Chapter 26 Golden cage
Aria’s POV
The restaurant was the kind of place where you needed a reservation three months in advance and a trust fund to afford the wine list.
Crystal chandeliers hung from coffered ceilings. Waiters in tuxedos moved like ghosts in between the tables where Manhattan’s elite discussed mergers over foie gras.
I hated every inch of it.
I was dressed in an emerald silk dress that hugged my frame perfectly.my purple hair was styled into an elegant updo, the diamond earrings my grandmother left me catching the light.
My parents sat across from me at our corner table. With dad in his custom Armani suit, his silver hair was perfectly styled. Mom dripped in Cartier, with an expression that was always so difficult to read.
“Darling, you look lovely,” Mom said, though her eyes swept over me obviously taking note of all my flaws. “Though I do wish you’d consider returning to your natural hair color. The purple is so… bohemian.”
I took a long sip of my wine. “I like bohemian.”
“Of course you do.” Dad’s voice carried that patronizing warmth he’d perfected over years of board meetings. “How is school?”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.” I set down my glass. “Something incredible happened. Vincent Kane purchased my entire collection from the exhibition.”
Mom’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. “Vincent Kane? The collector?”
“Yes! He said my work was exceptional. He’s displaying it in his private gallery and…”
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” Dad interrupted, his tone suggesting it was anything but. “But let’s not get carried away. One sale doesn’t make a career.”
“It’s not just one sale. It’s Vincent Kane. He launched half the contemporary artists at MoMA. This could change everything…”
“Please.” Mom set down her fork with a delicate clink. “If you’ll just listen for once, Aria. Stop being a fool.”
The word landed like a slap.
“Excuse me?”
“Art is a lovely hobby,” she continued, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “But it’s time to be realistic about your future. You’re twenty-two. We’ve been patient with this… phase. But eventually, you need to think practically.”
“This isn’t a phase. This is my career…”
“Your father and I have been discussing your future,” Mom said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “We think it’s time you started taking an active role in the family business.”
“I don’t want to work in real estate…”
“You don’t have to.” Dad leaned back, swirling his scotch. “We’ve restructured some of our holdings. There’s a position in our arts foundation. Managing grants, curating exhibitions for our corporate collection. You’d still be involved with art, but in a more… stable capacity.”
Stable meant controllable.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m pursuing my own work…”
“With what money?” Mom’s voice sharpened. “Your trust fund doesn’t mature for three more years. And while we’re happy to support you, that support comes with expectations.”
Finally the control was starting to sip out.
“I can support myself…”
“On what? The money from one collector?” Dad laughed. “Sweetheart, be realistic. Artists starve. That’s not the life we want for you.”
“Maybe it’s the life I want for myself.”
Silence fell over the table. It felt like a hand closing around my throat.
“Well.” Mom’s smile was ice. “We’ll discuss this later. Right now, there’s someone we’d like you to meet.”
Before I could protest, she was waving to someone across the restaurant.
A man approached our table. He was in his mid twenties . He wore an expensive suit, his dark hair was slicked back, he was handsome but his face showed no warmth.
“Aria, darling, this is Christian Beaumont,” Mom said, her voice suddenly bright. “His family owns Beaumont Industries. Christian, this is our daughter Aria.”
“A pleasure.” Christian extended his hand. His grip was too firm, he held my hand for a second too long. “Your parents have told me so much about you.”
I’ll bet they have.
“Christian’s family does extensive work in Europe,” Dad said. “Art acquisitions, among other things. We thought you two might have a lot to talk about.”
Translation: We’ve already decided you’d make a good match.
“Please, join us.” Mom gestured to the empty chair beside me.
Christian sat without waiting for my invitation. He sat to close his cologne was expensive but overwhelming. Did he bathe with it or something?
“Your mother mentioned you’re an artist,” he said, his eyes traveling down to my neckline before returning to my face. “How charming.”
“I paint,” I said flatly.
“She’s being modest,” Mom interjected. “She just had a very successful exhibition. Vincent Kane himself purchased several pieces.”
“Kane.” Christian’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. “Interesting. My family has done business with him before. He has… eclectic tastes.”
The way he said it made my skin crawl.
“What kind of business does your family do?” I asked, reaching for my wine.
“Import-export, primarily. Art, antiquities, luxury goods.” His smile widened. “We facilitate acquisitions for private collectors. Sometimes pieces that are… difficult to obtain through traditional channels.”
My hand tightened around my glass. “Difficult how?”
“Christian’s being modest,” Dad said. “The Beaumont family has connections all over Europe. They can source pieces that would be impossible for ordinary collectors to acquire.”
Everything about this man screamed wrong.
“How fascinating,” I said, my voice syrupy sweet. “And completely legal, I assume?”
Christian’s smile never wavered, but his eyes went cold. “Of course. We pride ourselves on operating within all applicable regulations.”
Bullshit.
“Aria.” Mom’s voice carried a warning. “Christian was just telling us about his villa in Tuscany. Perhaps you’d like to hear about it?”
“Actually…” I started to stand.
Christian’s hand landed on my wrist. “Don’t rush off. The night is young.”
I looked down at his hand. Then up at his face. “Remove your hand. Now.”
“Aria!” Mom hissed.
“I said now.”
Christian released me, but his smile stayed fixed. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t offend me. You overstepped my boundaries.” I stood, grabbing my purse. “Thank you for dinner, but I have to go.”
“Sit down,” Dad commanded. “We’re not finished…”
“Yes, we are.” I looked at Christian. “It was interesting meeting you. I’m sure our paths won’t cross again.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said softly. “New York is a surprisingly small city. Especially in certain circles.”
The way he said it felt like a threat.
I turned to my parents. “I’ll call you later.”
“Aria Michelle Martinez…” Mom started.
But I was already walking away, my heels silent on the plush carpet, my heart pounding with anger and something else.
Fear.
Because Christian Beaumont wasn’t just some rich guy my parents wanted me to date.
He was dangerous.
I could feel it in the way he’d looked at me.
Outside, the night air hit me like a slap. I stood on the sidewalk, breathing hard, my hands shaking.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Lovely meeting you tonight, Aria. I look forward to getting to know you better. - CB
I stared at the message.
He had my number. How did he have my number?
Another buzz.
Unknown: Your work is quite beautiful, by the way. I’d love to discuss a private commission. Perhaps over dinner?
My stomach turned.