NEVERMORE : A twist to the tale

“Can you take care of Miss Jenkins?” Emma sprayed her neck with thermal water, stressing out in her sparkly dress. “She’s on her fourth flute of champagne.”

My eyes flitted to the old lady flirting with the servers and abusing the free alcohol below the arches of the old renaissance monument. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. You go do your thing.”

After all, this was Emma’s gala or, more accurately, a foundation created by Ever After in partnership with L’espoir, a children’s hospital foundation. But she was the reason I had a little black evening dress on that made me look like I had all of my life pulled together and, as a bonus, very long legs. At least my crimson lipstick and pulled-back hair didn’t make me look like I’d been to a funeral beforehand.

My best friend seized my hand in a strong grip that almost broke my bones despite her small frame. “You look great, very adult, very formal.”

“I promise I won’t pull an evil, wicked fairy godmother act,” I reassured her, omitting the fact I truly hoped Léo had my back because I had pepper spray in my bag, and I was ready to kick off my heels at any time if a drunk guy tried to grab me.

“I need to announce the beginning of the auction.” She started to leave but turned around as if she had forgotten to tell me something essential and important. Which didn’t reassure me. “Oh, did you know we have a Spectre painting tonight?”

My smile was frigid. That colossal mistake I had kissed was everywhere, haunting my dreams, entering my mind with wild scenarios and unwanted thoughts and questioning. This morning, a driver was waiting to drive me back home, and I hadn’t even seen Spectre since the night we had kissed. Thankfully, he wouldn’t be here tonight—his aura and paintings were more than I could handle.

“Well, I hope he’ll make you earn a lot of money.”

“I hope so too.” Her excitement vanished the moment she bulged her eyes at Miss Jenkins, who was showing something on her phone to the server. “Aurore, can you—”

I lifted my hand and headed toward the old lady. “I’m on it.”

I passed through the crowd to arrive at the buffet with my biggest marketing smile on. “Miss Jenkins, they’re waiting for you backstage.”

She chuckled with malicious glee, whispering to my ear, “They don’t have champagne backstage.”

She was smart, but I was smarter. “Maybe not, but I bet this charming man would accompany you, and between us, there are a few jewels put to auction that you could try on before the other women.”

Her eyes sparkled. I knew how to talk to materialistic drunk old ladies. “Why not keep this information to yourself, then? I’ll choose the most dazzling ones.”

She was serious, and this secretly scared me. Would I end up like that, too, with my temper? She was wearing a funeral dress, and she was antisocial. A potential villain.

“Maybe I want you on my team.”

She laughed. “You make me remember a bit of my younger self.”

Oh dear god.

“I’ll teach you all that I know.” On that note, she complied, and I gestured to the server to help her walk backstage.

I gave a thumbs-up to Emma, who was onstage. She was still spraying her face with thermal water as if she was under a burning sun, her fingers shaking. The gala hadn’t even begun, and it was already promising to be exhausting.

“A flute won’t kill me.” I seized the glass from the bar behind me and swallowed it whole with a grimace. I needed something to help me cope and—

“I think we’ve met. Your face is familiar to me.”

I spat out all the rest of the alcohol I had in my mouth and coughed, wiping myself with the towel that served to keep the champagne cool. I squinted my eyes, trying to place the person behind the voice—it was pretentious, edged, and definitely familiar.

“Right.” This sounded more like a “fuck” as I turned around to see Bernard Dupont-Brillac with a bow tie with multicolored caterpillars and a navy suit. “At the expo, you were the artist.”

Bernard analyzed me from head to toe. “You were with Clemonte. What’s your name again? After that night, I learned the kid didn’t quit and had followed a small meaningless career in art with his troublesome friend.”

On top of that, this asshole didn’t even remember me.

“I’m Aurore. You must be proud as his teacher.” And here I was speaking too much, too fast, instead of shutting my mouth and hiding behind whatever objects I could find.

“Hmm,” he dropped in a high-pitch snort. “He was destined for boredom from the start. It was even a miracle he got accepted there in the first place. A real misfit.” He smiled as if remembering a funny joke. “He didn’t have the artistic gene, so I could never do anything for him. Unfortunately. It’s one of my biggest failures.”

That was actually mean. Really mean.

The kind of discourse I’d heard most of my life: Fairy tales don’t sell. We’re not interested in your work. You have nothing special. I’m sorry I couldn’t love you. So many rejections. So many cracks in my heart.

“Maybe it was your teaching that was flawed.” I gave him back his sharky smile. “But again, I don’t think it was a failed artist’s dream to end up embittered as a professor who’s obviously jealous of his students.”

I slammed the champagne glass on the bar, and Bernard’s eyes widened at the fait accompli that I had a mouth as big as my ego. I had no reason to defend Spectre, yet Bernard’s insults sparked something bitter in me.

“I won’t permit you to say atrocious things to me.” He furrowed his brows, inching closer to me. “Clemonte wasn’t following the rules, wanting to always do things his way as if he was some kind of genius. His art was technically pleasant but so bland. So empty.”

“How was he?” I hated the fact my voice sounded intrigued.

“He refused to paint on an easel. He stooped to draw almost on the ground like a savage wanting to use his own material, and on top of that, his gear was worn-out, as if he had found it inside a trash can. He had no respect for my teaching nor for the other students. He was acting as if no one was in the room. He didn’t care.”

I smiled. I smiled the same way your boyfriend’s parents tell you touching stories of their son during his teenage years. Only, this wasn’t anything like that, so I had to kill that stupid proud smile on my face and the image of the boy from the storage room in my mind. The one with his flyaway hair, tortured gaze, and ripped jeans. A silent outsider.

“One of my paintings is being put to auction right now, so if you’ll excuse me, the failed artist will be the highest bid of the event,” Bernard concluded.

“After Spectre’s, you mean.” And there it was again, my big mouth and that stupid smile. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”

“Are you working here or something?” His look was disparaging.

I cracked my knuckles, chewing my inner cheek. “No, I’m getting auctioned for the cause.”

I thought this would make me sound strong and fierce, but I appeared desperate.

“Oh,” he chuckled, readjusting his ugly bow. “Wonderful.”

I ran away from him to head backstage, wondering how this event could go even more wrong.

“Hi, everyone.” I heard Emma’s shy voice on the microphone, and displayed a grimace, scared she’d pass out in the middle of the scene. She wasn’t at ease, and the stress derailed her voice like a stutter. “Thank you for coming here today to support hospitalized children and the foundation L’espoir. To start the charity event, we have the pleasure of announcing to you that this morning, we received a signed shirt from the football player Darek Smither and two unique pieces of art to be auctioned. One from BDB and the latest piece by Spectre.”

I rolled my eyes instantly, knowing that Spectre’s painting would go for a higher price than me, and BDB would laugh at my certain humiliation.

I was definitely screwed.