The Billionaire's Wife (2 page)

Now, the Brightman Gallery was a modern space with crisp white walls and rich hardwood floors. The art was supposed to add the color, the richness that the bare bones design philosophy shied away from, but whenever someone announced that they were hosting a show at Brightman, the assumption was to come in your most avant garde designer threads, professionally applied makeup, and without a hair out of place. The paparazzi frequented the area, hoping to snap photos of the rich and famous who played art critic for the night. It was a living representation of vast, empty wealth. Beautiful and alluring and awe inspiring at first glance, but when you looked closer, there was little substance.

Alicia's face flashed in my head. The immaculately set table with glittering silverware. The phony smiles. The plates that looked like something out of a culinary magazine but were somehow cold and flat. Nothing more than a photoshopped image.

I blinked rapidly when the event organizer, Tyler Radin cleared his throat beside me. I was lucky he went conservative to capture my attention and didn't cuss me out for wasting his time. Don't be fooled by his appearance—he reminded me of a walking Ken doll with his golden hair and skin and impeccable blazer and slacks. But he was ferocious when it came to planning events that people talked about months later and that kind of skill came with a huge price tag and an even bigger ego.

"Sorry," I said with a sheepish grin. "What were you saying?"

His blue eyes narrowed indignantly. "I was under the impression you were eager to put on an art show that wowed the city. That you were here to work-"

"So let's get to work," I interrupted before he went into full on scold mode. I knew he was booked solid but made an exception for Whitmore and Creighton, and to show my gratitude I was zoning out, bringing my personal drama to work. I gave him the most apologetic look I could, short of dropping to my knees and begging for forgiveness.

He flicked his hand through his wavy locks and until he spoke I wasn't sure if he was dismissing my apology or letting me off the hook. "Let's just get to work. We're both very busy people." And with that he glided to the center of the space. He stood silent for a moment, his eyes taking in every square inch. He cradled his chin, his lips a pensive line as he moved to one of the blank walls. "How many pieces will she have?"

"Ten."

He let out a low whistle that echoed around the room and made me bite back a retort. It was a sound filled with skepticism. Disbelief. I'd heard the exact same sound countless times when I reached out to members of the local art scene. It was obvious no one believed that the woman who blew thousands on drug and booze-filled benders could get it together long enough to create something worth anything. I had to remember that we were starting from square one. The world didn't know what Jessica Lenoir was capable of.

Yet.

Tyler made a frame with his fingers, then made a slow circuit around the room. He had a look of contentment on his face, completely in his element. "Ten will do quite nicely.
If
there are ten pieces available."

"There will be ten pieces here on Friday," I assured him tightly. I marched to where he stood, in the center of a circular nook that I thought would work well as the bar area. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking if she can't manage to get herself to a 1pm appointment to discuss her show, I'm not sure how confident I am that she can deliver."

I couldn't argue with that. Jessica had confirmed the meeting this morning and I thought she'd sounded like she was turning a corner and was taking this image overhaul seriously, but the only one doing any turning was Tyler. There was no call, no text, and no Jessica. While Tyler would know better than anyone how maddening it was to deal with difficult clients it wasn't my job to confirm Jessica's party girl image. It was my job to disprove it.

"
When
Jessica arrives with the canvases, you'll see just how serious she is. And how talented."

He let out a second grunt and the two words he didn't say repeated in my head over and over again.
Yeah right
. "For both our sakes, and my reputation, I hope you're right."

"So walk me through this," I said, quickly trying to change the subject and make up for Jessica by giving Tyler my full attention, ready to bask in the vision he had. I wanted to find out how he’d take four blank walls and turn it into something that would show the world there was more to Jessica than parties and private jets. "How are you going to transform the space?"

"Without seeing the paintings, it's hard to fully commit to any vision," he said with a frown.

"I've seen some of the paintings," I offered. "It's all very guttural and raw."

"Guttural and raw," Tyler murmured, tapping his chin thoughtfully. There was a spark of the artist that came highly recommended in his eyes when he faced me. "Expanding on raw—I think we need to do something bold. We have to take their breath away as soon as they step through the door. Reds, greens, orange. Warm. Powerful." He gestured for me to come with him. We backtracked to the doorway. "Picture this: you walk in and you're immediately hit with a sea of multicolored, multi sized vases. No flowers in the vases—her works will bring the life. The organic beauty of art." He strode forward, his voice animated. His excitement clinging to every word. "Instead of just having the canvas hung against the walls I want to bring in these over the top, exquisitely ornate frames. Jessica Lenoir isn't just some hobbyist. Her work is royal. Priceless." He held both arms out, inches from the wall. "I want her collection stretched along this space, each piece having a purpose, the order telling her story. I want this area in front lined with chaises and throne like chairs. I don't see this show as some communal experience. I want the attendees to be in awe of her talent. Introspective. It should be a powerful and very personal experience."

I pushed my curly locks behind my ears. "I've only been to one art show so I'm certainly no expert, but I thought it was supposed to be a collective experience. A celebration of the artist?"

"A celebration?" Tyler scoffed. He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. "A celebration is likely the reason Jessica is MIA. A party is what everyone would expect. We need the focus to be on her work. We need to show her guests that she takes this seriously and is a force to be reckoned with." He took a breath, swiveling back to the door like he was expecting Jessica to breeze into the room with her canvases hot on her heels and an apology in tow.

I let out a sigh and pulled out my cell. Just as I was about to ask Tyler to give me a moment so I could chew Jessica out in private, the buzzer cut me off. When Jessica's voice oozed from the intercom, Tyler and I exchanged looks. There was a part of me that just accepted that she wasn't going to show up at all. And even though I thought we had a minor breakthrough, when she stepped out of the elevator I still expected her to look fresh off the pages of the supermarket tabloids that loved to document her frequent downward spirals. If she had it together, why wasn't she taking this process seriously?

The coin was flipped though and the Jessica before us was the picture of poise. She had tied her chestnut, sun kissed hair into a ponytail, gentle curls spilling over her shoulder. A shoulder that wasn't bare because she was still wrapped in a few feet of designer fabric; a scandalous cocktail dress that turned all kinds of heads last night (and this morning, but for a totally different reason). Her dress was the color of the darkest night sky and dainty pearls twinkled in her ears.

She graced us with a megawatt smile, rushing toward me like we were the best of friends. "Sorry I'm a little late-"

"A little?" Tyler huffed. "A little late would have been 25 minutes ago." He listed off her offenses. "No call or text or attempts at communication because you're the only one whose time is valuable.  Oh, and no artwork-"

The buzzer sung a second time and Jessica gave Tyler a smile so sweet I expected his teeth to rot and tumble to the floor. "And that would be the paintings."

Tyler showed the slightest flash of amusement before he extended his hand toward her. "I've heard lots of things about you, but I had no idea you were so full of surprises."

"How funny, because I haven't heard a thing about you." There was no humor in the smile on her face. It was the look of someone who knew they were the one with the real power. At the end of the day, Jessica's success or failure was up to her. But like me, Tyler wasn't the help. And when he turned on his heels and booked it toward the exit, I dashed after him.

He didn't stop until he hit the stairwell, like being in the same room with her made him physically ill. He started down the steps, his movements as fluid and purposeful as before but I saw his eyes and knew he wasn't nearly as over it as he pretended to be. "I don't care if she's the Queen of England," he spat over his shoulder. "I won't be disrespected. If she stumbles across some manners and the drive to put in work, you have my number."

I watched him go, knowing there was no point in trying to talk him into staying. He was stubborn.

Kinda like me.

Like Jessica.

I buttoned my blazer and cleared my face of all emotion. The frustration, the anger, the disappointment. It was the reaction she was fishing for. It made her feel powerful to affect people. To play games. She'd get no satisfaction from me.

I reentered the room as silent as a ghost. Jessica was near the walls, staring at it intently like she could see her work hanging there. She even reached out and brushed it with her fingertips. She yanked her hand away like she'd been electrocuted when two burly men came in with her entire collection in their arms. They lined up each canvas and grunted their goodbyes leaving just me, Jessica, and her heart poured onto each piece.

She picked up the one she'd been working on the last time we saw each other, cradling it like one would hold a baby. "I am sorry that I'm running late," she murmured. She lowered it to the floor with care and righted herself. She cut her eyes at me, waiting for me to say something. Yell. React.

I just stood there, watching her.

"You don't believe me?”

I shrugged my shoulders. "It really doesn't matter what I believe. I'm not the one you have to convince, Jessica. I see your potential—but it doesn't mean anything if you don't see it."

She whirled to face me, any calm or rationality out of the question. "Is this some sort of reverse psychology bullshit? Where I'm horrible to you and you tell me you see my potential? Tell me there's hope for me?" She shook her head so fiercely it made me grit my teeth. "No one sees my potential. No one sees me but my dad."

"And me."

She bit her bottom lip, nostrils shuddering wildly as she fought to keep her tears at bay. "How?"

"Because you showed up." I moved to the canvas that first showed me that Jessica Lenoir was tragically wasting her potential. I picked it up and stood beneath the recessed lighting. Even in the dark you couldn't hide the passion she put in every stroke. The same passion that burned in her eyes when she talked about claiming her birthright and running her father's company.

"You make me want to pull my hair out more times than I can count, but I believe in you, Jessica. It wouldn't frustrate me so much if I didn't see that you could be amazing. That you're a strong, driven woman." I put the canvas back. "But you keep sabotaging yourself and until you figure out why, you'll never be able to show the world what you're capable of."

She shied away, transforming before my eyes. The confident, obnoxious role she played was forgotten. As much as I wanted to grasp this straw, hold on to this moment of vulnerability, I decided to try a different tactic. I'd let her open up to me on her own terms. I could tell her that she was capable of doing great things, being so much more than the box everyone put her in, but none of that mattered if she didn't believe it.

"It started off as the only way I could get his attention. Business was always first-" she paused for a second, her eyes widening. "But it wasn't like that. He didn't neglect me. He loved me. But for a long time, I felt like I was competing with one hand tied behind my back. And then I got caught up with a guy and some scandalous pictures were taken and my dad dropped everything. He was abroad and he flew home immediately to check in on me and minimize the damage." She twisted a lock of hair around her finger, lost in memories, millions of miles away. "I started doing it so often that it became routine. It became what was expected of me." She dropped her hold on her hair and met my gaze, blow for blow. "That's not who I am. I..." She winced. "I owe that guy an apology, huh?"

"Yep," I answered without missing a beat. "And he's exactly what we need to make this show a night to remember, so apologize effusively."

She arched an eyebrow in obvious displeasure in having to kiss ass, but this was the price she had to pay.

She stepped out in the hallway like she couldn't stand to have a witness to her shame. I took another look around the room with a quiet smile on my lips.

It was going to be one hell of a show.

I
wasn’t remotely looking forward to date night with Jacob.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be with him, and get out of the apartment. The apartment was suffocating with all of the things we didn’t say to each other. My lips were pursed together so tightly in an effort to honor his request to not talk about Cole. He hadn’t touched me besides a chaste kiss here and there for days. I hadn’t even reminded him about the dinner to avoid an argument.

Megan and I had set up this double date deal a month ago. Before Cole. Before this mess. And I was expecting to walk through the door and Jacob would be in no mood to be friendly.

But there he was, leaned against the bar. Looking sexy as hell in a onyx colored button down shirt and jeans that made me want to peel them off with my teeth.

God, I missed him.

He'd been keeping his hair longer in the front, smoothing the ebony locks back. It made him look more serious, more dangerous. Now Jacob's hair spilled across his forehead. More casual. Playful—but it was just as dangerous. Dangerous because he looked so carefree and open. I know it was just a few inches of hair, but there was something about that look that made me want to be close to him.