Page 35 of House of Sin
He leaned back, shifting his gaze to my hands as if inspecting them for signs of weakness. “Your style of work is ... unique, certainly. But, Miss Elona, as we discussed before—” his eyes lowered once more, settling on my hands in a way that made me feel small “this is an exclusive space. A space for the finer artists, for those whose work appeals to a very specific clientele. Your. . . style of work is striking, but perhaps. . . it doesn’t quite fit the image we’re looking for.”
I could feel it now, the familiar sting of rejection. It was all too clear: My art, my voice, my identity didn’t fit into the carefully curated world of refined taste he championed. He wasn’t looking at my work, at the raw, unapologetic power of the women I drew. He was looking at me, at who I was and what I represented. And I was, in his eyes, an outsider. My voice remained calm, though my chest tightened with frustration. “What exactly do you mean by ‘doesn’t fit the image’? I thought you wanted authentic, powerful art that challenges the viewer. That’s what I’ve brought foryou.”
This time Mr. Bennett’s lips curved into a sly smile. “It’s not about authenticity, Miss Elona, it’s about refinement. The people who visit this gallery. . .” He paused, his voice dripping with condescension. “They expect something different. They expect something. . . more palatable.”
I could feel my jaw tightening, the words already forming on my tongue. “You don’t want to display my work because I’m Indian.” I said quietly but firmly, my voice cutting through the pretense.
Mr. Bennett faltered for a moment but quickly regained his composure. “I wouldn’t say that, Miss Elona. It’s just a matter of what fits with our gallery’s. . . vision—”
“Stop.” I stood up, unable to stay seated any longer. My portfolio felt like stone in my hands, his rejection settling deep, but I kept my expression steady. “I’m not here for your polite lies. I’ve seen your ‘refined’ art before. It’s all the same: a white canvas, a clean line, something easy to digest. My women are not easy to digest, but they’re real, and you’re afraid of that.” The room shrunk down to an airless box but I fought the suffocating feeling.
Mr. Bennett made a nervous, uncertain noise. “It’s not personal, Miss Elona. I’m merely trying to help you understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” My voice came out steady, even if everything inside me wasn’t. “I never needed your help.” I straightened my back, lifted my chin, and turned toward the door before he could say anything else. By the time I crossed the gallery, I was fighting back tears.
Outside, the cold hit hard, wind slicing across my face and sucking the air from my lungs. I huddled deeper into my coat, dragged in a breath and trying to steady myself, but it only made the burn behind my eyes worse. Mr. Bennett’s belittling words whispered of an age-old truth: In a world built on polished privilege, my people, the bright threads of my heritage, wouldalways be deemed unworthy by men like him.
21
WORTH THE TOUCH, NOT THE NAME
ELONA
Islipped inside The Oily Cat with my shoulders already tight, my boots hesitant on the floor. I kept my head down, tracking the familiar lines in the wood, hoping muscle memory might kick in and save me the effortof pretending.
It didn’t.
Golden light poured through the space, soft and honeyed, the kind that should have felt like home, but instead, it brushed over me too knowingly, too bare—like it could see every doubt I carried in with me and refused to let me hide. I kept walking anyway, the strap of my bag pulled tight across my shoulder, fingers locked around it hard enough to leave dents. My sketchbook pressed against my ribs, but it didn’t steady me the way it should have. If anything, it made it worse.What if I’m worth nothing at all? What if my art is trash?The thought came uninvited, curling inward, and my chest tightened until breathing felt like an effort.
The day had dragged its claws across me. I’d walked into the gallery with my best dress and a head full of maybes. But that hope had been shattered with every passing moment. The soft, dismissive glances, the polite but hollow smiles, capped off by Mr. Bennett’s cold words:Your work doesn’t fit our image.It stayed with me, that moment, lodged somewhere inside my chest. I’d been turned away before, it wasn’t new, but today it felt like a punch in the gut. I had knownit was coming, of course. People like me, people from my world, never got the same chances, never were seen as worthy. The gallery had only confirmed what I’d always known: I wasn’t their idea of art or beauty.
Upstairs, the girls were already slipping into their nighttime selves—heels clacking, corsets tightening, voices rising and falling. Violet’s laugh curled down the staircase, followed by Maeve’s edgier one, and I didn’t need to see them to know the scene: perfume clouds, painted lips, someone fussing with a loose curl in the mirror as if it mattered more than air. Their noise made it easy to slip past the saloon unnoticed. I didn’t look toward the mirrors; there was no point. Whatever version of me had once reflected there had already unraveled somewhere between Mr. Bennett’s smile and that damn gallery floor. I just kept moving, head down and bag clutched. My heart was still trying to pretend it wasn’t broken open and leaking all over the floor.
Behind the bar, I slipped out of my coat, revealing the black lace gown underneath, the one I saved for nights when I didn’t want to be looked at like a meal. It draped over me loosely, brushing my skin withoutasking much of it. It wasn’t the kind of dress that drew much attention, yet, I could still feel like something worth looking at, without giving myself away.
One by one, the patrons slipped through the door, coats damp from the fog, pockets heavy with expectations. I moved the way I was supposed to—sipped the drinks, offered the smiles, touched an arm here or there like it meant something. It was muscle memory more than anything. My grin held, but it pinched at the corners. My voice lifted when it needed to, light and warm, like sugar stirred into something bitter. They laughed and I laughed back. I even moaned when the moment called for it—soft, practiced, without a drop of pleasure behind it. Just another part of the performance. Something in my throat that sounded like me, but wasn’t.
BERNADETTE
I noticed immediately, of course. Elona was distant and had seemingly detached herself from what was happening around her. Her eyes were glassy, her movements sluggish. I watched her from across the room, my eyes narrowing in concern. The brothel was winding down, the night bleeding out slowly, and the air had that stale, used-up feel. Most of the men had already slunk off into the dark, and the girls were slipping out the front door one by one, bound for their homes and whatever peace waited there for them. But Elona stayed behind in the lounge, alone, with ahalf-empty glass of whiskey perched before her. Her eyes looked through the room, distant and unfocused, while her fingers traced the rim of the glass.
Unable to stand the sight of her slipping further into that empty space, I eased across the room, my boots barely making a sound on the worn floorboards. Settling down beside her, I found the edge of the armchair, close enough to catch the faint heat she gave off, but careful not to cross the fragile line she’d drawn around herself. Leaning forward, elbows resting heavily on my knees, I kept my voice low. “Elona, what happened?” The words carrying urgency and concern.
She offered no reply, simply blinking slowly as if trying to muster the strength to speak. When her eyes finally met mine, there was a raw vulnerability there, a spark that hinted at both pain and hope. But almost as quickly as it came, that tenderness was replaced by a hard, guarded look. “Nothing,” she whispered flatly, the word scarcely audible, “just a bad day.”
I frowned, “Don’t give me that. You’ve been moving around like someone just trampled your heart.”
Elona’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “I’m fine, Birdie, really. It’s just the usual shit. People like me don’t get to do things like that,” she said, a dismissive flick of her hand toward the artwork that hung above the bar. She recounted her jeering dismissal from the gallery, a place where her work was never given a fair glance.
She continued, nearly inaudibly, “I shouldn’t have tried. I knew exactly how it would end.” Each word bore the quiet ache of a lifetime measured in doors slammed shut and chances never given.
My own frustration flared as I leaned in closer. “I don’t care who ‘they’ are, Elona. You deserve more than to be trampled on by folks who see you as less because of where you come from or the color of your skin.” My tone was fierce, a protective blaze ignited by years of watching her fight. Her eyes widened briefly, and in that instant, I saw her vulnerability mixing with a deep, unspoken fury. She steadied her voice before uttering, “You don’t understand.”
Gently, I reached for her hand, offering something solid in the storm she was caught in. “Maybe I haven’t walked your path,” I said, “but I know what it is tobe treated like you don’t matter. I’ve seen you shine, Elona. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone make you feel anything less than brilliant.”
A tender, fragile smile began to glisten on her lips, a spark of relief and hope breaking through the gloom. “Thank you, Birdie,” she whispered. “I really needed that.”
I gave her hand a firm squeeze, “Anytime, darlin’.”
