Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79438 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79438 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Still hoping for a miracle, I go into my chat with my mother, but there’s nothing about the lunch.
It’s one thing being forgotten by my friends, but to have my own mother forget about me hurts like a bitch.
Letting out a sigh, I drop my phone on the desk so I can get back to work. I look at the four paintings Ridge bought from a late estate.
He still hasn’t made time to talk about my collection.
Needing to take my anger out on someone, I get up and walk out of the basement. With every step I take toward Ridge’s office, my anger grows.
I knock, and not waiting for an answer, I push the door open.
Ridge is sitting behind his desk, and Ivy, his PA, is comfortable in one of the chairs across from him. They’re laughing about something, but it’s cut short when they see me.
“Lillian,” Ridge says, lifting an eyebrow at me. “Why are you barging into my office?”
Ivy gathers up their empty sandwich wrappers and coffee cups and places them on a tray.
“I should get back to work,” she excuses herself.
I shut the door behind her, then turn my attention to Ridge. “I’m done waiting, Ridge. Are you going to look at my collection of paintings, or should I take my work somewhere else?”
“I don’t like ultimatums,” he mutters, a displeased expression on his face. “You know this is a busy time for the gallery. We have exhibitions scheduled up until December.”
There’s time for everyone else – just not me.
Nodding, I let the reality of my situation sink in. Nothing I say will make him look at my artwork.
I nod again, and locking eyes with him, my voice is filled with determination when I say, “I’ll email you my resignation letter.”
Done with this place, I yank his office door open and hurry away from the man who’s kept me waiting for far too long.
“Lillian,” he calls, and I hear him coming after me. “There’s no need to overreact. I’ll look at your collection in January.”
I spin around and level him with a glare. “That’s five months from now, Ridge! Five!” Done playing the waiting game, I shake my head. “You can find someone else to repair your paintings and sculptures. This is not what I signed up for.”
His features tighten with anger, and his eyes narrow. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
The bastard!
Feeling close to tears for all the time I’ve wasted here, I rush to the basement, grab my personal belongings, and hurry out of the gallery.
When I started working at ART24, Ridge promised my art would be considered after a three-year probation period. Stupidly, I thought he’d keep his word.
I fight the urge to cry until I reach the safety of my apartment, where I slump down on a couch.
I’ve given that man three years of my time.
I rest my face in my hands as the tears come, feeling utterly miserable.
What am I doing with my life?
At twenty-five, I’m still living in my father’s apartment. I only have an investment account to my name. Oh, and paintings only one person has seen.
My anger flares up again, and I shake my head as I wipe the tears from my cheeks. “I’m done with everything.”
Getting up, I walk to my art room, and sitting at the desk, I open my laptop to create a plan of action. I’m taking control of my life.
Find somewhere I can hire a stall to sell my art.
Move into my own place.
Create a portfolio of my collection to show galleries in and around NYC.
Talk to my parents about how they treat me.
Looking at the short list, determination fills my heart. I open Google and start to research weekly and monthly markets where I can sell my art.
I’ve spent the entire afternoon making a list of places to contact about hiring a stall.
Tomorrow, I’ll look at apartments.
Wearing my usual jeans and T-shirt, I head to my parents' house for dinner. They always complain about how I dress, and sometimes I make an effort, but tonight is not the night.
When I reach their limestone mansion in the Upper East Side, I knock on the front door. I wait a while before knocking again, and it takes a few more seconds before the door opens.
“Oh, hi, sweetie,” Mom says, a smile forming around her lips. As always, not a hair is out of place, and her makeup is perfect.
Dressed in a cream skirt and matching coat, she looks like she’s going to work and not having dinner with her husband and kids.
“Hi, Mom,” I say as I enter the house.
“Everyone’s in the dining room. We started early because your father was hungry,” she informs me.
Right.
When we walk into the dining room, I notice Sadie’s plate is already empty.
This is the last thing I need after the day I’ve had.