Chapter 50 Bluffing
CHAPTER 50: Bluffing
Chauncey
The Belvedere was one of those overpriced, minimalist restaurants where the clinking of silver against porcelain sounded like a deliberate performance. It wasn't my kind of scene, but I'd pick it over endless negotiations within the stuffy four walls of an office.
So here I was, sitting across from Julian Stone, a gallery owner whose reputation for discovering “raw talent” was only as real as the honesty he lacked. Yet not everyone knew that, but for those that did, they didn't care. He was still regarded as the biggest distributor and patron in the business. All professional artists, even the seasoned and sought after ones, toppled over to have their works on his walls.
Now, I watched his mouth move in a rhythmic, practiced blur. He was pitching a three-year exclusive deal, his hands weaving through the air to illustrate the grandeur of the exhibition he envisioned for my latest series.
But I found myself drifting…spiraling away from the low hum of conversations around us, and even Julian’s bullshit to what I had learned about Vera…to the images I had seen on that laptop.
I didn't fully support my brother's decision to mete out his own retribution to her, but I could also understand his pain.
I had been a witness to how much he loved Simone. She was the only woman that I had ever seen him care about.
While a part of me still felt soft towards Vera, I couldn't fully ignore what I'd seen. Simone was my friend too, and her loss was a tragedy.
"So, Mr Rutherford," Julian’s voice sharpened, slicing through my trance cleanly. “What do you say?” He leaned forward, rubbing his palms together in glee, while licking his lips in anticipation.
I tilted my head, my brows drawn in mock confusion. “About what?”
His mouth dropped open. “The proposal of course—”
I raised a brow. He flushed, embarrassed.
“I mean my business proposal to sign your work to my company. We'd be most honoured to have you. And you won't regret it,” he grinned, tapping his fountain pen against a leather-bound folder.
“Is that so?”
He smiled with flourish. “Yes. Given the current trajectory of the market and the fact that we’ve already secured a signature with Logan Bolden for the autumn season, would you also be willing to sign a contract with us?”
Even if I was contemplating giving them a second thought, at the mention of Bolden, any little interest I may have nursed…died.
The man had a reputation of plagiarising people's work and selling them at ridiculous prices.
I leaned back, a typical, bored smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“I’m going to have to pass on that, Julian,” I said, my voice smooth and utterly devoid of the excitement he was looking for.
His smile instantly wiped from his face.
“I beg your pardon?” he blinked. “Mr Rutherford, this is the most comprehensive contract we've offered any artist in years.”
I shrugged. “It's good that I'm not any artist.”
Julian aged several years instantly. The punk thought he had offered an irresistible deal.
“Tell me your terms. We’re prepared to offer you a more generous advance to secure your exclusivity,” he sounded desperate.
“I don't do exclusivity,” I replied, checking the time on my wrist. “Your gallery focuses on ‘commercial appeal’ and ‘curated aesthetics,’ which is just a fancy way of saying you want to turn my work into a mass-produced brand—”
“But Mr Rutherford—”
I halted him with a raised hand. “I'm not done, Julian. I like my work the way I like my life…unrestricted and not owned by anyone else. Besides, if Bolden signed with you, it means your walls are already getting crowded with people who care more about the paycheck than the paint. And that's not what I'm about.”
His face stiffened. “Perhaps we can come to a better arrangement. Bolden is a master of—”
“Drawing things that sell well in hotel lobbies,” I interrupted. “It's a no from me. We're done here.”
Before he could counter, my phone vibrated. I looked at the caller ID:
Claudia.
I felt a heavy, familiar weight settle in my chest. I hadn't heard from her in a long time.
I ignored it.
Julian took the hint, standing up with a tight smile.
“I see now is not a good time, Mr. Rutherford. We will be in touch.”
Oh no, we won't.
He had barely walked away when the phone buzzed again. Same caller.
This time, it was a text:
“Just landed. Don’t you dare ignore me.”
I cursed under my breath, my fingers flying across the screen to hit redial, convinced that she was bluffing.
“You're bluffing,” I said the second she picked up. “You're still in Milan or wherever the hell you have been globetrotting for the last couple of years.”
She laughed. Actually laughed in that high pitched fruity voice.
“Oh, Chauncey, I thought Silas was the cynical one,” the voice crackled through the speaker, vibrant and dripping with a chaotic energy that made me want to hang up and order a double scotch.
“What are you up to now, Claudia? I don't have time for your games.”
I could hear the background noise of a busy terminal.
“I’m already in an airport taxi, darling. You ignored my call earlier, so…I’m coming to you.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You’re bluffing.”
She chuckled. “You can either tell me where you are, or I can just tell the driver to take me to your penthouse and I’ll wait there until you show up to let me in.”
I could hear the mischief in her voice. But somehow…I knew she was serious.
I ran a hand through my hair, exasperated.
“This is a terrible time for your madness, Claud. Does Silas know?”
Silence.
I almost thought the line had disconnected.
“No. You know how he can be.”
I sighed. “Well, now is not a good time.”
“Then tell me where you are and explain it to me in person,” she countered. “I’m not spending my first hour back in the city sitting on a sidewalk. And that is going to happen if you ignore me. Address. Now.”
I exhaled a long, defeated breath and sent her the location.
Barely twenty minutes later, the heavy brass doors of the restaurant swung open.