by K. K. Hendin
“And needs to be more exclusive than any other showing has been,” Cedar continued. “This needs to be more exclusive than Will and Kate’s wedding, which was not nearly exclusive enough. Not to mention they filmed the whole thing, which was a fucking tacky move. People should want to sell their souls to us in exchange for an invite.”
“So, I should cross off half of the original list of people we were going to invite?” Cecil asked, phone out, typing as fast as he could.
“Obviously. Go through and do the preliminary crossing off, and then send it to me and I’ll finish it up and send it back.” Cedar took a sip of coffee and made a face. Coffee wasn’t nearly strong enough for today. “We need to leak something to the media about the showing. Let me think about what exactly that should be.”
“Ellis being there is going to be a given, isn’t it?” Cecil asked.
“Yes,” Cedar answered, rolling her eyes. Sometimes he really was useless. “Depends on who’s going to be coming in the end. But definitely a media leak, by the end of the week at the latest. Approving all pieces for the show. Raising the prices for all the pieces, because they’re tribute pieces for Harold. The extra proceeds will go to a scholarship fund for an artist of our choosing, in Harold’s memory.”
“Harold wanted that?”
“Harold had too many things on his mind to worry about things like the art gallery and scholarships. But it’s good PR, for Harold, for us, and for Ellis, and so we’re going to do it. Highly publicized and everything.”
“What happens if the artist isn’t magazine ready?” Cecil asked.
Cedar laughed. “Then they won’t win, will they?”
“I suppose not, then.” Cecil typed faster. “And the scholarship is going to be announced at the showing, right?”
“Exactly. Hmm. Maybe invite some discrete journalists so the scholarship news will spread appropriately. Some of them are already on the list, so we’ll keep a few of them on the list of invites. But nobody who will get a big head over it, because we don’t need any of them getting too comfortable here. Background checks on any that will be there, and approval of outfits before the day of the showing.” Cedar examined her nails and tsked. “And call Margarita to come in, will you? My nails look like shit.”
“On it.”
“Good. Now send in Jenny, please. I have to have a little talk with her about the rotating door she calls a vagina.”
“Should I tell her that part?”
“Hell, no. I want that satisfaction for myself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Cecil.”
“Sorry. Cedar.”
“Good. Go.” Cedar turned to her computer as Cecil rushed out of her office.
Fire lit under Cecil’s ass, check. About to sew Jenny’s vagina shut, almost check. She would have rolled her eyes, but she tried not to indulge in eye rolling all that often. Why the fuck wasn’t Jenny taking this job seriously? She should be kissing Cedar’s ass from here to next century. She didn’t deserve the job. She was nowhere near good enough for this job. But Cedar could be nice on occasion, especially if that occasion would result in her looking good. Jenny was a PR diversity case, plain and simple. And she was not living up to Feingold Gallery standards.
There was never more than one warning meeting for gallery employees. You were given one warning, and from then on, you were on probation. For as long as you continued to work there, whether it was another day or another year. And if you were ever given a warning, the chance of you getting a raise anytime soon was slim to none.
Nobody fucked up at the gallery. Nobody. That wasn’t the kind of place that Cedar ran.
There was a knock on the door.
“Yes,” Cedar drawled.
“It’s Jenny, Cedar.”
Cedar straightened in her chair, and smiled a smile so terrifying Jenny would have peed her pants if she had seen it. It wasn’t a society smile. It was the smile of a predator. And Jenny’s time had come. “Come in,” she said.
Cecil may have sometimes been a pain in the ass, but he was efficient, and that was why Cedar kept him on staff. By the time she had finished tearing a new hole in Jenny’s ass, he had emailed her with the potential updated invitation list, as well as information about the scholarship, a rough draft of the information that would be on the website, as well as a prototype of the potential website. And Margarita would be there in twenty minutes.
“Too accessible,” Cedar said over speakerphone. “That looks like a shitty government scholarship website, or Holly Hobby’s scholarship. This doesn’t scream Feingold Gallery, and it needs to. People need to be afraid to apply. And this website does not scare anyone except for me. Which is not the damn point.”
“I’m sorry, Cedar.”
“Don’t apologize, just fix it.” Jesus. Cedar clicked off speakerphone and opened an email from Seven Dale, one of the artists who was shown at the gallery, and Cedar’s occasional fuck buddy. He had sent pictures of his new piece of work, and it was quite something. Enormous, given the measurements he had included in the email. And Cedar knew that Seven didn’t lie about measurements, ever. An enormous canvas, collaged with different pieces and parts of Harold’s life. Cedar didn’t ask how Seven had gotten a brick from Harold’s first home, but she wasn’t going to ask. It was enormous, it was a little crazy, and it was entirely perfect for Harold’s memory.
And she was going to sell it for a shit ton of money.
“Cedar, Margarita’s here for you.”
“Send her in. I’m sending you Seven’s email about his piece. We need to make sure the truck we send to pick it up is more than big enough. Ask him which way he wants it to be sent over so you can figure that out. And call the calligrapher. I need to meet her here either today or tomorrow.”
“On it,” he answered.
Good. He damn well better be on it.
Margarita clicked into her office. “Good afternoon, Ms. Reynolds,” she said in her soft, polished English accent.
“Good afternoon,” Cedar answered, eyeing Margarita’s outfit with approval. She had insisted that Margarita wore clothing that blended into Cedar’s office, not stood out. She was in Cedar’s employ, and she was going to damn well dress like it. And today she did. And unlike her housekeeper, she didn’t give Cedar a blank look when she was asked to do it.
Margarita dimmed the lights, and then handed her two cucumber slices for her eyes. Cedar flicked her phones onto silent, and flipped them over. Barring a fire or any other life-threatening disaster, nobody was to bother Cedar. Nobody.
Things were moving along for the showing, as they damn well should. Cedar expected only perfection, because this was not a night that she was going to fuck up. She had more than the rights to sink her fingernails into Ellis Carrington, and nothing was going to stop that. As much as she had hated her fucking father, the fact that he had been a retired military man came in handy during times like this. A plan was nothing without a strategy, and while thankfully Cedar hadn’t inherited much from her horrible parents, she had inherited her father’s excellent strategizing skills.
No, it wasn’t Iraq or Afghanistan or any other dirty Third World countries, but this was important. Maybe even more important than all those stupid little wars were. The Feingold fortune was nothing to sneeze about, and it was nothing to ignore. Cedar knew what was going on behind closed doors in Harold’s office. He bankrolled a hell of a lot more different companies, politicians, godfathers, dictators, and criminals than people would think. Even the people who thought they knew Harold.
He had had the power to start and stop wars, to change laws without blinking an eyelash if it so suited him. He was almost singlehandedly responsible for both the reason the war on drugs started, and “winning” the war on drugs. Nothing stopped Harold, and nothing ever affected him too horribly. When you bet on both sides, you always won. And Harold would always bet on both sides.
Which was all well and good for him, but why the hell had he left everything fo
r Ellis? Cedar gritted her teeth. Harold had made the decision years ago, and hadn’t changed that part of the will since. He had a reason, but she didn’t know what it was. And it annoyed the hell out of her.
Cedar breathed out slowly, letting her scowl smooth out. No need to let something like that make her have to get work done earlier than she had planned.
“Finished, Ms. Reynolds,” Margarita said quietly.
“Okay.” Cedar didn’t move. “Tell Cecil to give me ten minutes.”
“I will. Thank you, Ms. Reynolds.”
“Anytime, Margarita.” Cedar leaned back as the door closed behind her. Ten more minutes, and then she was going to deal with all the shit on her to do list. Not to mention the crap ton of things she had to take care of, anyway.
The showing was going to blow everyone’s minds. Her name was Cedar Reynolds, and Cedar Reynolds would never host anything that was less than spectacular.
Oh, shit, she had to find a dress. “Cecil, call Ronaldo and tell him to come in ASAP.”
“Sure, Cedar.”
Cedar stretched, and turned over her phones. She would relax after the showing. There was no time now.
She pulled out a remote and pushed the button that pulled out the Smart Board she had installed in her office. Shit was getting serious, and she thought best on paper. Or whiteboard, as it was.
“Ronaldo should be here in twenty with a dress selection,” Cecil called.
“Inform him that this dress needs to blow everyone’s fucking minds.”
“I did. He’s had designers calling him all week for this event. A few have made dresses specifically for this event.”
“As they should.” Cedar pulled out her markers and headed to the Smart Board. “I need to see what you’re going to be wearing.”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Call Ronaldo and tell him to bring Cohen, too. You need a new suit. There’s no way you’re wearing something you’ve worn already.” Cedar pulled up her to do list onto the board and turned on music. “You’re my assistant, and you’re going to look fucking amazing.”
“On it.” Cecil came in carrying a tray of food. “Lunch is here.”
“I’m busy.”
“I brought you a juice.”
“Good.” Cedar stood back, lips pursed, staring at the board. “What am I forgetting?”
“The caterers have been called, but you haven’t okayed the servers yet,” Cecil said, handing her a bottle of green juice.
“Shit, I haven’t yet.” Cedar added that to the board.
“I emailed the company and asked for pictures,” Cecil said, taking a sip of his own green juice and making a face. Whatever diet or cleanse that Cedar did, he was roped into it, too. And this week it was green juice, which would have tasted a lot better with a heavy hand of vodka.
“Good.” Cedar leaned back. “We’ve finalized all the art pieces, and made sure that nobody shows up drunk. The press is prepped, all pricing has been finalized.”
She turned to Cecil. “And all the staff is going to be there.”
“Iris just told me she’s pregnant,” Cecil said.
“Fuck. When is she due? And who the hell is the dad?” Cedar had no time or patience for babies. Or pregnant women, for that matter.
“She’s ten weeks pregnant.”
“She better wear a hell of a lot of Spanx, and after this, she’s going to be regulated to the back offices. No more showings until she’s back from having a baby and losing the weight.”
“Should I start looking for a replacement?”
Cedar shrugged. “Probably. Fuck. What happened to her saying she wasn’t going to have any babies until she was thirty?”
“I’m pretty sure it was an accident.”
“Then why doesn’t she have a fucking abortion?” Cedar added another few items to her to do list. “That’s still a thing she can do if she’s only ten weeks.”
“She wants to keep the baby,” Cecil said.
“Ruin her career while she’s at it.” Cedar shook her head. “Where the fuck is Ronaldo?”
“On his way. They just buzzed him in.”
“Good.” Cedar sent a quick email, and put down her phone.
The showing was in a week. Nothing was going to go wrong, and Cedar was going to do everything she could to make sure that happened. Regardless of how legal or not that it would be.
Wearing suits was not a thing Ellis liked to do. This one was a hell of a lot more comfortable than any of the ones he’d worn before moving to Manhattan.
Ellis shifted in his seat in the limo, and tried to stay calm. This was his first public event as the heir of the Feingold fortune, and he was scared shitless. In an art gallery? Ellis knew basically nothing about art. It was never something that interested him, or anything that he particularly had to care about. But he owned part of this gallery, and according to the research his new assistant had done for him, it was the gallery that every artist in the country wanted to be shown at.
He had to say, Feingold really didn’t skimp in any part of his business. Even the gallery, which had started out as an ego project, and not a money maker. The expenses from the gallery were staggering at times, but the amount of money that it brought in was equally staggering.
Ellis pulled out his phone and read through his notes on the people who were going to be there. Information on all the artists showing there that night, on the people who were invited to the showing, and the names of the gallery staff. Ellis didn’t know shit about art, but he was really good at memorizing names and faces. He could bullshit his way through conversations about art enough, and hopefully impress everyone coming with the fact he knew them.
“If you show any sign of weakness, they’re going to latch onto that and destroy you,” Morris had said to him. “Never let them see that you’re not one hundred percent confident.”
Ellis eyed the little bottles of alcohol that lined the mini bar in the car. Social lubrication, right?
No, Carrington. You’re going into this sober, and going out of this sober. You need to keep your wits about you.
He snickered. His conscience sounded pretty British all of a sudden.
“They’re ready for you, Mr. Carrington,” his driver said, pulling up in front of the gallery.
Ellis gulped. The gallery, from the outside, looked like what used to be a regular building in a residential neighborhood. Enormous buildings surrounded it, the gallery only having three floors. Ivy twisted up the sides, and flowers exploded out of window boxes, and there was no indication that it wasn’t a residential home except for the discreet name plate on top of the door.
Morris appeared next to him, having arrived in his own car. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Ellis straightened his back, tried to pretend that he was totally confident, and walked into the gallery.
He had seen pictures of the inside, but it didn’t prepare him for the reality of the gallery. Equal parts museum and home, the gallery was set up to make people feel at home just enough for them not to feel like they were walking through the Met, but not enough for them ever to feel too comfortable.
It was a good thing he had had that tailor come to his office because he would have been severely underdressed in any suit he had before this. Shit, he had never seen so many diamonds outside a jewelry store, and had never seen them being worn so casually.
Necklaces that looked like they needed to be locked up in safes were worn around the necks of women in dresses that looked like they stepped off the runway. Drinking champagne that was being served to them by what looked like the roster of a modeling agency.
There was probably enough money in this building to pay the national debt.
Ellis plastered a slightly bored look on his face and turned to Morris.
“Let me introduce you to Cedar before anyone realizes who you are.”
Cedar Reynolds. Twenty-six. Curator and part owner of the gallery. Absolutely fucking gorgeous, if the picture he had of h
er was any indication. Single. Charming. Deadly. Referred to fondly as the Queen of New York by the media.
Feingold’s protégé, who he took in after the death of her parents when she was eighteen. She had gone from the daughter of a banker and an artist to the most powerful woman in New York in the span of a year, and she had held that title since. There was nobody who even came close to Cedar.
“Cedar! You look wonderful.” Morris lightly hugged Cedar. “I’d like to introduce you to Ellis Carrington.”
Cedar turned to smile at Ellis, and he nearly swallowed his tongue. The pictures he had were nothing compared to Cedar in real life. Blonde hair swept to the side, showcasing delicate earrings. A gown that seemed to made up entirely of sequins, reaching to the floor with a slit that stopped mid-thigh, showing a toned, tan leg.
Ice blue eyes examined him thoroughly, like she was trying to decide whether he was good enough to breathe the air around her.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” Cedar said, smiling and reaching out a hand for him to shake.
He should really just take her hand and bow, Ellis thought, shaking it. “Nice to meet you, too. Everything looks beautiful.”
She smiled. “I’m glad you think so. How’s New York treating you?”
“So far, so good,” Ellis said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “This has definitely been the nicest place I’ve been to.”
“I like to think this is the most beautiful place in the city,” Cedar said smoothly.
You’re here. Of course it is, Ellis thought. Jesus Christ, get a hold of yourself.
“It might just be,” Ellis agreed, feeling a bit tongue tied.
“Has anyone shown you around the gallery yet?” Cedar asked.
“No, not yet.”
“Well, that should be rectified.” She smiled brilliantly at him, and Ellis wondered if love at first sight was actually a thing. “Is there anything in specific that you want to see? Any piece? Any artist?”
Ellis mentally scrolled through the lists of artists who were showing that night. “Indigo’s art is intriguing. I’d like to see what they’ve done for this showing.”
