2 years ago

- Yara -

The air in my studio was thick—stale paint, varnish, and the unmistakable scent of creative failure.

Canvases leaned against the walls, half-finished and abandoned, their eyes glaring at me from layers of smeared oil and frustration. Brushes floated in murky water like forgotten corpses. The capstone deadline loomed, a shadow creeping closer, and yet my hands refused to create anything that wasn't pure, unfiltered garbage.

I rubbed my temples, the pressure behind my eyes a dull, familiar throb. Too many sleepless nights, too much caffeine, too many mental bargaining sessions with the universe.

How long had it been since I'd slept more than seven hours? Hung out with friends? Gone shopping? Spent any real time for myself?

It was just classes, painting, more classes, and more painting with little time to breathe.

I never thought my life was boring before, but now it felt miserable and exhausting. I knew I couldn't make a decent painting because I burnt out—trapped in this monotonous routine.

The intercom buzzed. I ignored it.

It buzzed again, long and insistent.

I groaned. "Go away."

A pause. Then the door clicked open anyway.

Jenna.

Her heels tapped against the hardwood like the footsteps of a woman on a mission.

Five-foot-three inches of half-Asian. Slender, tan, and blessed with the kind of melanin I envied every summer when the sun turned me into a cooked shrimp. Her dark brown hair was swept into a ponytail, sleek and unbothered like she hadn't just stormed into my disaster zone of a studio.

She took one look at me—crumpled on the floor in yesterday's oversized shirt, surrounded by what could generously be called an artist's workspace but more accurately resembled a crime scene—and sighed.

"Jesus, Yara." She stepped over a fallen paint tube. "Did a hurricane hit, or are you just embracing full goblin mode?"

I didn't move. "Goblin mode."

She sniffed. "Thought so." Then, after a beat, "I respect it."

Jenna picked up a paintbrush from the floor, examined it like it might bite, and then flicked it at me. "When's the last time you ate?"

I caught it lazily. "Depends. Does stale coffee count as food?"

Her dark brown stare could melt steel.

"Okay, okay," I sighed. "I'll order something."

She snorted. "Yeah? And will it mysteriously disappear like the last time I 'forced' you to eat?"

"That was an accident."

"No, it was a crime against basic human function."

I opened my mouth to argue, but my phone rang, cutting me off. I glanced at the screen. Helen. My maternal Aunt.

Jenna peered over my shoulder. "Oh boy."

I hesitated. Jenna smirked. "She's got your soul in a jar somewhere, doesn't she?"

Ignoring her, I finally answered. "Hey, Helen."

"Yara." Her voice was smooth. Sharp. "I hope you haven't forgotten about the charity event tonight."

My stomach twisted. "That's tonight?"

A sigh crackled through the line. "You haven't checked your emails. As usual."

Jenna, ever the menace, made a tch tch sound like a disappointed teacher.

"You're attending," Helen continued. "No excuses."

I pressed my palm against my forehead. "Helen—"

"There's no discussion." A pause. "I'll pick you up at six. Be ready."

The line went dead.

Jenna crossed her arms. "Welp. Looks like you're about to be dusted off and thrown to the wolves."

I stared at the ceiling. "I hate everything."

"Lies. You love me."

"Debatable."

Jenna plopped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. "If you're suffering, at least suffer in something hot. Don't make me dress you myself."

A horrific thought.

I groaned. "Fine."

"Good." She tossed a paint-stained rag off the chair. "Now go shower. You smell like despair."

____

A t A s t o r i a H a l l

Sliding into the car, I braced myself.

There was Aunt Helen, already seated. Her blonde hair—so like my late mother's—framed a face bearing our shared features, but with none of the softness.

Her icy blue gaze flicked over me, her assessing eyes missing nothing. A subtle nod of approval. "Good. You look the part."

The part. Right. I swallowed the urge to roll my eyes.

The drive was smooth, too smooth, like the kind of calm that precedes a storm. Mr. Trevor—Helen's ever-efficient assistant—sat across from me, rattling off names and affiliations with the precision of a well-trained soldier. I recited them back, flawlessly.

It was a game, after all. A high-stakes one. The who's who of the city, the ones I needed to charm, the ones I needed to avoid. I'd already memorized the guest list the moment it landed in my inbox, but Helen liked to test me, to make sure I wouldn't embarrass her.

This was high society's battlefield, and with the presidential election creeping closer, the stakes were higher than ever.

Oh, did I mention Uncle David dearest is running for president?

At least I had the foresight to take Jenna's advice and indulge in a spa day. A brief detox before the impending overdose of fake smiles and calculated conversations.

Helen glanced at me, her sharp edges softening for a brief moment as she tucked a stray curl behind my ear.

"We're almost there," she murmured, then, as if catching herself, her tone returned to business. "Did I mention how stunning you look?"

A compliment from Helen? That was rare. But before I could bask in it, she added, "Now, remember, smile. No matter who you talk to. And for God's sake—don't throw your drink at anyone you disagree with, like you did to the mayor's son"

I scoffed. "That was ages ago."

Her arched brow was merciless.

I sighed. "Fine."

The moment we stepped inside, the grandeur hit me like a well-aimed slap.

Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, casting warm, golden light onto polished marble floors. Gilded accents lined every surface, a silent proclamation of wealth and status. Astoria Hall, the crown jewel of Everston City, was where the elite gathered—parties, galas, and power plays disguised as charity events.

A small part of me had to admit it was breathtaking. But awe didn't serve people like me well in rooms like these, so I schooled my expression into cool detachment.

The guests were already deep in their performance. Glittering gowns, designer suits, laughter that never quite reached their eyes. A masquerade without masks.

Helen's voice dipped into a whisper. "Be on your best behavior."

I bit back the retort. When have I ever not been? I handled these events better than her son, who couldn't even be bothered to show up.

A figure peeled away from a cluster of socialites, gliding toward us.

Celsie Moore.

I recognized her instantly—sharp-eyed, impeccably dressed, old-money elegance. She reached for Helen's hands, all warmth and refinement.

"Mrs. Blake, you look radiant each day."

Helen returned the smile, graceful as ever. "Celsie, it's always a pleasure."

"A shame your husband couldn't make it," Celsie added, voice light, but the probe was there.

Helen, unshaken, played her role effortlessly. "He regrets not being able to attend. Urgent business in Missouri."

I lowered my gaze slightly. Business, sure. But was it really a coincidence that his current mistress happened to live there too?

I almost felt bad for Helen. Almost.

She was here, lifting her husband's political career, keeping their power intact, while he... well, I'd seen enough of these high-society marriages to know how they worked. Money, connections, ambition—that's what held them together. Love was an afterthought.

Celsie's lips curled in satisfaction. "Oh, he must be busy indeed. I've heard some of his policies. We need someone with the vision to keep our economy strong."

Ah. A supporter.

Her gaze finally slid toward me. "And who is this lovely lady?"

Helen placed a light hand on my back, nudging me forward. "My niece, Yara."

I extended my hand, offering a poised smile. "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Moore. I've heard so many things about you."

She studied me, weighing, and measuring. "Hopefully, all good things?"

"All good things," I assured her smoothly. "Though, based on first impressions, I'd say they didn't exaggerate your elegance."

Flattery, when done right, was an art.

Her laugh was light, pleased. "My, she is a sweet girl. I envy you, Mrs. Blake. My children are hardly this charming at her age."

Helen smiled, satisfied.

Celsie turned back to me, suddenly intrigued. "What do you do, dear?"

"I'm studying art at St. Thompson."

Her expression shifted ever so slightly. Interest, not dismissal. A relief. Too many of these people heard the artist and instantly deemed me a wasted investment.

"Ah, an aspiring artist!" she said approvingly. "How wonderful. I do hope I'll have the opportunity to view your work someday."

I smiled, ever the perfect guest. "It would be an honor, Mrs. Moore."

But inwardly?

The night was just beginning, and I already wanted out.

Helen responded mildly, "You won't be disappointed. She's good at what she does."

"Is that so? Now I'm even more intrigued." Celsie's eyes gleamed with curiosity. Then, as if she had been waiting for the perfect moment, she added, "Speaking of art, Lanston's eldest heir showed up tonight."

"I thought he tended to avoid gatherings like this. What's changed?" Helen's tone was sharp with interest.

I blinked, trying to follow the conversation. The name hit me like a weight I couldn't quite place. The Lanston family. Power, money—one of the oldest names in the state. I knew them, of course, their headquarters right in the heart of the city, and Helen's social circles always had whispers about them. But this particular heir? That was new.

"He heard Leonard Rosetti's works are being auctioned tonight," Celsie murmured, voice dipping into intrigue. "He took an interest in them. But that's not the only reason." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "He arrived with Charles."

Helen's gaze darkened. "Hmm. Is he one of Charles' supporters?"

"I can't tell for sure," Celsie admitted. "But it never hurts to be careful."

I wished the waiters here provided popcorn along with champagne. Sure, they didn't exactly pair well together, but the drama unfolding around me made me crave both. Oh, I was a terrible niece—only half-listening to political whispers when I should have been pretending to care. But seriously, who was this Lanston guy?

The small talk dragged on from one group to the next, and unsurprisingly, not everyone was as pleasant as Celsie. My cheeks ached from forced laughter, and my feet screamed in protest from the stilettos Helen had insisted I wear. I zoned out countless times through endless discussions of finances and business acquisitions—topics I had no real interest in. Being agreeable, just as Helen instructed, wasn't difficult, but the air felt stifling. Like a shallow-water fish suddenly wading into the deep sea. The luxuries I had always been provided came with a price, one that drained the life out of me.

After three sleepless nights, this change of scenery was bleeding the last of my energy dry.

As soon as the auction ended, I slipped away, moving toward the only sanctuary in the entire ballroom—the refreshment table.

These people are unreal, I mused to myself. So focused on networking that the best part of the evening—the food—was practically deserted. How could they ignore these goodies?

"Good for me." I picked up a plate, fully intending to pile it high without an ounce of shame. "At least I can eat in peace without getting constipated. If I have to smile one more time, I swear I'll—"

My inner monologue cut off abruptly when I spotted a familiar middle-aged man approaching. His sleazy grin made my stomach churn.

Ugh. Not him.

"Miss Yara, glad to see you here. Looks like I won't have to enjoy these treats alone." His eyes swept over me like he was trying to peel away my clothes. I felt it—cold, invasive—and tried not to flinch. "Any recommendations?"

I almost scowled the words hanging in my mouth like acid. The last thing I wanted was this filthy creep by my side. His leering had been endless, like a shadow stalking me all night. And now, predictably, when I was alone, here he was.

"Gladly, Mr. Harris." I faced him, a smile playing on my lips but sharp as a blade. "I heard someone say the shrimp pastries from this section are a must-try. Will you try some?" I said it sweetly—sugary on the surface but as venomous as a viper's bite.

His face twisted into a pale mask as he accepted the plate, his hand trembling. He glanced at the shrimp with barely veiled panic.

I mentally thanked Trevor for the 100th time for giving me that file filled with useless details.

It was almost amusing how his face changed color as he nervously took the plate from me, barely daring to touch the pastries. "I assume you like seafood and desserts?"

"Right. Who doesn't?" My tone was flat, making it obvious I wasn't interested.

I hadn't even taken a bite myself. I was too tired for food and would much rather sip my wine and escape. But here I was, suffering through it.

"Well, Yara," he purred, voice dipping into that unwelcome familiarity, "I know a nice hotel where we can enjoy... just the two of us."

His breath hit my neck, warm and vile. I stepped back, disgust making my skin crawl.

"Sir," I said, icy politeness coating my voice, "I'm sorry, but no."

His eyes sharpened, his expression shifting into something more malicious. "I don't think you realize. The Blake couple may favor you, but they won't tolerate disrespect toward one of their biggest supporters. Think carefully. This is a rare offer from someone of my caliber.."

I blinked in disbelief. What the hell was this guy saying?

I let out a short, incredulous laugh. Did he seriously think I was some naive girl he could intimidate? "You think I'm naïve enough to be intimidated by you? You won't stop supporting my uncle because of me."

He smirked, inching closer again. "So you do know how things work. Then consider it more of an opportunity. I happened to like you. And as an artist, it wouldn't hurt to have a... patron early."

"Patron?!" My vision flashed red. "You filthy pig, who in their right mind would want an old fossil like you as their patron?!" I heard a stifled laughter somewhere nearby, but I couldn't care less. If I smashed this creep's face in, I'd be doing the world a favor.

Breathe, I reminded myself. Do not make a scene here.

His face twisted. "Pig—You arrogant little bitch! You think you're special because you've got a little bit of attention to yourself?" Without warning, he grabbed my arm, painfully.

I yanked it back, but fear started to creep in alongside my rage.

"Let go," I hissed, my voice low with warning. "You'd get bad press for picking on girls at a charity function." I could already feel eyes on me, I knew they would keep being bystanders.

His eyes gleamed more predatorily feeding off my fear. His obsession was overriding any logic. "You think anyone would care, girl? Not even your uncle will blink if I take you."

His words hit like ice, making the air freeze. But I wouldn't show it. Wouldn't let him see the fear that wanted to curl up inside me.

And then, I did what any rational person would do: I threw my wine straight into his face.

Except it didn't land him.

Instead, it splashed across a face that looked like God himself had perfected it.