Page 6 of Fake It Til You Break It

“Tell me,” I said, hoping to distract him. “On a scale from one to ten, how much am I going to regret agreeing to this?”

“Life is what you make of it.” Then he pasted on a bright smile before addressing the doorman. “Jasper Ryan.”

The guy scanned his clipboard, grunted, and pressed a button on the wall. “Go in.”

Dim blue light filled the frame when the door swung open, and melancholic music with dulcet cello chords spilled out into the night.

“Very diplomatic,” I said, picking up our conversation again as we moved toward the entrance. “The real answer?”

Jasper’s hand tightened around my elbow, but his smile never slipped. “You’ll probably regret it as much as I do.”

I chuckled under my breath. “Give me a number.”

“On a scale from one to ten? Eleven.”

Since I hadn’t known him to oversellanything, I took him at his word and steeled myself for the evening. At the same time, I imagined it would be the typical gala scene, only on a smaller scale.

The size of the guestlist turned out to be the only thing I’d gotten right.

Located inside a literal warehouse, no amount of patchouli or sandalwood could mask the unmistakable smell of damp cinderblocks. Apart from a single pendant light over the bar and the display lights below the artwork, the only illumination came from a few clusters of fairy lights.

Rather than atmospheric or edgy, it just added to the dankness and made the whole place feel depressing.

Servers dressed in blood-red tuxedos with black lapels milled about, carrying trays laden with champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Instead of sofas or even folding chairs, seating areas consisted of rattan ottomans and leather beanbags.

I recognized most of those in attendance from other events around the city, both from my days in security and my time at +One. Wearing bold gowns with plunging necklines or dark tailored suits, they sported reserved expressions and spoke in hushed tones.

Once I glimpsed the paintings on display, I understood why everyone seemed so sedated. This wasn’t a gallery showing. It was a funeral, and we had all come to mourn the death of art.

After securing two glasses of champagne from a passing server, I followed Jasper to the first of twelve displays. A placard to the side gave no information about the artist or the piece itself. Only the title with a QR code.

For Never After.

I took a step back and tilted my head, trying and failing to see the vision. It just looked like a smear of lavender paint on an empty canvas, vaguely formed into something resembling half a heart.

“Interesting.” Both my date’s tone and expression said otherwise. “I should bid on it.”

It took me a moment to realize he was serious. “Why would you do that?”

One shoulder lifted toward his ear, a subtle movement of nonchalance. “I already own the matching piece.”

“You do not.”

“I do. It’s at the center.”

“In one of the bathrooms?”

His lips twitched, but he stopped short of an actual smile. “A storage closet, actually. We bring it out for special occasions.”

I had so many questions, but I started with the least pressing. “The piece you have. What is it called?”

This time, he did smile, a crooked ironic grin that made his eyes sparkle in the reflection of the display lights. “Lavender.”

It was even better—and more ridiculous—than I’d hoped. “Of course it is. And why do you have it?”

“Quid pro quo.” He tipped his champagne flute toward me. “Rizza Carmichael sponsors a reading program at the center. In exchange, I sponsor her son’s dreams of—”

“Mediocrity?”

---