Page 37 of House of Sin
“Of course,” I continued, “we’ve already begun discussions with them. Pulling out now wouldn’t be simple, and frankly, Mr. Bennett, if you want Elona’s time, you’ll have to make it worth it to her.”
Mr. Bennett turned toward Elona, his expressionpale.
“Miss Elona . . .” he said, voice softer now, almost pleading. “I was wrong, I see that now. Your work. . . it’s extraordinary, and if you’ll allow it, I’d be honored to feature it here. To featureyou.” He hesitated, as if weighing the cost of humility. “I can’t change what I didn’t see before. But I’d like the chance to make it right.”
Elona blinked, still catching up to the moment. She drew a steady breath and met Mr. Bennett’s gaze, her voice clear. “I’d be honored to have my work featured. But I’ll need to see if our values and ideas align well enough for a working partnership. Please feel free to write up a proposal with numbers, and I’ll get back to you.” Then her eyes found mine, a silent thank-you passing between us, her lips curling into the faintest, grateful smile.
I winked at her, pride in my chest nearly bursting. The tables had turned.
We walked together toward the door, Elona’s fingers brushing the handle.
“You go on ahead,” I said gently. “I just need a word with Mr. Bennett.”
She stilled, her hand lingering on the copper. “Birdie—”
“It won’t take long,” I assured her, shaping my voice into something warm, something that would have passed for harmless, if she didn’t know me as well as she did. “Go.”
She searched my face, trying to find the truth hidden in the smallest corners of my expression, but exhaustion weighed heavier than suspicion. She was too worn down by the fight, by the emotions spent over these past few days, that whatever questions lingered, she let them go. And after a beat, she nodded, before slipping outside.
I waited.
One heartbeat. Two.
Until the echo of her footsteps thinned and vanished into silence.
Only then did I turn the lock.
Click.
When I turned back, Mr. Bennett was already watching me, his posture no longer the easy, curated poise he wore just seconds ago. His gaze flicked toward the door behind me before returning to my face.
“Miss Bernadette. . . ?” He asked, uncertainty in his voice.
I didn't say anything. Just watched him, studying every shift in his expression before I moved. Each step carried me farther into the center of the gallery, my heels soft against the pristine floors.
“Elona might forgive your poor manners,” I said at last, my voice level, smooth enough to mimic kindness if one didn’t listen too carefully. “But I don’t operate on forgiveness.”
His throat bobbed, the movement betraying his unease. “I think,” he began, choosing each words carefully, “there may be a misunderstanding. I’ve already expressed—”
“No,” I interrupted. “You’ve performed an apology.” A faint smile touched my lips, though there was no warmth in it. “There’s a difference.”
He moved behind the wooden counter, his eyes narrowing as he recalibrated, searching for a way out of this. “What exactly is it that you want from me?”
I tilted my head, considering him the way he might consider one of his acquisitions—assessing composition, searching for flaws, wondering where the structure would fracture first if enough pressure were applied.
“Interesting question,” I murmured.
Above us, the gallery lights hummed awake, spilling a harsh, headache-bright glow across the room. I drifted toward one of the white walls, stopping just close enough to catch the faint ghost of my reflection in the varnished surface of a framed piece.
“You didn’t reject her because she lacked talent,” I continued, my tone almost conversational now, as though we were discussing something as mundane as brushstrokes or framing. “You rejected her because you thought her value was determined by the color of her skin.”
“That’s not—”
“It is,” I said softly, cutting him off. “And what you did—what you relied on—was the assumption that she wouldn’t come back.”
His expression tightened, the words catching somewhere between offense and exposure. “What are you implying?”
I turned then, meeting his gaze fully, and let him see, really see, that whatever pretense had existedbefore was gone now, stripped down to something far more honest and far more dangerous. Mr. Bennett shifted, the movement small but telling as I stepped toward him, my heels striking the floor.
