“No,” Brandon said, “Everything has sold. Your father’s, your grandfather’s, all of it. Well, everything except one.”

I could only assume Brandon meant my painting. It was the obvious one not to sell. Spiridon, Nikolos, and Christos were world famous artists with reputations. The Manos family had a painting legacy, and people wanted to buy a piece of their fame to hang on their walls while it appreciated in value. I was just the girlfriend. I doubted anyone actually wanted my painting. Sure, it made for a good story to go with Christos’ life sized portrait of me, but that was all.

“Which one hasn’t sold?” Christos asked.

I grit my teeth in preparation of the news. I’d get over it. One day, I’d sell a painting at an art gallery show. Just not tonight.

“Yours,” Brandon said.

That’s what I thought. Oh, wait. Was he talking to me, or Christos?

Christos said, “You mean Samantha’s painting sold?”

Brandon scoffed, “Of course Samantha’s painting sold. I sold it five minutes after it was unveiled.”

“What? No way!” Christos blurted.

Okay, my brain must have broken, because I think Brandon just said my silly little fantasy landscape had sold tonight.

Brandon nodded and grinned at me and Christos.

“How much did it sell for?” Christos asked.

Brandon’s smile peeled back charmingly and he said, “Twenty-seven thousand.”

I slapped my hand over my wide open mouth, stopping my broken brains from rolling right out.

Christos grinned at me and rubbed my back affectionately, causing a shiver to run up my spine. “I knew you would,” he said.

“I didn’t!” I said, flabbergasted. “You know what this means?”

“What?” Christos asked.

“I’m going to be able to pay my tuition next year!” I hopped up in the air with my arms over my head. “Yes!”

Christos hugged me and kissed me. “Congratulations, agápi mou. It was only a matter of time until you started selling. Didn’t I tell you that when we first met?”

“You did!” I said gleefully. Wow. I couldn’t believe it. My dreams were coming true like I’d never imagined!

I was definitely the luckiest girl in the world tonight!

* * *

CHRISTOS


“So, Brandon,” I said, turning to face him, “which painting hasn’t sold tonight?”

“Your portrait of Samantha as the fiery angel,” he answered.

“Oh,” Samantha crooned. “I’m sorry, Christos. Your painting of me is so beautiful. I would totally buy it, if I could afford it. Would you take twenty-seven grand for it?” She winked at me.

“Thanks, agápi mou,” I said reassuringly. “Save your money for your tuition. Besides, if no one buys my portrait of you, I’ll fucking keep it,” I smiled. “I put my heart into it.” I glanced behind us at the eight foot tall fiery angel winged Samantha portrait hanging on the wall. “Yeah, I would never get tired of looking at it. It’s the real you, agápi mou, the one I see every time I look at you, the one other people don’t always realize is there.”

“Oh, Christos,” Samantha sighed, “I love you so much.” She leaned into me and hugged me around the waist.

“I love you too, agápi mou,” I said and kissed the top of her head. “Hold on a second,” I blurted, suddenly realizing something. “Brandon, did my LOVE portrait of me and Samantha sell too?”

“Yeah,” Brandon nodded. “For half a million.”

“What?!” Samantha blurted

“Yes,” Brandon’s smile widened. “You heard me right. A half a million dollars.”

Samantha clapped both her hands to her face, “Oh my god! I can’t believe someone bought a picture of you and me nude!”

I grinned at her, “Believe it.” I turned to Brandon, “So, who bought it?”

Brandon’s eyes flashed and he looked away momentarily. “It was, uh, an anonymous buyer.”

I could tell Brandon was hiding something. “Anonymous?” I said sarcastically. “It’s not like we’re selling porn or drugs. You can tell me, Brandon.”

Brandon shook his head seriously, “I was given explicit instructions not to reveal the buyer’s identity under any circumstances.”

Samantha said, “Now I’m totally curious.”

“I can’t tell you,” Brandon shrugged. “It was in the terms of the contract.”

“Terms?” I asked. “It wasn’t Stanford Wentworth, was it?”

“No,” he chuckled.

“Who’s Stanford Wentworth,” Samantha asked.

She’d been spared the torture of enduring Wentworth’s visit to my studio that day he’d said I needed to change up my paintings because they were shit, and had said Samantha’s Calla Lily oil study was awful. Thinking about him now, all I wanted to do was punch his face in then rub it in the pile of money I was making tonight. Then I heard Russell Merriweather’s voice echoing through my head, “No. More. Fights.” I smiled to myself.

Brandon said, “Stanford Wentworth is one of the richest art buyers in the world, Samantha. He can make someone’s career if he buys their art.”

“Oh,” she said, “That sounds like a good thing.”

“He’s also a prick,” I said. “I don’t want his sorry ass owning my art. I’m doing fine without him.”

Brandon said, “What if I told you he put in a bid on your portrait of Samantha?”

“No shit,” I chuckled.

“He did,” Brandon said.

A smug smile spread across my face, “I guess he changed his tune about my art.” Knowing it gave me a delicious sense of satisfaction.

“Wentworth was one of the early bidders. Once the other buyers started driving up the price,” Brandon smiled conspiratorially, “he was mysteriously unable to get any more bids through to me.”

I grinned back at Brandon. Wentworth had been a prick to him that day at my studio, too. Brandon was blocking him out of the bidding process. Wentworth had a bit of a reputation as a star maker. He would sweep up an artist’s early work, before they were famous, and hold onto it. This would drive up demand on the artist’s work, at which point Wentworth would often sell it for a hefty profit. Fuck him. He wasn’t going to make a dime off my sweat. He’d had his shot that day at the studio and he’d blown it.

“So, Brandon,” I asked, “what’s the status on the bidding?”

“Actually,” Brandon smiled smugly, “It’s turning into something of a heated battle. Two people here tonight have insisted the painting must be theirs, and four other buyers on the phone are calling me every five minutes to find out if they need to raise their bid or not.”

“I hope none of the people on the phone are agents of Wentworth’s,” I said.

“No,” Brandon said, “I know all of them well. We’re in the clear. Wentworth will walk away empty handed after tonight.”

I nodded approvingly.

“Wow,” Samantha said, “If you’re turning buyers away, that means you’re totally popular, Christos!”

“What’s the bid up to?” I asked Brandon.

He grinned, “One point five million.”

“Holy shit!” Samantha blurted.

I felt the same way.

Brandon’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at it before turning to me, “Another bidder calls. The price keeps climbing. I’ve got to answer this,” he smiled as he walked off, holding his phone to his ear.

“Christos, that’s insane!” Samantha squealed. “You’re making so much money tonight!”

“You are too,” I said.

“I know,” she smiled. “Twenty-seven grand! I can’t believe it!”

“You’re making a hell of a lot more than that.”

Her brows narrowed, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m splitting whatever I get on my portrait of you, and the LOVE portrait of both of us, with you.”

“What?! That’s crazy. Those are your paintings! I can’t take your money!”

“What do you mean? I wouldn’t have either painting if it wasn’t for you. All I’d have is a self portrait of myself and some paintings of Brandon’s L.A. models. I don’t think there’d be a million dollar bidding war over any of them. You made both paintings special, agápi mou. You, Samantha Anna Smith. Because you’re my girlfriend, you’re in the paintings, and you’re an amazing artist in your own right. This is the stuff art history books write about a hundred years from now. The whole story, the whole package. Us. You and me. Without you, I’d be the third Manos. With you and your art, I’m something special.”

“I don’t know, Christos,” Samantha frowned, “it’s so much money.”

“So what? It doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

“I can’t take your money, Christos,” she sighed.

“Why not? Let me put it another way. What if I’d painted a portrait of you, spent maybe two or three hours on it, and sold it for, say, two hundred bucks. Would you split the money with me then? I get a hundred for painting it, you get a hundred for modeling?”

She frowned, “I guess.”

“So what’s the difference between that and this?”

“Hundreds of thousands of dollars!” she blurted.

“No,” I shook my head adamantly, “That shouldn’t make any difference. Do you think just because more money is involved you deserve less?”

“Well, no, I guess not.”

I nodded, “In any fifty-fifty partnership, each person gets half, right?”

“But you’re talking about more money than I’ve ever imagined,” she said nervously.

“So what? Don’t undervalue yourself, agápi mou.”

“It’s just so much money,” she sighed.

“Half of it is still yours,” I said. “But if you really don’t want it…” I didn’t know what else to say. Maybe she’d change her mind later.

Romeo appeared out of nowhere and said, “I’ll go halvsies with you on your painting of me, C-Man.”