Chapter 19: Hostile Takeover
The squeak of the polishing cloth on the gallery’s concrete floor was the only sound for a solid minute. Jade worked in a furious, concentrated rhythm, the scent of lemon wax sharp in the cool, conditioned air. Every smudge, every ghost of a footprint from the day’s preparations, was an enemy. She attacked them. If the floor was perfect, the lighting precise, the labels aligned, then maybe the static screaming in her head would quiet.
"Jade, the caterer is asking if we want the canapés circulated clockwise or counter-clockwise," said Leo, the gallery assistant, his voice tinny through her earbuds.
"Counter," she said, not looking up. "Creates a better flow from the entrance. Tell them to keep the squid ink ones away from the white couches."
She moved on to the plinths, adjusting the small, twisted sculptures forged from scrap metal and glass. Her fingers, usually so steady, trembled as she centered a piece called 'Fractured Kinetics'. The memory of last night was a live wire under her skin—Dex’s weight, Cole’s laughter, the feel of the key now buried at the bottom of her purse like a guilty secret. She’d come here to erase it with work.
"It’s just energy," she muttered to herself, buffing a fingerprint from the polished steel base. "Convert it.Use it."
The final piece to be positioned was a large canvas, still leaning against the back wall of the main chamber, wrapped in protective grey felt. It was the show’s centerpiece, sourced from a new, semi-anonymous artist the owner was excited about. Leo had left the unpacking to her; he knew she had the best hands for it.
She cut the straps, the plastic hissing. She peeled back the thick felt, the fabric whispering as it slid to the floor.
Her breath left her body in a rush, as if she’d been punched.
It was a painting of a woman.
Not a portrait, not exactly. It was a storm of color and motion. Long, dark whorls of hair blended into a background of rain-slicked city neon, a mix of deep purples, corrosive yellows, and the profound black of a night without stars. The woman’s face was partly turned away, a strong jawline and a curve of a brow hinted at, but not defined. She was both there and not there. A presence emerging from the chaos. Her form was suggested by the negative space and the aggressive, confident strokes that framed her. It was ferocious. It was tender. It felt violently private.
Jade’s knees gave. She sank onto her heels, the cold floor biting through her thin work pants.
Her eyes scanned the bottom right corner, dreading and already knowing what she would find.
There, in that familiar, chaotic scrawl, was a single word: ‘Cole’
The world telescoped down to that signature. The black key. The winking smiley face. His mouth on her skin, his whispered jokes in the dark.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, the sound swallowed by the vast, empty gallery.
She remembered Cole’s hands. Not just on her, but their shape. Long fingers, stained with what she’d assumed was motor oil or grease.Paint. They’d been stained with paint. The playful charm was a facade. This… this was the substrate. This was the raw material he usually hid.
“Jade? The curator is here for the walk-through,” Leo’s voice crackled in her ear again.
She couldn’t move. She stared at the painting titled simply, ‘Jade’. He’d seen her. Not just the body, not just the new girl in the building. He’d seen the mess, the dark curls, the hunger she tried to cloak in sleek apartment aesthetics. He’d seen it and he’d trapped it in furious, beautiful pigments.
“Jade? You okay?”
“Fine,” she croaked, forcing herself to stand. Her legs were water. “I’m fine. Give me two minutes.”
She approached the canvas as one would a wild animal. Up close, the texture was brutal. Layers of paint were scraped back, built up, attacked. In the thick impasto of her hair, she saw the faint, deliberate imprint of a knuckle. His knuckle. Her fingertips hovered over it, close enough to feel the static of the dried acrylic.
The gallery’s main door hissed open, letting in a draft and the muffled sounds of evening traffic.“Ms. Vance? We’re ready to begin,” called Mr. Armitage, the owner.
With a surge of adrenaline, Jade grabbed the painting. It was heavier than it looked. She hefted it, her muscles straining, and carefully walked it to the central, spotlighted wall. The metal hanging cable felt cold in her hands. She secured it, adjusting the level with quick, precise tugs. It was perfect. It was a bomb.
She stepped back, just as Armitage and the stern-faced curator entered the chamber.
“Ah, you’ve hung the Cole piece! Excellent,” Armitage boomed. “Stunning, isn’t it? Such raw talent. Reclusive fellow. Had to arrange everything through a third party.”
The curator, a woman with silver glasses and a black sheath dress, stopped beside Jade. She studied the painting in silence for a long moment. Jade could smell the woman’s crisp perfume, could feel her own heart hammering against her ribs.
“Interesting,” the curator finally said, her voice clinical. “The subject matter is surprisingly emotive for an artist known for abstract industrial landscapes. There’s a possessive intimacy to the brushwork. Almost like a love letter, or a theft.”
Jade’s mouth was dry as dust. She managed a tight, professional smile. “It’s certainly commanding.”
The curator nodded, moving on. Armitage followed, already talking about auction estimates.
Jade was left alone again before the painting. The woman in the neon storm looked back at her, a shared secret humming in the quiet air.
Love letter or theft.
She pulled out her phone, her fingers moving before her brain could formulate a plan. She opened a new text thread. The last message from Cole was weeks old, a simple ‘Hey neighbour’ when she’d first moved in.
She typed, her thumbs clumsy.
You painted me.
She stared at the three words. The cursor blinked. The silence from the painting was deafening.
She deleted it.
Her fingers flew again, this time with a different, sharper heat. The shock was morphing, melting into a slow-burning, profound anger. And beneath that, a terrifying, thrilling sense of exposure.
The key won’t get used,
she typed.
But your painting is the center of the show.
She hit send.
She shoved the phone back into her pocket, its weight suddenly immense. She turned her back on the painting, on the woman made of chaos and want, and went to check on the wine glasses. Every stem had to be spotless. Every detail under control. But the center of her world, here in this sterile, polished place, was now a riot of color bearing her name. And for the first time all day, the static in her head wasn't fear or confusion.
It was a low, resonant hum of power.