I can''t help but clutch at the pearls around my neck. "Alice I really can''t thank you enough for this opportunity," I say, turning to the curator. "It looks fabulous."


    Alice grins and grabs two sses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to me. She clinks hers against. mine and says with a wink, "This could be the first of many nights like this, if you y your cards right."


    I smile softly and sip my champagne, the bubbles tickling my nose. If Alice is serious about holding more exhibitions here even without the ''anonymous patron''s'' funds, then I want to do my best to make a good impression tonight.


    For a little while, I mingle around the event, talking to the other artists and potential buyers. I manage to sell one piece right off the bat-it''s a painting of two tall bookshelves framing arge, round window, the sun streaming onto hardwood floors. Adder isying on the floor, broken in half.


    The buyer, an older woman with striking ck hair and ck lipstick to match, seems thrilled to pick it up in a couple of weeks'' time.


    With the night off to a good start, I make my way over to the bar for something else to drink. I''m waiting for my drink when a gentleman in a tuxedo approaches me, tapping me on the shoulder.


    "You''re Flora, correct?" he asks, leaning in.


    I nod and sh him an award-winning smile. "I am. Are you interested in my work?"


    "Oh, yes," he says, gesturing to the piece depicting the park bench. "I''m actually interested in purchasing that one."


    "That one is my favorite of this batch," I reply. "It''s listed at one thousand Ordan dors."


    The man doesn''t flinch at the price-most of the socialites who attend events like this don''t. But then he leans closer and says, "If I offer to pay more, can I get a dance as well?" He jerks his chin toward the pianist in the corner, around which couples are swaying and chatting.


    My stomach drops. I wonder if he''s joking, but he holds my gaze, and I don''t see a hint of amusement there. He''s dead serious.


    "Pardon?" I blurt out.


    "Twelve hundred dors for a dance and the painting," he says, his eyes flicking shamelessly across my chest. "A human like you would ept such an offer, wouldn''t you? After all,st I heard, someone was selling your paintings in the park not long ago..."


    I stare at him, stunned into silence. His implication is heavy-he thinks that, because my paintings were being sold in the park, I should jump at the chance for an extra two hundred dors. Like I''m some kind of escort looking to make a quick buck.


    But I won''t.


    "Actually," I say, pulling my shoulders back and picking my drink up off the bar, "my offer is revoked."


    The man looks confused. "What?"


    "You asked me if I would sell you the painting, and I gave you a price," I say, smiling sweetly. "But actually, the price has just doubled. And I have no interest in selling to you."


    Before he can answer, I strut away. My knuckles are white around my drink ss, but I hope he won''t notice. I grit my teeth and move over to one of my paintings, stopping in front of it to catch my breath under the guise of


    admiring my work. As I''m steadying myself and sipping my drink, I look up at the painting, taking in its appearance under the studio lights.


    This piece depicts a woman wearing a gown that''s been shed down the front with scissors, and she''s holding the pieces together in an attempt at modesty. Her eyes are downcast, her face red. It''s called ''Provider''.


    It was supposed to be amentary on the incident that urred in the thrift store, symbolizing the naked, raw, vited feeling of being recognized and scrutinized against one''s will. Now, it just feels even more meaningful.


    Suddenly, I hear a soft, low voice speak in my ear.


    "For someone who sold her artwork for an eighth of its worth in the park, I''m surprised you turned down his offer."