Page 7 of Pretty

I spent three years in depression over someone who hadn’t deserved it. Beginning tomorrow, I would live again—on my own terms, no excuses and no apologies.

I would never trust a man or a friend again. She had been my college roommate, a dear friend of mine. Fuck friends. Fuck love. Fuck forever and happily ever after. With friends like that, who needed enemies?

ONE WEEK LATER

The smile pasted on my face wasn’t heartfelt. Art was my craft, passion, and first love. Yet, I didn’t care for the socializing Lauren believed it took to remain successful. Hell, I’d made enough already that if I never sold another painting or wanted to paint a day in my life, I would be okay. The life insurance policy I had on Cassius with me as the sole beneficiary had more than taken care of my needs and my future, and I hadn’t touched my own income.

I glanced at the pianist and local jazz singer, thinking that I’d rather be at an inner-city school teaching impoverished youth and nurturing the inherent skills found in some students. Instead, I had flown to Naples, Florida, for a gallery showing with the city’s “elite.”

At the last minute, Lauren called and advised that the owner had changed it to a masquerade ball. The gallery was donating the proceeds they made tonight back to the city’s art program for their schools. I had agreed to make a sizable donation as well.

I moved through the crowd, standing behind people and listening to their commentary on my work, pretending to be just another patron of the arts. I had missed this. In the last three years, I had spent my life in mourning, and I should have been out here thriving on my first love.

Lauren was the only person who knew who I was, and she was beelining toward me. Thanks to my late arrival, I had managed to avoid her most of the evening. Before I could escape, she grabbed my arm.

“Pretty, girl, there’s someone here that you must meet!” Lauren exclaimed, looping her arm through mine.

“Isn’t there always?” I muttered, pressing my lips against my wineglass and rolling my eyes.

“You’re impossible, sis. Behave yourself.” Lauren scolded me, never losing the smile pasted on her face as we approached some middle-aged white man from behind.

Clearing her throat, Lauren addressed the man who turned around slowly. “Pretty, this is Will Nevels, an art connoisseur and chief curator for the Modern Museum of Art in New York. Will, this is Pretty Mercier, the woman who created this beautiful piece. Pretty, Will is looking for something for his . . . personal collection,” Lauren explained.

“Miss Mercier, not only has your art captivated my heart, but your beauty has as well,” he remarked as he reached for my hand and kissed it. “I’m pleased to meet you. This brilliant work of art you have created is hardcore. It’s intriguing, bold, and edgy without being apologetic.”

“There was nothing to apologize for.”

“Perhaps not, but I would love to have it for my private collection. May I know more about it? The inspiration and motivation behind the painting? I’m sure the story is compelling.”

“It’s nothing as inspirational or as deep as you may be hoping for in the story, Mr. Nevels. It’s⁠—”

“Please, call me Will,” he replied. “I think it’s true pain that inspired this painting. If not, why title it Light after the Rain?”

“Well, the rain had been pounding down on the city for several days in a row. When that first spark of sunshine came out, it felt like the city was free to live again. I’m sorry, but that’s it,” I declared as I stood and tugged my dress over my hips. I had painted that in a manic state. It was the day after I discovered Cassius’s betrayal. I painted from sunup until sundown, and that creation had been born. Just like I wanted to get rid of everything pertaining to Cassius, I had to get rid of the painting. I had only painted it to purge him from my heart.

“Well, won’t you let me be the judge of that?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I replied as I glanced at his hand on my wrist and then back at him again.

“Can we have a conversation somewhere private?”

“I really need to get back to the other guests tonight, Mr. Nevels.”

He moved his hand from my wrist to my elbow, and I struggled to free myself.

“There you go, baby. I’ve been looking for you,” a deep, commanding voice spoke from behind me. It sent a comforting warmth throughout me, yet it aroused me at the same time.

Relief flooded my insides before I even turned around. I glanced over my shoulder to take in a tall, muscular, dark-skinned man, the complete opposite of my late husband. With the menacing, jet-black eyes staring through the mask and the frown on those full downturned lips, he made an intimidating and imposing presence. I found it hard to pull my gaze away. Though Mr. Nevels cleared his throat, the man’s eyes remained on me.

“Hey. I thought you got bored and went up to our room,” I declared, playing along.

“Never that, gorgeous. You think I’d leave you for the vultures to have their way?” This time, he turned his gaze in Mr. Nevels’s direction.

The man extended his elbow, and I placed my hand in the crook of it.

“Mr. Nevels, it’s been a pleasure speaking with you,” I lied.

He nodded briefly, but he wore a distinctive scowl. I knew he was trying to figure out who the man was. All of the guests had been trying to identify each other tonight.