More elegant? Was he blind? Everything Isabella did was elegant, and my painting captured that.

Before I had a chance to tell Wentworth to go fuck himself, he asked, “What other paintings do you have on hand?” He turned away to investigate, and the second his back was to me, I rifled a glare at Brandon.

Brandon ignored it. “Christos,” he said pleasantly, “can you show Mr. Wentworth the other paintings you’ve been working on? I know you have several in progress.”

Thanks a bunch of fuck, Brandon. Wentworth started digging through some old canvases I had leaning against the wall like he owned the place. I had to restrain myself from planting my boot in his ass.

“The new paintings are over here,” I said, pointing to the drying rack where I kept the canvases of Avery, Jacqueline, and Becca that I’d completed a few weeks ago. They stood in the tall vertical slots of the drying rack, which kept dust off the paintings while the oils cured. I carefully slid out the first one. “They’re still wet,” I warned subtly, half expecting Wentworth to run his fingers all over the art like he owned it.

Instead, he glanced at the first painting, then nodded commandingly, “Next.”

Yes, master. I slid it carefully back into the rack.

I noticed Frederick answering his earpiece again. “Mr. Wentworth, it’s Madelyn Cornett with Jah—”

“Can’t you see I’m busy, Frederick?” Wentworth grumbled.

“Yes, Mr. Wentworth,” Frederick said before turning away to handle the call.

Whatever Wentworth was paying Frederick, it wasn’t enough. The guy needed a raise. My suggestion would’ve been for Frederick to find another boss, but that was just me.

“Next,” Wentworth insisted, looking at me expectantly.

Man, Wentworth needed an attitude adjustment in a hurry. I’d be more than happy to take him to the garage where I kept my tools and no one would hear him shouting for help.

I slid out another painting. This was of Jacqueline, and I was pretty happy with it.

“No. Next.”

I pulled out the last one.

He shook his head and turned away, looking for new distraction.

What a charmer. And I was doing whatever he said like a servant. Who the fuck did he think he was? I wanted to tell him he could take his money, light it on fire, and stick it up his ass. I didn’t need him. There were other art buyers out there.

Wentworth’s eyes fell on Samantha’s easel in the corner. He walked over to it. Samantha’s painting of three Calla Lilies in a vase sat on it. “What’s this?” Wentworth asked. “It’s not yours, is it?”

“That’s my girlfriend’s painting,” I said.

“It’s terrible,” Wentworth chortled.

He turned away and started walking toward the door before I could respond. He stopped in front of the Isabella portrait on his way out and said, “If you change up your painting of this beautiful young model like I suggested, you might have something with it. Frederick? It’s time to go. Call Couteux Galerie and tell them there wasn’t anything worth my time in San Diego today.”

I ground my teeth together. Wentworth had never once called me by name. He was prick royalty. King of All Dicks. I debated whether or not Frederick or Brandon would turn me in if I beat Wentworth to death and dropped his body in a ditch somewhere.

“Did you see those Calla Lilies?” Wentworth quietly asked Frederick as they neared the doorway leading back into the house.

“I did not, sir,” Frederick replied quietly.

“They were god awful,” Wentworth chuckled quietly.

“Hey!” I shouted at his back. “Fuck you, Wentworth.”

Wentworth stopped in his tracks. He turned around slowly, like an old gun fighter at high noon. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Wentworth. Fuck. You.”

Wentworth blinked. “You do know who I am, don’t you, boy?”

“I do, but not because you introduced yourself like a normal person,” I growled. “You came into my house like you owned the place and you’ve been acting like an entitled dick since you got here. I don’t need to take shit from you. And I don’t need your fucking money.”

Wentworth narrowed his eyes. “Do you think a bunch of curse words and petulant puffery is going to rile me, boy? I’ve watched the likes of you come and go countless times in my life. At the rate you’re going, in twenty years, no one will remember your name. They’ll remember your father’s and your grandfather’s, but not yours. All you had to show me today was nothing but boorish scribbles. You’re not a real artist, boy. At best, you’re a copyist. Your work is lifeless. It has no art to it. Take a page from your father’s or your grandfather’s career, and maybe you’ll make something of yourself.”

“Fuck off,” I scowled. “And get the fuck out of my house.”

“Your house?” Wentworth laughed. “I imagine that your grandfather was the one who paid for this house with his own efforts. Not you. Maybe one day, you’ll amount to something. But all I saw here today was garbage. I’ll forget about you the moment I step into my car.”

Wentworth walked out of my house with Frederick on his heels.

I’d never met a bigger prick in the art business in my entire life. Wentworth not only took the cake, he shoveled his cake down his throat like a glutinous troll. Why had I gotten into this business again?

“What the fuck was that?” I asked Brandon, who stood on the other end of the studio.

Isabella stood between us, now in her robe. She must’ve thrown it on the second I was busy with Wentworth. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to cover up in front of his hungry lizard’s stare. She hugged the robe tightly around herself and shivered, “That man a big jerk.”

Brandon looked torn, like he wanted to rush after Wentworth and lick the man’s asshole until Wentworth scratched him behind the ears. “My apologies, Christos. I’ve never met Wentworth in person. I had no idea what to expect. I should really go talk to him.” Brandon jogged out of the room.

A minute later, I heard car doors chunking shut and an engine starting. Brandon must’ve left the front door open. I heard a car drive off. To my surprise, Brandon walked somberly back into the studio looking defeated.

“I’m going to need a ride back to La Jolla,” he said.

“Huh?” I said.

“We drove here from my gallery in Wentworth’s car.”

I considered telling Brandon he could walk back after bringing that prick into my house. Lucky for him I was in no mood to paint after today’s episode of The Stanford Wentworth Show. I told Isabella she could leave early and asked if she could drive Brandon to La Jolla before she went back to L.A.

She said yes.

When they were gone, I stomped into the living room and grabbed a bottle of bourbon from the bar. It was a forty dollar bottle of Basil Hayden’s. It had a smooth caramel flavor I enjoyed. I wasn’t in the mood for anything too fancy. I’d gotten more than enough high end bullshit from Wentworth already.

I walked out to the deck behind the pool and tipped the bottle back while enjoying the view of the ocean from one of the loungers.

Yeah, I was done working for the day, if not for the month.

There was only one thing on my mind as I worked my way through my bottle of bourbon.

Wentworth was right.

Those paintings inside were nothing more than illustrations. They didn’t have any heart in them.

Wentworth had seen it instantly.

Fuck.

I sloshed more bourbon down my throat.

SAMANTHA

I walked across campus to the lecture hall for Sociology. I was in a good mood after talking to Sheri Denney about my financial aid options.

Marrying Christos?

Was that a real possibility?

I was afraid to think about it too much in case I jinxed myself.

Sociology with Professor Tutan-yawn-yawn was the perfect cure. The lecture turned into a sleepy blur. I may or may not have taken notes. After class, I stopped at the Toasted Roast to freshen up my Americano. I hadn’t slept enough in the past four days, and I was going to need caffeine if I wanted to get through History without snoring.