Chapter 1- The offer
The hallway was narrow and smelled like old laundry and cheap floor wax. Elias Thorne adjusted his cuffs, feeling out of place. His suit cost more than this entire building, and his leather shoes sounded loudly on the cracked floor tiles. He hated being here. He was a man who moved mountains with a phone call, yet he was standing in a hallway in Queens because a stubborn woman wouldn't answer his emails.
He reached Apartment 4B and knocked on the door. He didn't tap, he pounded. He wanted whoever was behind that door to know that his time was expensive.
The door creaked open. A woman with messy hair and paint stained fingers looked at him. She was wearing a t-shirt that was too big and held a half eaten apple.
"We don't want any," she said, starting to close the door.
Elias put his hand on the wood, stopping her. "I'm not selling anything. I'm here for the painting. The one my assistant offered you five hundred thousand dollars for."
The woman, Clara, rolled her eyes. She leaned against the doorframe and took a slow bite of her apple. "Oh. The billionaire. I told your guy no. It's not for sale."
Elias felt a vein throb in his neck. "Everyone has a price, miss. You're living in a house that barely has heating. I'm offering you a way out. Just give me the canvas."
"It's not a canvas. It's a memory," she said, her voice flat. "And you're standing in my light. Move."
"I don't 'move,'" Elias snapped. He pushed his way past her into the apartment.
It was a mess. There were books on the floor, empty coffee mugs on the counters, and the smell of paint was everywhere. But then he saw it. On the wall, under a flickering light bulb, was the small painting of the blue storm.
His breath caught. It was the only thing his mother had left behind. He remembered the smell of the rain that day. He remembered her humming while she painted it. For a second, he wasn't a powerful CEO. He was just a lonely kid.
Then he shook the feeling off. He turned back to Clara, his face turning back into a mask of ice. "One million. I'll have the money in your account by tonight. You can buy a house. You can buy ten houses. Just let me take it."
Clara walked over and stood between him and the painting. She was much shorter than he was, but she didn't look scared. She looked annoyed. "You think you can just walk in here and bark orders because you have a lot of money? This painting is the only thing in this room that feels real. Your money feels fake."
"Money is the only thing that's real in this world," Elias said, his voice cold. He looked around the tiny room with disgust. "You're clinging to a piece of wood and paint while you live like this? It's pathetic. You're being selfish."
Clara's eyes flashed. "Selfish? You're the one trying to rip something off my wall because you think you own the world. You don't even like the art. You just want to own it so nobody else can have it."
"It belongs to me," he growled, stepping closer. He was so close he could see the tiny flecks of blue paint on her skin. "It was my mother's. It's mine by right."
"Then you should have taken better care of it five years ago," she countered.
The words hit him like a physical blow. His jaw tightened. He wanted to scream at her, to tell her how hard he had worked to get to a place where nobody could ever take anything from him again. But looking at her, with her messy hair and her stubborn expression, he realised he couldn't bully her.
"I'm not leaving without it," he said, folding his arms.
"Then you're going to be standing there a long time," Clara said. She walked to her tiny stove and put a kettle on. "Because I'm about to make tea, and I didn't invite you to stay."
"I can buy this entire building and have you evicted by tomorrow morning," Elias threatened. It was a lie, it would take at least a week, but he wanted to see her flinch.
Clara didn't flinch. She just pointed at the door. "Get out, Mr Thorne. Your chequebook doesn't work here."
Elias stared at her, his chest heaving. He was furious, but he was also confused. Nobody had ever said no to him like this. He looked at the painting one last time. The blue paint seemed to shimmer in the bad light.
He turned on his heel and walked out, not saying another word. He didn't put his shoes back on properly; he just shoved his feet into them and marched down the stairs.
Once he got into his black car, his driver looked at him in the mirror. "Did you get it, sir?"
"No," Elias hissed, staring out at the grey street. "She's difficult. But she'll break. They always do."
He looked at his hands. They were shaking, He hated her. He hated this neighbourhood. But most of all, he hated that for the first time in his life, he had found something he couldn't just buy.