Chapter 13 Offer

Chapter 13 Offer
I bail before Jade can open a new moodboard tab.
Official reason: “Office. Clients. Deadlines. Capitalism.”
Real reason: I need a room that isn’t full of Jade screaming “ELENA IS A PIG” and Gemma mentally drafting a class action lawsuit against the entire Bernardi bloodline.
“Send your live location!” Jade yells from the dining table.
“I’ll send you my electricity bill, how about that?” I call back, already half-running to the door.
Hazel is still in her unicorn pajamas, chasing Mars down the hallway. “Moooom, can I come to the office? I wanna draw a castle—”
“No.” I kiss her cheek, which smells like maple syrup. “You already have your own castle here. My office only has a very cranky printer.”
Kayla lifts her coffee mug at me from the kitchen, her look saying you’re escaping but her mouth only going, “Drive safe. Don’t run over any hot surfers.”
“Hot surfers have insurance,” I say, grabbing my car keys. “My mental health doesn’t.”
The door closes behind me, swallowing Hazel’s outraged scream because Bruno refuses to wear clothes.
++
My office, De Cruz Atelier, takes up the second floor of an old brick building that used to be a motorcycle shop near the beach. Now it’s part of a row of so-called “creative spaces,” which is code for high rent, impossible parking, and everyone drinking oat lattes.
The metal stairs give a small groan when I climb them. When I punch in the code and push open the glass door, the familiar smell hits: stale coffee, paper, plotter ink, and a faint hint of acrylic paint. The AC air is cold, the ceiling strip lights not all the way awake yet. Territory.
The studio is just one long room: three workstations with big monitors and plants that are always on the brink of death, blueprint racks along the wall, a few half-finished foam-board building models, and at the end, near the big window, the corner that is always a problem: the painting corner, canvases leaning against each other like secrets no one bothered to fold properly.
I flick all the lights on, drop my bag on the main desk, then fall into my swivel chair.
Functional version of me, let’s go. Show time.
I open my laptop. The last thing on the screen is the 3D model of a glass house for a Hollywood client who wants “something sustainable but also perfect for parties until four a.m.” White lines spin, the glass façade catching fake light on the screen.
The cursor moves. My hand nudges the mouse, zoom in, zoom out. Fingers tap shortcuts on autopilot. But in my head, gallery lights still glare, jazz still hums, and a pair of dark eyes are still looking at me like no one else was in the room.
I drag one wall of the model. Wrong. My hand slips, and suddenly the staircase disappears.
“Great. Kill the stairs. Very healthy symbolism,” I mutter.
Undo. Again. Focus.
An email notification pops up in the corner of the screen. Tiny ping. Client name.
My pulse jumps on reflex before my brain even reads it. My eyes automatically search for the next letters. R–a–f…
Not him. Just “Robinson, Claire – final budget revision.”
I let out a short breath, almost laughing at myself. “You need therapy, De Cruz,” I whisper to my reflection in the screen.
I force myself to answer the email. I type:
Hi Claire, thanks for sending the revision…
Delete. Too stiff. I type again. Delete again.
The third draft finally passes the internal audit in my head. I skim it once, hit send, then take a swig of coffee from the thermos I brought. It’s bitter and cold. Fitting.
Another notification pops up. Not email. Message.
Daniel.
My throat tightens a little. I click.
Daniel – Galeri Moreau
Maya, good morning. Sorry to bother you on the weekend. There are a few paperwork items regarding the purchase of The Altar that you need to review & sign. Also… there’s one additional request from the patron. Can we hop on a quick call?
I stare at the screen for a few seconds. The word patron feels heavier than it should. Patron with first refusal rights. Patron who stood in the corner of the room last night, all in black, except for the watch on his wrist and the way his gaze stripped the canvas bare.
I spin my chair to face the big window. Outside, the LA sky is a pale blue, palm trees drooping, cars sliding past. The city looks normal. No sirens announcing that my past has just walked out of its closet.
I hit the call icon before I can start overthinking.
Daniel picks up on the second ring. “Maya! Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, I hope you’ve had coffee.”
“If I haven’t, I’m suing you personally,” I say. “What’s going on with my very dramatic lot?”
He lets out a small laugh on the other end. Papers shuffle, something clicks. “The auction went very well last night. The Altar… well, you saw. The final number was pretty… impressive.”
I glance at the corner of my desk, at the little note I scribbled last night: a number with too many zeros, and under it, Hazel’s college? + Kayla’s payments? + roof leak? Crossed out. It feels like a joke now.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “My heart almost detached itself.”
“The buyer already finalized the deposit this morning,” Daniel goes on. “For the next steps, we’ll need your signature on some transfer documents. I can send them via email.”
“Okay.” I spin a pen between my fingers. “And… the additional request?”
There’s a tiny pause. I can practically see Daniel giving a hesitant little smile, pushing his glasses up his nose. “He… prefers to stay anonymous in public. But with the artists, he usually… asks for an additional private viewing. Outside the gallery. At the studio.”
My studio suddenly feels smaller.
“My… studio,” I repeat slowly, like the word was just invented.
“Yes,” Daniel says quickly. “Of course only if you’re comfortable. There’s no written obligation. We just… strongly encourage it.” He coughs a little on strongly. “This patron is one of Moreau’s biggest donors. And first refusal on all your work… it’s a huge opportunity.”
Huge opportunity. Polite language for don’t make this a drama, Maya, we all need to eat.
I lean my head back against the chair and stare at the ceiling. On one of the panels, there’s a blue paint stain I never wiped off. Hazel dropped a brush when I forgot that a four-year-old cannot be trusted with expensive pigment.
“What does he want to see?” I ask finally. “New canvases? Sketches? Or is he planning to audit my life?”
Daniel gives a nervous laugh. “Just the work,” he says. “Any pieces you feel like showing. He usually comes by, looks, sometimes buys, sometimes just talks. Doesn’t stay long. Maybe an hour, tops.”
An hour is way too long if that man is Rafael Bernardi.
“And if I say no?” My voice sounds casual, but my palms are damp.
“If you say no…” Daniel lets out a very soft sigh that the phone still catches. “It’s okay. Really. We’ll still process The Altar. First refusal still applies, but maybe… his enthusiasm cools. And… well, collectors with his taste and budget… are rare. I just… would strongly suggest you consider it.”
I close my eyes. Behind my lids, I see Hazel on the beach, lugging a bucket, her unicorn floatie, her mouth full of scrambled eggs. Kayla sending invoices, tax notes, school fees, the pediatric dentist bill for tiny teeth that like to fall out ahead of schedule.
Six years ago, I ran with a small suitcase and fresh wounds. Now I have a house by the ocean, a small human who calls me Mom, and this studio whose bills are paid by checks that sometimes arrive late.
I don’t have the luxury anymore of saying no just to protect my ego.
“Okay,” I say at last. “When does he want to come?”
“He’s flexible,” Daniel answers quickly, clearly relieved. “He said sometime this week, depending on you. If you send me a few time options, I can coordinate.”
“Let’s just pick one,” I cut in. If I leave it open, I’ll have a full week to panic. “Tomorrow afternoon. Four p.m. Hazel will still be at the beach with Kayla, so she won’t ruin my reputation by calling someone ‘blackmail’ again.”
Daniel laughs, freer this time. “Perfect. I’ll send a confirmation email and the documents within the hour. Thank you, Maya. This is… big.”