Page 35 of Christmas With A Billionaire

“You’ll see.” I kissed her mouth, careful not to smudge her lipstick. “The first guests will arrive soon. Are you ready?”

“No.” She smoothed her dress. “Yes. Maybe.”

I laughed. “Which is it?”

“All of them? This is huge, Ty. What if?—"

“Stop.” I gripped her shoulders. “This night belongs to us and every young artist who deserves their shot.”

She nodded, squaring her shoulders. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

She smacked my chest. “And humble, too.”

“Humility is overrated.” I caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Now go finish whatever last-minute adjustments you’re pretending not to obsess over. I’ll handle the arrival logistics.”

Within thirty minutes, the space filled with Chicago’s elite, art collectors, critics, and - most importantly - young artists and their families. Champagne flowed as guests moved through the galleries, discussing pieces and placing bids.

I spotted Denise Jordan standing before her signature piece, the girl with the paintbrush. She twisted her hands together, watching people’s reactions.

“How are you holding up?” I asked, joining her.

“Mr. Benefield!” She jumped. “I... this is... I never imagined...”

“You earned this spot.” I gestured to the growing crowd around her work. “Every brushstroke.”

“Thank you for believing in me. In all of us.” She wiped away a tear. “My grandmother’s here. She’s never seen my work displayed before.”

I followed her gaze to an elderly woman in a church hat, beaming with pride as she explained her granddaughter’s painting to anyone who would listen.

“Come with me.” I led Denise through the crowd. “Mrs. Jordan? I’m Tyson Benefield.”

“Lord have mercy, you’re even taller in person!” She fanned herself with a program. “Thank you for giving my baby this chance.”

“Actually, your granddaughter gave us something.” I waved over a staff member. “Show them.”

The employee handed me a tablet displaying real-time auction results. Denise gasped when she saw the numbers.

“That’s impossible.”

“That’s what your work is worth.” I showed them the mounting bids. “And the night’s just getting started.”

Mrs. Jordan pulled her granddaughter into a fierce hug while I slipped away, letting them have their moment. More success stories like this would follow, creating opportunities to show these kids they belonged in spaces like this.

Autumn materialized at my side. “Was that happy crying or overwhelmed crying?”

“Both.” I wrapped an arm around her waist. “Like artist, like curator?”

She dabbed at her eyes. “Shut up. I’m just proud of them.”

I nodded toward the entrance where Rose had just arrived, resplendent in royal blue. “Your biggest fan is here.”

Rose made her way to us, stopping every few feet to admire the artwork and chat with guests. By the time she reached us, she’d collected three business cards and promised to cater two events.

“My babies!” She hugged us both. “This place is magnificent! And these young artists - such talent!”

“Wait until you see what’s next,” I said.

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