Page 6 of Vow Of Fire

The newspaper would be read by the well-heeled women of the Upper East Side and Tribeca while they lunched on niçoise salads and drank lattes at the gourmet coffee bars. I wasn’t about to refuse.

I posed and smiled like I’d done a hundred times before, until they’d gotten their shots.

But it hadn’t always been like this.

Ten years ago, I’d been a college graduate with no job offers, just a burning desire to succeed. I loved art, I knew I wanted to exist in that world, but I didn’t want to be a struggling artist. So after a few years traveling around Europe, I’d taken what money my parents had left me and bought this place. I’d secured a loan based on my capital investment and purchased my first painting.

“Mateo Reyes owes his astounding success to you, doesn’t he?” the reporter asked.

“He owes it to his remarkable talent,” I corrected, giving a small grin.

“But you were the one who discovered him?” She wanted some commentary for her article.

“That’s right. I saw his work on a scouting trip a couple of years back and instantly recognized his potential,” I told her. “I offered to represent him on the spot.”

“And then he exploded onto the New York art scene,” she noted.

“It’s well deserved,” I said, smiling.

Apart from being a great earner for me, he’d also brought a ton of new business to the Agora. My exhibitions were sleek, selective, and sold out. The Agora was my masterpiece, made of other people’s genius. The irony made me smile.

The man who’d been hovering before the photoshoot came up to me.

“Ms. Cruz, this is just breathtaking, but I have to admit, you look every bit as lovely tonight as the paintings.”

I cringed. Like I hadn’t heard that one before?

Forcing a smile, I was relieved to see Mikhail Orlov approach.

“Mikhail, I’m so glad you could make it.” I turned to him, holding out my hand.

The Russian art aficionado took it and kissed it, deliberately ignoring my admirer. There wasn’t much that got past Mikhail.

“Evelyn, you look lovely tonight.”

“Thank you.” I shot him a grateful smile.

Disappointed and overshadowed by the elegant, well-dressed Russian, my admirer moved on.

“I can’t stay long.” He lowered his head. “I just wanted to put a reserve on The Fire Within. Sergei was most insistent.”

I nodded and beckoned to Chloe. “Of course. I’ll see to it right away.”

Sergei Malakov, the Russian oligarch for whom Mikhail worked, was a very good customer, and not many people could afford to pay the price of one of the exhibition’s largest pieces.

“Thank you.” He accepted two glasses from a passing tray and handed one to me.

Chloe hurried over. “Mr. Orlov, how lovely to see you.”

“I’ll leave you in Chloe’s capable hands, Mikhail,” I said, touching his arm. “Please give my regards to Sergei.”

He bowed his head. “Of course.”

The evening passed in a blur of champagne-fueled deals, good conversation and carefully performed charm. Mikhail had left after placing his client’s very generous offer, but everybody else seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.

“It’s a good thing we ordered those extra bottles of the Veuve Clicquot,” Chloe told me, an eye on the server.

“It’s a good thing you did,” I corrected her. I couldn’t take credit for that.