Chapter 4
The brilliant, neutral white lighting of the gallery illuminated the dust motes dancing in the silent air. Roland approached the demonstration worktable with the slow, measured grace of an apex predator. He looked down at the spilled murky water, the expensive wooden palette dotted with vibrant oil paints, and the high-quality sable brushes resting neatly in their leather roll.
"Stand up, Mavis," Roland commanded softly, without looking back at her.
Mavis scrambled to her feet, her flat shoes slipping slightly on the wet marble. She kept her wet, stained hands held awkwardly in front of her ruined white apron, her fair and rosy face still flushed with a mixture of terror and adrenaline.
Roland picked up a perfectly clean, white microfiber cloth from the edge of the worktable. He turned and stepped back toward the trembling housemaid. With surprising, deliberate gentleness, Roland passed Mavis the clean cloth.
"Dry your hands," Roland instructed, his voice a low, raspy hum.
Mavis accepted the cloth with shaking fingers, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over her eyelashes. "Thank you, sir," she whispered, carefully wiping the dirty rinse water from her fair skin.
Roland then turned his attention back to the table. He reached out with his right hand, the sharp, refined artistic tattoos flexing across his knuckles, and picked up a pristine, medium-tipped paintbrush. He held the wooden handle delicately between his fingers, testing its weight.
He took two slow steps toward his fiancée. Camellia was standing rigidly beside the blank canvas on the demonstration easel, her gorgeous evening gown sweeping the floor. The diamond engagement ring on her finger felt suddenly heavy, like a shackle she could not escape.
Roland stopped inches from her. He extended his arm and offered the brush directly to Camellia.
"Take it," Roland whispered, keeping his volume so low it was almost entirely intimate, yet laced with absolute, terrifying danger.
Camellia stared at the wooden brush. Her breath hitched in her throat. She kept both hands completely motionless at her sides, her manicured fingers curling slightly into the silk fabric of her gown. She did not reach for the tool. The silence stretched, heavy and unbroken. There was no dialogue.
The nearby art buyers, the critics, and the suited Mafia men all watched with bated breath. The tension was a physical force, wrapping around Camellia’s throat and squeezing tightly.
"Roland, this is highly inappropriate," Camellia finally managed to say, her American accent wavering dangerously. "I am the host of this exhibition. I am dressed in couture. I will not perform parlor tricks like some street artist to appease the lies of a jealous maid."
"It is not a parlor trick," Roland corrected, his cold, intimidating eyes locking onto hers, refusing to let her look away. "It is a demonstration of your genius. You have sold three million dollars worth of art tonight, Camellia. The buyers are eager to see the master at work."
May you like
Roland held the brush between Camellia and the blank canvas, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Camellia’s face. The nearest buyers, sensing the climax of the drama, physically turned their bodies toward the demonstration easel, their eyes hungry for the truth.
"Paint me again," Roland commanded, his tone quiet and perfectly measured. "Your buyers are watching."
