I glare down at the man who swore to the gods that my paintings would achieve a five-figure sums at auction. He’s a greasy little slug with beady black eyes that he conceals beneath pink sunglasses. 

Gerard Lafayette sits primly in his gilded chair, pouring himself a cup of tea. Rings adorn each of his fingers, including his thumbs, each of them probably costing the sum he promised me for my art. 

“What else can I tell you, Ms Kay?” he drawls. “I can only sell paintings for what the buyers are prepared to bid.”

My hands curl into fists. “But you promised me a ten-thousand dollar reserve—”

“Did I?” His eyes widen in mock surprise, and he opens a drawer and pulls out some papers. “Where, precisely, does it say on the standard contract that Gallery Lafayette guarantees such a lofty sum?”

I snatch the papers from him and scan the wording, only to find a page at the back with the schedule of commissions. Any artworks sold for over ten-thousand would result in a fifteen percent commission. The reserve price he told me during the gallery tour isn’t mentioned. 

“This isn’t what we agreed,” I say.

He tilts his head and smirks. “It’s not my problem if you failed to employ legal counsel to dissect the terms of our agreement. Consider yourself lucky to have sold anything at all in this declining market.”

My blood simmers at his condescension. “But five-hundred dollars isn’t enough to cover the cost of my time and materials.”

He takes a sip from a gold-plated cup and raises his pinky finger. “Like I said. New artists seldom reach princely sums.”

That’s not what he told me last month. In fact, Gerard Lafayette invited me to one of his auctions, where every painting sold for at least twenty-five thousand. Hell, all the starting bids were five-figure sums. 

I’d been looking forward to watching my painting sell for small fortunes at tonight’s auction, only to find that they weren’t even on display. When I asked if he’d decided not to include my art, Lafayette had told me they were already sold… for a fraction of what he’d promised. 

“Give me back my paintings. I’ll sell them online myself.”

His brows pull together, and he stares up at me as though I’ve just asked him to hand over the Mona Lisa and all its preliminary sketches. 

“What?” I snap.

“Ms. Kay, you signed a contract with Gallery Lafayette, and the paintings are now sold. You can’t just take them back.”

The contents of my stomach roil with frustration. I can’t believe I fell for his underhanded practices. He never once mentioned selling my work in a second auction. 

My gaze darts around his office, finding sculptures and smaller paintings stacked against the wall but no sign of my huge canvases. I glare down at the gilded tea service with steam still rising from the pot, realizing how this asshole can afford such beautiful antiques.

“I told you,” he says. “They’ve already been delivered to the buyer and before you ask, Gallery Lafayette is not at liberty to divulge their identities.”

Tears burn the backs of my eyes and fury burns my blood. All those months I spent cleaning the police precinct to pay for studio time and materials, all those sleepless nights I sacrificed toiling on my paintings, only for my efforts to get wasted on a scammer.

“I’ll sue,” I say.

Lafayette snorts as though he hears that threat every day. His beady little eyes glimmer beneath the pink sunglasses, eager for my next move. 

“Then just give me my money,” I snarl. 

He tilts his head. “Did you not read your contract?”

“Fifteen percent commission, right?” I pull out my phone, fire up the calculator app, and talk through the numbers. “You sold five paintings at five-hundred. That’s two and a half grand. Minus fifteen percent is—”

“Two thousand one hundred and twenty-five,” he drawls, “But your contract states that all artwork sold under ten thousand is also subject to a commission of twenty-five percent.”

I gulp. That amount might just cover last month’s rent, but I was really counting on the auction to pay off a few debts.

“Alright then,” I rasp. “I’ll take cash.”

Lafayette wags a finger. “There’s also a fixed fee of five hundred.”

My jaw drops. “Five… What?”

“Every auction incurs expenses, Ms. Kay. Marketing, staff costs, utilities, refreshments, shipping, etcetera, etcetera. Gallery Lafayette would go broke if we didn’t impose a fixed fee for low-level transactions. It’s all in the contract.”

I glance down at the schedule of payments spread across his gilded desk. The five hundred dollar fixed fee didn’t concern me at the time I signed the contract because Lafayette promised me a reserve price of ten thousand. He never said anything about stabbing me so blatantly in the back. 

Before I can form another protest, he adds, “And that’s per item.”

Realization kicks me in the gut. I’m beyond screwed. 

“You’re telling me I owe you?”

He nods. “A twenty-five percent commission on five paintings sold for five hundred dollars per piece plus the fixed fee of five hundred dollars per item comes to three thousand, one hundred and twenty-five dollars. I’ll take cash.” 

The fury simmering in my belly reaches a boiling point. I clench the edges of his desk with so much force that my knuckles turn translucent. How dare this slimy little man smirk at my distress. If he thinks he can make me pay for the dubious privilege of selling my artwork in his gallery, he’s as deluded as he is ugly. 

“My boyfriend’s a police detective,” I blurt, my stomach twisting at having to bring up my asshole ex. “I can report you for fraud.”

“Is he also incapable of reading and understanding contracts?” Lafayette asks.

Bitterness rises to the back of my throat. Jim would laugh his ass off and side with the smug bastard. 

“Every artist in New Alderney is about to know how you scam the vulnerable,” I say, my voice low. “I’m going to document this on every social media platform until you and your shitty gallery gets canceled.”

His smirk fades, and he rises from his seat in an attempt to look intimidating. My lip curls. At five-ten, Gerard Lafayette is exactly my height. With his double chin and the paunch stuffed beneath his tailored suit, he looks pathetic.

“Nobody will believe the word of a bitter artist with such minuscule talent,” he snarls.

I force myself not to flinch, but his eyes glimmer at having hit a raw nerve. 

Jim used to tell me on a daily basis that my paintings were shit. That real artists painted recognizable subjects like sunflowers or girls wearing pearl earrings. 

“That’s right, Ms. Kay,” he says, his smile widening. “Your work reached five hundred dollars because the market doesn’t reward mediocrity. I gave you a chance because you looked like the kind of artist who would do anything to succeed. I had an entire business strategy worked out to help you reach your goals, but you chose to be an ungrateful cunt.”

My fury reaches a boiling point and the edges of my vision turn red. Fingers tightening around his desk, I upend the entire thing with a scream. Pens, papers, teacups and trinkets clatter to the marble floor, making Lafayette jump back.

As I walk out into the gallery, he screeches something about calling the cops. The crap on his desk probably cost more than everything I own but I don’t give a damn. I’m tired of men treating me like I’m nothing more than an asset to be used and discarded. 

The next asshole who fucks with me will get more than just a scalded dick.