Unwelcome Assistance

For three days, Isabella ignored the note. She shoved it into the back pocket of her sketchbook, determined to forget about it. But forgetting proved impossible.

Alexander’s words had lodged themselves deep in her mind, resurfacing at the most inconvenient moments—when she was sketching late at night, when she was sipping her morning coffee, when she passed by galleries filled with artists she admired.

Your art deserves more than survival.

Did he really believe that? Or was this just another one of his calculated moves, a game of power and influence he played so effortlessly?

She wanted to dismiss it, to convince herself that Alexander Drake didn’t care about her or her work. But then, on the fourth day, everything changed.

An email popped into her inbox from Eleanor Whitmore, one of the most prestigious art curators in the city.

Isabella almost dropped her phone.

She had spent months trying to get Eleanor to notice her—sending emails, submitting portfolios, even attending events in the hopes of catching her attention. But her work had been overlooked time and time again.

Until now.

The email was brief but direct:

"Ms. Hart, I recently came across your work and find it intriguing. I would love to discuss the possibility of featuring you in an upcoming exhibit. Let’s arrange a meeting at your earliest convenience."

Excitement flared in her chest—but it was quickly drowned by suspicion.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

There was only one person with the power to make something like this happen.

Her hands clenched into fists. Alexander.

Anger bubbled up inside her as she grabbed her coat and marched out the door. Within an hour, she found herself standing in front of a gleaming high-rise office building, the very one listed in Eleanor’s email signature.

She didn’t bother announcing herself. The moment she stepped into the lobby, the sharp-eyed receptionist behind the front desk immediately looked up.

"Do you have an appointment?" the woman asked in a clipped tone.

"No," Isabella said, striding past without another word.

She ignored the calls of protest as she pushed through the sleek glass doors leading to **his** office.

Alexander was seated behind a massive mahogany desk, his expression calm as he looked up from his computer screen. He didn’t seem surprised to see her.

"You had no right," Isabella snapped before he could even greet her.

He leaned back slightly, fingers tapping against the desk. "I assume you’re talking about the curator?"

Her eyes burned with frustration. "Don’t play dumb. You pulled strings to get Eleanor Whitmore to notice me."

His expression remained infuriatingly composed. "I did no such thing."

"You expect me to believe that she just happened to discover my work out of nowhere?" She crossed her arms. "I don’t need charity, Alexander."

He sighed, studying her intently. "It’s not charity. It’s RECOGNITION. Which you deserve."

She wanted to argue. She wanted to throw his help back in his face. But a small part of her—a desperate, struggling part—wanted to believe him.

She had worked tirelessly, poured her soul into her paintings, endured rejection after rejection. And now, when an opportunity finally arrived… was she really going to push it away?

Her voice dropped. "What do you want in return?"

Alexander’s expression turned unreadable. For the first time since she had stormed in, something flickered in his gaze—something she couldn’t quite name.

"Nothing," he said simply.

She didn’t believe that for a second.

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