“Things happen because you make them happen,” he goes on as if I’m not looking at him like he’s lost his marbles. “I wanted this painting, so I got it. End of story. Maybe next time you’ll know better and not depend on fairy tales and fantasy to get what you want.”
Turning back to the woman behind the desk, he hands over a card with instructions to deliver the painting to the address on the back tomorrow at noon. Then, with a nod in my direction, he walks out, whistling a jaunty tune like the asshole he apparently is.
My arms fall to my sides and my shoulders slump in defeat. The woman behind the desk lets out a low whistle and smacks her lips, mumbling something that sounds like, “Yummy.”
A screech rips up my throat as my fists clench, my fingernails digging into my palms. I give in and stamp my foot, then do it again for good measure.
I know I probably look like a psychopath, but I don’t give a shit. This is bad. Really bad.
I have to go tell Mr. Hatfield I lost his painting. Hopefully, he’ll give me a little compassion and understanding when I explain the man bid way over the spending cap he gave me.
It’s not my fault. There was nothing I could do.
Yes. He’ll understand and chalk it up to bad luck.
Because luck does exist. And mine just took a turn for the worse.
* * *
“What do you mean,you didn’t get it?”
I swallow against the lump building in my throat as Mr. Hatfield’s face turns an impossible shade of purplish-red.
“I’m sorry, sir. The man bidding against me went to thirty-five million.”
“Who was it?” he asks, his complexion clearing slightly. “Perhaps I can negotiate with him.”
“I-I don’t know. I didn’t get his name,” I admit. “Maybe I can call Peltier’s and they’ll—”
His hand slamming down on the glossy wood surface of his desk cuts off my words. I jump a little, hating the tendrils of fear snaking through me. I’m usually a strong, independent woman who can take care of herself, but this man has reduced me to a shivering mess with his blistering anger.
“The auction winners’ names are never released. You should’ve had the foresight to find out who he was before you left, Sophie.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I say again, forcing myself to hold my chin up when it threatens to drop to my chest.
“This is unacceptable.”
A small fire lights underneath me with those words, and I straighten my spine.
“What did you expect me to do? He outbid me at every turn and made it perfectly clear no amount of money was going to stop him from getting his hands on that painting. Even if you gave me double the budget, I wasn’t going to win.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” he grumbles.
“Yes, I do,” I argue. “He told me so after the auction. He said—”
“Wait,” he cuts in, his gray eyebrows drawing low. “You spoke to him?”
“Yes. I tried to convince him to back out. To let me have the painting. For you,” I say, a flicker of hope blooming inside me.
He has to see I tried my best, right?
“You spoke to him, and you didn’t get his name?” he growls, slamming that meaty hand down again. “What are you, stupid?”
I rear back as if stricken. The man is old and crotchety, but he’s never been verbally abusive with me. My tongue darts out to wet my lips as I try to come up with a response.
“Save it. You’re fired.”
“Mr. Hatfield, please. I—”