costume she wasn’t sure how to remove. The chill of the glass seeped into her temple, a dull, anchoring pressure. She closed her eyes, and all she could see was that photograph—Mara’s brilliant, empty smile—and superimposed over it, Rossi’s satisfied, owning gaze.
The car pulled up to her dorm. She stepped out into the normal, gritty night air, the distant sound of a bass line from a frat house. The door thudded shut behind her, and the sedan whispered away. She stood on the curb, holding her little clutch, the cold from the car window still on her skin.
Up in her room, the familiar clutter of her art supplies awaited. The unfinished portrait on her easel, the one Leo said had no life. She climbed the stairs slowly, each step a return to a self that suddenly seemed very small, and very far away.
She climbed the stairs slowly, each step a return to a self that suddenly seemed very small, and very far away. Her dorm room was a cave of familiar chaos—the tang of linseed oil, a half-eaten bagel fossilizing on a paper plate, the crisp white of untouched canvas taunting her from the easel. She shed the black silk dress like a shed skin, letting it puddle on the floor, a dark stain against the scuffed linoleum.
In the shower, she scrubbed until her skin was pink, but the scent of the party—clinging perfume and chilled mineral water—seemed embedded. She pulled on an old band t-shirt and sweatpants, the cotton a relief. The silence of the room was a physical pressure. She stared at the portrait on her easel, a study of Leo she’d never finished. He was right. It was all tense lines, no breath.
A soft knock at the door made her jump. It was past midnight. She opened it to find Leo, holding two paper cups of steaming gas-station coffee. “Saw your light,” he said. He looked her up and down. “You look like you attended a funeral.”
“Feels like it,” she said, stepping back to let him in. He navigated the mess with the ease of someone who’d been here a hundred times, handing her a cup. The coffee was terrible and scalding. It grounded her.
“So? Spill. Was it a den of iniquity? Did they drink the blood of virgins from champagne flutes?”
“Worse. They talked about derivative postmodernism and mineral rights.” She tried to match his tone, but it fell flat. She sank onto her bed, tucking her feet under her. “Rossi introduced me to a gallery owner. Marcus. He wants to do test shots.”
Leo went very still by her easel. “Test shots.”
“Modeling. For his gallery, I guess.” The words sounded absurd saying them aloud in her cluttered room.
“You guess.” He put his coffee down, carefully. “Ivy. That woman collects people. You saw the way she looked at you in class, like you were a rare bug. This isn’t a mentorship. It’s acquisition.”
“What am I supposed to do, Leo?” Her voice cracked. “Wait for graduation and hope someone stumbles into the student show? My loan statements are sitting on my desk. My mom calls every Sunday to ask about my ‘fallback plan’.” She gestured wildly at the room, at her painting. “This isn’t a plan. It’s a prayer.”
“And this is?” He pointed an imaginary finger back toward the hills. “Letting that woman package you? You heard what Doreen said about the other girl. Mara.”
“Doreen is jealous! She’s a mess who smells like turpentine and desperation. She wants to keep me in her sad little office forever.” The cruelty of the words felt good, a spark of defiance. “Rossi actually gets things done. Mara is in Milan.”
“You keep saying that. Have you seen a postcard? A social media post?”
“It’s a professional placement, not a vacation.”
Leo ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Okay. Fine. Do the stupid test shoot. But take me with you.”
Ivy blinked. “What?”
“As your… manager. Or your morally concerned friend with a brick in his backpack. I just want to see the setup.” He picked up his coffee again, avoiding her eyes. “Someone should see it.”
A part of her, the part that had floated through that glass house, recoiled. It would look amateurish. Unserious. But looking at Leo’s stubborn, worried face, another part—the part that still felt like herself—clutched at the offer. “He’d never allow it.”
“Then it’s not a professional shoot, it’s something else.” He let that hang. “You said it’s at the Vanguard Gallery downtown. Saturday, right? I’ll be across the street getting a coffee. If you walk in and it’s all white screens and assistants, text me a thumbs-up. If you walk in and it’s a bedroom set, walk out.”
“It’s a reputable gallery.”
“And Rossi is a reputable professor.” He finally looked at her. “Just humor me.”
She nodded, a tight, small motion. The plan felt childish, but it was a thread back to solid ground. “Okay.”
Saturday arrived wrapped in a thin, grey drizzle. Ivy wore simple jeans and a white t-shirt, her hair in a ponytail. She wanted to look malleable, a blank slate. Rossi had texted instructions: Use the service entrance on 9th. Discretion. The message felt cold, efficient.
The Vanguard Gallery’s main front was all clean lines and a glowing logo, but the service entrance was an unmarked steel door in a damp alley. She raised her hand to knock, hesitating. She glanced across the wet street. There, in the window of a diner, sat Leo with a massive mug, pretending to read a newspaper. The sight was so ludicrously earnest she almost laughed. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
She knocked. The door buzzed open.
Inside was not a gallery space. It was a concrete-floored hallway leading to a freight elevator. Marcus met her, today in a black turtleneck. “Ivy. Perfect. We’re setting up upstairs. Seraphina’s already here.”
The elevator opened directly into a vast, raw loft space. One wall was brick, another entirely glass, overlooking the rainy city. The space was mostly empty save for a few draped backdrops, a rack of clothing, and a constellation of bright, hot lights powered by humming generators. Rossi stood near the windows, speaking softly to a gaunt woman with a severe silver bob, who held a digital camera like a surgical tool. There were no other assistants.
“This is Solveig,” Rossi said, not introducing Ivy to the photographer. “She’s particular about her light. We’ll start simple.”
Solveig looked Ivy over, her expression detached. “The hair. Down. The shirt is fine. Stand there.” She pointed to a spot marked on the floor with tape.
The next hour was a mechanical process. Solveig issued soft, monotone commands. Turn your chin down. Look through me, not at me. Don’t smile. Think of nothing. The lights were blindingly hot. Ivy’s eyes watered. She felt herself becoming an object, a shape to be filled with their intent. It was strangely peaceful, in a hollow way.
“Good,” Solveig said, finally. “Now we shift. Seraphina?”
Rossi walked to the clothing rack and pulled out a garment bag. She unzipped it. Inside was not vintage silk or high fashion. It was a simple, slightly faded blue chiton, the fabric thin with age. It was identical to the one worn by Mara in the photograph.
Ivy’s breath caught. The air conditioning kicked on, chilling the sweat on her back.
“A thematic series,” Rossi said smoothly, holding the dress out. “The modern muse in classical form. It’s about timelessness. The changing face of inspiration.”
“I… I thought this was for gallery promotion,” Ivy managed, her mouth dry.
“It is,” Marcus said, appearing at her elbow. “Art is promotion. Change in the side room. We’ll adjust the lighting for drapery.”
In the small, windowless side room, Ivy held the thin blue fabric. It smelled faintly of cedar and dust. Her phone, buried in her jeans pocket, felt like a lifeline. She could text Leo. A thumbs-down. This was the bedroom set. But was it? It was a costume. In a loft. For a respected photographer. The story held together, if she didn’t examine the seams too closely.
She thought of Milan. She thought of her mother’s skeptical voice. She thought of Leo’s unfinished portrait, sitting in the silent dorm.
Her fingers trembled as she changed. The fabric was shockingly light, leaving her arms and one shoulder bare. She felt a draft from the main room curl around her legs. When she walked out, the three of them were clustered, speaking in low tones. They fell silent.
Solveig looked at her with the first flicker of real interest. “Yes. The contrast. The blonde hair. Stand on the podium.”
The podium was a small, circular platform. The lights had been rearranged, one now a harsh spotlight from above. “Arms at your sides. Look toward the window, but not at it. Let your focus go soft.”
Ivy obeyed. The light burned the top of her head. She could feel Rossi’s gaze, a palpable, approving weight. Marcus had his phone out, recording behind Solveig.
“Think of distance,” Solveig murmured, clicking. “Think of being a statue on a cliff, worn by centuries of wind.”
Ivy tried. She imagined the wind. She imagined erosion. She imagined being made of stone, feeling nothing. The clicks came faster. She was disappearing into the idea, just like they wanted. It was easier than she’d imagined.
“Beautiful,” Rossi whispered, not to her, but to Marcus. “You see? The lineage is clear.”
The word ‘lineage’ pierced the haze. It wasn’t about her. It was about placing her in a collection. Another figurine in a series. Mara, then… her. Who came before Mara? The chill from the window finally reached her. It wasn’t a draft. It was the cold of the glass house, of the study where the photograph hung.
Solveig lowered her camera. “We need a different expression. Seraphina, speak to her.”
Rossi approached the podium. She didn’t step onto it, but stood below, looking up at Ivy. Her glasses reflected the spotlight, two white circles. “You’re thinking too much, Ivy. You’re trying to be a statue. Don’t be the statue.” Her voice was hypnotic, a lecturer’s cadence. “Be the girl who is being turned to stone. That’s the narrative. The moment of transformation. The surrender. Can you show me that? The moment you decide to stop fighting and become the art?”
Her hand came up, not touching Ivy, but gesturing to her bare shoulder. “You can feel it, can’t you? The coolness spreading from within. It’s not unpleasant. It’s a release from all the noise, all the doubt. Your future is solidifying. It’s right here.”
Ivy looked down into Rossi’s obscured eyes. She felt the heat of the lights and the cold of the room. She felt the eyes of Marcus and the lens of Solveig. She felt the ghost of Mara in the thin fabric on her skin. The surrender was right there, a quiet, inviting door.
From the street far below, a car horn blared, long and insistent. A sharp, real sound. It broke the spell.
Ivy’s eyes flicked to the vast window, to the grey world outside. For a split second, she wasn’t on a podium. She was in a diner across the street, drinking bad coffee with a friend who brought a brick in his backpack just in case.
“I need a break,” she said, her voice a stranger’s. “I need some air.”
She stepped off the podium, the motion clumsy. The concrete floor was shockingly solid under her bare feet. She didn’t wait for permission, walking quickly toward the freight elevator, the thin blue fabric fluttering around her.
“Ivy,” Rossi’s voice came, sharp. Not a request, a command.
“Five minutes,” Ivy said without turning, stabbing at the elevator button. The door slid open mercifully fast. She stepped in and pressed ‘L’, watching their three still figures recede behind the closing steel doors. The descent was slow. She hugged herself, shivering. The elevator opened into the dank alley. The drizzle had intensified.
She stood there, in the ancient dress, blinking in the grey light. Her phone was still in her discarded jeans upstairs. She had nowhere to go but forward into the rain. She started walking, turning the corner onto the main street, the wet pavement cold against her soles.
A figure detached from the diner doorway. Leo, holding his backpack. He took in the chiton, her bare feet, her empty hands. He didn’t speak. He just unzipped his backpack and pulled out his own worn, grey hoodie.
He held it open for her. Wordlessly, she turned, letting him drape it over her shoulders. The thick cotton was warm from being indoors and smelled of clay and cheap detergent. She pulled it tight around her, covering the blue fabric.
“Get you a coffee?” he asked, his voice casual, as if she was dressed normally.
She nodded, unable to speak. He guided her back toward the diner, a hand lightly on her back, not guiding, just present. She didn’t look back at the gallery entrance. The warm, greasy air of the diner hit her, and with it, the sound of clattering plates and a waitress’s laugh. It was the most beautiful noise she’d ever heard.