Page 36 of House of Sin
Elona sat a little straighter now, her eyes clearer. But as I sat beside her, watching her fingers still nervously trace the glass rim, something cold settled in my gut. They thought they could dismiss her. Like she was nothing more than a girl with charcoal on her hands and too much ambition in her eyes. Like talent had to come wrapped in silk and pedigrees to be considered worthy. I wasn’t going to let that stand.
So, while Elona sat there trying to swallow the bitterness of the world, I made a quiet vow: They were going to see her. And they were going to remember her name.
22
THE ART OF REVENGE
No one ever says the rules out loud in a town like this, but break them, and you’ll know them fast enough. Mr. Bennett never cared about the lines he crossed; he thought people like Elona were just background noise, forgettable. But today wasn’t going to be a quiet day. Today was the reckoning, and I was done waiting for justice to show upon its own.
Mr. Bennett, the self-styled king of the art world in Butte, paraded around in his poorly tailored suits, his nose always tilted upward as if he was above everyone else. I had watched Elona walk out of the brothel after she told me about her experience at the gallery several nights ago, her eyes still red with disappointment and something shattered inside me. I couldn’t let it go, not when I knew that there was still a fire burning inside her, that her work was demanding to be seen.
The gallery gleamed with its sterile, godly aura: a temple of exclusion. White walls, pristine floors, paintings hanging at regular intervals. The space was like an imitation of art, perfect in form, yet empty in substance. He had rejected Elona without even sparing her a second glance, blinded by his own warped views.
I walked in like I owned the place. The black portfolio under my arm held the essentials, but it was the power of my presence that would do the real work. Mr. Bennett stood next to one of his latest exhibits, incrementally adjusting the already perfectly straight painting. The moment I cleared my throat his eyes cut toward me with surprise.
“Miss Bernadette,” he said, his voice dripping with forced politeness. “What a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you today.”
I let a smile curl at my lips. “Oh, I’m sure you weren’t,” I said, my voice honeyed with a hint of sting, “but I’ve come to show you something. Something ... quite extraordinary.”
Mr. Bennett’s gaze moved to the portfolio under my arm, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, and that gleam of curiosity was all I needed. He straightened, his posture shifting like a dog that decided the scent was worth the chase. “What’s that?”
I shifted forward slightly, my tone purposefully tantalizing. “A collection of charcoal drawings, portraits of women. Stunning work, Mr. Bennett, I’m sure you’ll appreciate them.”
The skepticism still lingered on his face, but it was slipping. “Hmm, I see. Well, we’re not exactly taking new submissions right now—”
I cut him off smoothly. “Oh, I’m not submitting, Mr. Bennett.” I said the words slowly, savoring the power in them. “I’ve been told that my friend’s work might be better suited to a ... private collection.” Iplaced just the right emphasis on “private collection,” the words sliding from my tongue like an invitation to an exclusive, unspoken world. His eyes brightened. “Well,” he said, his voice low, “I’m intrigued. Show me.”
I pulled the portfolio out from under my arm, opening it slowly. His face, usually so smooth, betrayed the slightest hint of hesitation as he peered down at the first drawing. The charcoal portraits jumped to life with a depth that made even the sterile gallery feel too confined. The women in those portraits had power, grace, and vulnerability, the kind of presence that couldn’t be ignored. His fingers hovered over the first page, skimming the surface as though unsure how to touch something so real.
“These are. . .” he faltered, voice filling with surprise, “remarkable. The depth, the shading, the realism. . . it’s incredible.”
I waited, my eyes fixed on him, knowing exactly what he was thinking. I could see the wheels turning in his mind, the internal struggle between his own rigid biases and the undeniable quality of the work in front of him. I let him stew for a moment, enjoyingthe silence. “I’m glad you see it.” I said, my voice oozing with just enough sweetness to make the venom underneath that much more poisonous. “The artist who created these ... she’s truly extraordinary.”
Mr. Bennett nodded, his posture tightening as his mind kicked into overdrive. “Yes, yes, these could be the next big thing. We should feature her in the upcoming exhibition; this could make a name for her.”
My lips curved into a knowing smile. “I’m sure it would,” I said, measuring each word. Then, casually, “But you see, I’ve already reached out to another gallery in Bozeman and they’reveryinterested.”
His eyes narrowed, just slightly.
I turned toward the door. “Still,” I added, glancing over my shoulder, “if you'd like, I’ll go ahead and get her.” Before he could answer, I was already moving, pulse quickening with a simmering satisfaction. I didn’t need to look back to know his gaze was still on me.
Stepping outside, I found Elona waiting, her shoulders slightly hunched, uncertainty clinging to her and the sight tugged at me. Beneath that hesitation, I saw what so few ever did: a quiet brilliance, and a strengththat didn’t shout, but endured. She was so much more than anyone, least of all Mr. Bennett, could ever begin to understand. I placed my hand gently on her elbow, guiding her forward. “Come on,” I said softly. “Let’s show them what they’ve been blind to.”
Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Birdie, I . . . I can’t. I’m not—”
“You can,” I said gently, but with absolute conviction. I smiled, pride unmistakable in my eyes. “You can do anything, Elona. Now go in there and make him regret ever treating you as anything less.”
I opened the door wide, ushering her inside like a queen stepping rightfully into her palace. Mr. Bennett’s eyes flicked up, meeting Elona’s, and for a brief, taut second, his face twisted in disbelief. Apparently he couldn’t quite reconcile the woman standing before him with the artist he had only just begun to appreciate.
“You mean ...” His voice cracked. “She’s the one who created these?”
I stood behind Elona, my gaze fixed on Mr. Bennett, watching the realization dawn on him. “Yes, Mr. Bennett,” I said, relishing the moment, “she’sthe one. But I believe you’ve met before?” I took a step forward. “Now, perhaps you’d like to discuss that exhibition?”
There was no hesitation this time, no arrogance, just stunned silence. Then Mr. Bennett cleared his throat, struggling to recover from the full impact of his own ignorance. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke. “I ... I had no idea. Please, Miss Elona, we would love to feature your work.” He gestured to the portfolio. “I must have these.”
“Well,” I said coolly, “the Bozeman gallery didn’t seem to have any issue with the color of Elona’s skin. It made no difference to them, only the art mattered.” I let that sink in, then added, “And really, that’s what a true gallery is meant to be about, isn’t it? The work, not the artist.”
His mouth opened, then closed again.
