Chapter 181 Down talking

Chapter 181 Down talking
Isabella POV

There were a lot of guests that afternoon, all visiting from outside the city to try some of the famous Conti wines and they ordered cheese to pair with the different varietals, and I enjoyed doing something with my time that wasn’t so isolating. It's been a while I did this and didn't know I loved it this much.

When I painted, I rarely interacted with anyone else. I spent all afternoon in silence, creating pieces based on thoughts, memories, and
feelings.

Most artists were solitary people, and I guessed I was that way too but I enjoyed mingling with the tourists and locals who stopped by and to my surprise, people really did love my paintings.

A couples talked about their favorites, people asked about the prices, and a few even bought one before they left. Before lunchtime arrived, I’d made over ten thousand euros and I couldn’t believe it.

I walked over to a table with two young gentlemen who seemed to be brothers, based on the way they were causally insulting each other. I poured the wine and noticed they’d been drinking quicker than anyone else in the
group. “So, which is your favorite?”

“The 2008 was great,” the one on the right said.

“2014 was better.” The one on the left was dressed in a white t-shirt with a gray blazer. He had light skin and an American accent, so it didn’t seem like he was a local maybe they were visiting with family. He had an indifferent
demeanor, like nothing was good enough for him. “We were just at the Carter Vineyards and now that’s excellent wine.”

I couldn’t care less what this jerk thought, but I didn’t appreciate the casual way he insulted the hard work of my family. “Then maybe you should go back.” I poured the wine a little too fast and purposely spilled it on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Hey.” He dotted the stain away with a napkin. “Watch what you’re doing.”

“I was.” I smiled then walked off, helping another table that actually had some manners. I spent the next twenty minutes mingling and asking where everyone was from. My mom did a great job doing the tastings because she was from America, like most of the tourists.

So she had visited the places where they were from and gave people a sense of familiarity.

As the customers started to taper off for lunch and Mom left early to join my father for their date and I stayed behind then finished off the final bottles and cleaned the glasses.

The two jerks from earlier were still there, and now they were staring at my paintings but I ignored them, waiting until they finally left so I could never think about them again.

I wiped off all the tables with a rag and then rinsed the glasses people had drunk from before placing them in the dishwasher.

We bought all our cheeses from the local village, so everything was fresh and authentic.

“Three thousand euros?” the man in the gray blazer asked. “This looks terrible but did a five-year-old make this?” His arms were crossed over his chest as he looked at the paintings like they were trash.

I refused to let his opinion bother me. He was just some entitled asshole. “Yeah,” his brother agreed. “Amateur and pathetic. They had much better artwork in Rome and you know, by real artists.”

The man in the gray blazer squinted at my name in the corner. “Isabella Conti…no wonder it sucks. It sucks just like their wine.” He seemed to say it loudly on purpose...for my benefit.

After they thoroughly destroyed my day, they walked out and thankfully left.

Now that I was finally alone, his last words kept lingering in my mind, replaying themselves over and over no matter how hard I tried to push them away but I shouldn't let it bother me and I shouldn't let one person's opinion tear me down, especially when he was just one asshole among countless other people who loved my work.

I had proof that I was good at what I did because I wouldn't have sold five paintings that afternoon if I didn't have any talent.

People wouldn't have stopped to look at my work, admired it, and actually spent their money on it if there wasn't something worthwhile in what I created but I kept trying to convince myself that his words didn't matter and I repeated the thought in my head, hoping that if I told myself enough times, I'd eventually believe it.
I stood at the counter with my eyes deliberately averted, focusing on anything except the emotions threatening to overwhelm me. I took a slow breath, then another, making an effort to keep my breathing regular.

Soon, my eyes began to well up and I blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. I tried to swallow the lump forming in my throat and forced myself to hold everything back, determined not to give his words that much power over me but my strength started to wane the longer I had to fight against my own reaction.

The more I tried not to cry, the harder it became to keep the tears contained and somehow, that only made me feel weaker.

I hated that I was standing there fighting tears because of one person's opinion. I hated that he had managed to get inside my head so easily.

Most of all, I felt pathetic for letting it bother me when I knew there were so many other people who believed in my work.

My eyes burned as I fought another wave of emotion, desperately trying to regain control of myself before I completely fell apart then heavy footsteps sounded against the cobblestone floor and my body stiffened.

I didn't even have to look up to know someone was approaching. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

The concern in Dante voice made the fragile control I'd been holding onto feel even harder to maintain.