Chapter 2: The Terms of Debt
The sleek black car waited at the curb like a predator stalking its prey. Aria hesitated on the steps of the art gallery, her stomach a tangled mess of nerves. Lucas Blackwell's terse instructions replayed in her head: "Meet me outside once you're done cleaning up the mess you made."
The gallery staff had been surprisingly kind despite the chaos she'd caused. Maybe they pitied her. After wiping down the ruined canvas and enduring whispers from onlookers, Aria had no choice but to face the man whose icy stare had been etched into her mind.
The car door swung open, and Lucas's voice drifted out, smooth and commanding. "Get in."
She gritted her teeth, squared her shoulders, and climbed in. The plush leather seats enveloped her, and the faint scent of cedarwood filled the air. Lucas sat across from her, his expression unreadable as the car pulled into traffic.
For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the engine. Aria clenched her hands in her lap, her mind racing with questions she didn't dare ask.
Lucas broke the silence first. "Do you even know what that painting meant?"
"I know it was expensive," Aria said cautiously. "But it's more than that, isn't it?"
His sharp gaze pinned her in place. "It belonged to my mother," he said, his tone clipped. "It was the last piece she painted before she died. No amount of money could replace it."
Her breath caught. Guilt crashed over her like a wave. "I—I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Sorry doesn't fix anything," Lucas snapped, then sighed, his expression softening slightly. "But you're not walking away from this."
Aria straightened, determined to salvage what little pride she had left. "I said I'd repay the debt, and I meant it. What do you want me to do?"
Lucas leaned back, his fingers steepled under his chin as if calculating her worth. "You're an artist, aren't you?"
"How did you—"
"Your hands," he interrupted, nodding toward her paint-stained fingertips. "You don't have the hands of a server."
Aria hesitated, caught off guard by the observation. "I am. I mean, I want to be. I'm not...professional or anything."
A ghost of a smirk tugged at Lucas's lips. "You're going to work for me. You'll paint for my private collection and assist with restoration projects."
Her brow furrowed. "Restorations? I don't know how to—"
"You'll learn," he said curtly. "I'll provide the resources, but failure isn't an option. If you mess this up, I'll make sure you never work in the art world again."
Her pulse quickened at the threat, but she refused to let him intimidate her. "Fine. I'll do it. But I have terms too."
Lucas raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Do you now?"
"I want this to be temporary," she said firmly. "Once the debt is repaid, we go our separate ways."
His gaze flickered with something unreadable—amusement, maybe, or perhaps approval. "Agreed. But until then, you're under my control."
The car slowed to a stop in front of a towering glass building. Lucas opened his door, pausing to glance back at her. "Welcome to Blackwell Enterprises."