Chapter 5 The Patron in Black
Weekend. A day off. No clients. No blueprints. Nothing... except for two high-maintenance humans in my living room who’d already fired up the espresso machine before I’d even touched a toothbrush.
They were my best friends. Since high school. Three heads, three mouths, three personalities that shouldn’t have fit together but somehow stuck like cheap glue that refused to peel off.
Jade, a half-divine drama queen with magic hands and a razor tongue. She designed for some big-name brand that popped up on red carpets and forgot how to wear sandals.
Her life ran on couture silhouettes, unisex perfume, and temporary men. But back when we ate instant noodles on the floor of a rental apartment, she was the first who taught me how to “fake a glamorous life” even when your bank balance was zero point nothing.
Gemma operated differently. Her brain cut cleaner than a scalpel. If she sat still in a room, it always meant a contract was about to get shredded. She worked as a lawyer, the type who won arguments before you opened your mouth. She was the only person who could spook the IRS, yet also the one who smuggled tequila into my twenty-seventh birthday and made everyone sing 'Despacito' in funeral tempo.
And Elena... she’d once been part of us. But now her name disappeared from the group chat, from the memory shelf, from everything we used to treat as sacred. That betrayal hit too raw, too bare. And we had no time for someone who stabbed while smiling.
So now it was just the three of us. Like the leftover crew of a pirate ship still drinking on deck after the storm had passed and the vessel was half sunk.
“She’s wearing blue. No debate.” Jade’s voice rang from the dining room, followed by the tap-tap of heels on wood. Of course she wore stilettos inside the house.
“Blue makes me look like a breathing skeleton.” I dragged my feet toward the kitchen, grabbed a mug, and drowned it in coffee without speaking.
Gemma didn’t look up. She sat at the dining table with her laptop open and papers scattered everywhere. “You need to read clauses fourteen through twenty-one. Twice. With eyes. Not intuition.”
“Good morning to you too.” I sat and took a sip. The bitterness smacked straight down my throat. “Did you two break in last night or teleport?”
“Gemma arrived at seven. I came earlier because I have taste,” Jade answered, now standing with a sheet of deep-sea blue satin floating in her hands. “You’re wearing this tonight. No arguments.”
“I’m not getting married, Jade. It’s just an art exhibit. Not the Oscars.”
“The exhibit at Moreau Gallery,” she corrected, sharp as her eyeliner. “Where collectors shop for paintings the way they shop for Ferraris. You think they’ll glance your way if you show up in ripped jeans and that ‘architecture is sexy’ hoodie you worship?”
I stared at the fabric. Satin. Sleek. Gorgeous. Something that required double tape and a prayer to prevent public betrayal in front of LA’s wealthy donors. “If I wear that and my back catches a chill, I’m blaming you in front of God.”
Gemma lifted an eyebrow. “Meanwhile, sign this. Important contract. They can use your painting for promotion. And there’s potential collaboration with other rich people who aren’t your two annoying brothers.”
“The fine print?” I leaned in.
She slid the last page over. “Says they can reproduce your painting for gallery marketing materials only, not merchandise. I crossed out anything related to merch rights. And I added a royalty clause if your piece gets featured in their digital collection. Satisfied?”
I held her gaze for a few seconds, then grabbed a pen and signed. “You’re the best annoying lawyer ever born.”
“Fact.” She took the document back like she’d just won an auction.
From the window, I caught Hazel sprinting down the beach with a red bucket, kicking up sand, bangs flying, laughing like a wild puppy. Luca jogged behind her, then fake-fell when Hazel threw sand at him. Hazel squealed, the cats trailing them like her little staff.
“Look at them,” Jade murmured behind me. “You sure you don’t want another one?”
I turned toward the small mirror by the dining table, then at my own reflection. Messy hair. Oversized tee. Coffee in hand. “Jade, don’t make me throw you into the ocean before breakfast.”
Gemma didn’t lift her head. “If she gets pregnant again, I revoke my godmother duties.”
I took another gulp of coffee. The beach breeze slipped through the half-open window. Outside, my kid laughed. Inside, my two best friends micromanaged my life like an overzealous PR team.
And... it didn’t feel that bad.
++++
Moreau Gallery stood like a marble shrine where the rich came to feel more cultured than regular people. The spotlights cast cold white beams, and the air carried a blend of champagne, expensive perfume, and a hint of oil paint from who knew where.
Luca touched my waist. “Breathe. You’re not dying.”
“I could,” I muttered. “If they ask why my paintings look gloomy, I’ll just tell them because I’m stressed and mentally unstable.”
His mouth twitched. “If you faint, I’ll carry you out. Though that bumps your drama up five levels. Want that?”
I nudged his stomach and hooked my arm through his.
Once we stepped through the glass doors, a few heads turned. People with champagne flutes, loud jewelry, and minimalist black outfits that screamed, “I’m rich but pretending to be humble.”
A woman in an emerald-green dress approached. “Maya De Cruz?”
I nodded.
“Oh, finally! We absolutely love your work. Very bold.” Her eyes drifted to Luca with a soft smile. “And this…?”
“Bodyguard,” I said fast.
Luca choked on a laugh. The woman faltered for two seconds before I gave in.
“Boyfriend. I meant boyfriend.”
“Oh! Lovely.” She laughed too loudly, then drifted away, probably hunting for her next target.
A man in a gray suit approached. His silver hair was slicked back, his smile the kind that knew at least one painting in the room cost as much as a sports car.
“Maya De Cruz,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m Moreau. Glad to finally meet.”
The AC brushed my neck like a quiet warning. “Thank you for showing my work,” I said. “Sorry if I look like I’m about to throw up.”
He laughed, relaxed. “That reaction happens often. Except for longtime collectors, they’re immune.” Then he pointed toward a corner. “The Altar is over there. So far, one of the most visited pieces. Many asked… what’s the story behind it?”
I swallowed. My throat felt stuffed with Hazel’s beach sand.
I looked at the painting: the dark altar, the dim candles, the shadow of two unfinished figures. Every stroke dragged me back to the worst night of my life.
“It’s just… imagination,” I said, swallowing again. “A room that popped into my head when I couldn’t sleep. No big story.”
He frowned but kept his smile. “Sometimes the best works come from places we don’t want to describe.”
I offered a small nod, shorter than a breath.
“If you ever want to talk more,” he continued, “collectors usually love pieces with personal stories.”
“If I tell my personal story,” I answered flatly, “your collectors would run.”
Moreau laughed, “Well, mystery always sells, Maya.”
He excused himself and moved on to other guests.
We shifted to the small buffet area. Canapés lined up neatly on a glass tray: crostini, smoked salmon, something that looked like green foam but was apparently edamame mousse. I grabbed one, bit down, and unfortunately loved it.
“If I get addicted to this, we’re selling a painting,” I muttered.
Luca handed me another glass. “Deal. You sell a painting, I buy the whole table.”
I was about to answer when a man with round glasses approached. Black suit, white shirt, tiny name tag on his chest. “Ms. De Cruz?”
I set down the empty canapé. “Yes?”
“I’m Daniel, one of the curators here.” He gave Luca a polite nod. “Mr. Andersson.”
“Daniel.” Luca returned the nod, brief. Clearly they knew each other.
Daniel held his iPad like a shield. “Just wanted to give a quick heads-up before the mini auction.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “One of our main patrons… requested first refusal on all your pieces in this exhibition.”
I stared at him. “Meaning…?”
“Any time someone wants to buy your work, we have to offer it to him first. If he declines, then we can sell to others.” Daniel offered a small smile. “It’s a sign of… serious interest.”
Serious interest. In all my pieces. It felt like someone poured cold water down my spine.
“He’s seen my work before?” I asked.
“He saw it in the preview collection.” Daniel adjusted his glasses. “And he rarely does this. Very rarely.”
Luca lifted a brow, glancing at the crowd. “Is he still here?”
“Yes.” Daniel nodded quickly. “If you both agree, I can introduce you. He prefers… privacy, but he usually meets the artists.”
Luca looked at me, waiting. My heart had already sprinted ahead, but my mouth moved first.
“If he’s slapping a reserved sign on all my pieces, we should at least see his face.”
Luca’s mouth twitched. “We’ll come.”
We followed Daniel through two rooms, weaving past laughing guests, raised glasses, and the growing headache of layered perfumes. Spotlights bounced off gold, white, and black frames; soft jazz floated through the air.
Daniel stopped near a more hidden corner, close to a large window overlooking the city. A man stood there, his back to us as he faced another painting. Black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, black pants, black shoes. Everything black except the watch on his wrist catching the light.
Those wide shoulders didn’t move. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a whiskey glass.
For a moment, I just frowned. Something about the way he stood. The line of his neck, the cut of his hair, the slight tilt of his chin.
My body recognized him first.
Beside me, Luca let out a short laugh. Not a full one, just a puff from his nose. “Of course,” he murmured. “it’s him.”
I lifted my head. “Who?”
The man turned.
The world didn’t stop.
But everything inside my chest slammed the brakes. The jazz faded. The room stayed full, but the space between us shrank, pulled tight by invisible hands.
The jaw was the same, sharp. The black hair slicked back, shorter than before.
All I could do was stand there. My fingers went numb, the glass in my hand suddenly too slick. My breath stalled.
“Maya,” Luca broke the silence stretching between us, his hand pressing my back once. “Let me introduce you. This is Rafael.”
Rafael didn’t look away.
“My half brother,” Luca added. “Rafael Bernardi.”