Page 39 of Single Mom's Daddies
“The kids?”
She nods. “They’re calm around you. Open. That’s not easy to do with Orlov children.”
I sip my coffee and don’t answer right away. “They’re great kids.”
The kids’ voices cloud the dining room—Mila lecturing Alex about butterfly wings, Alex insisting caterpillars are just really hairy noodles.
I close my eyes for a moment. Let myself breathe. I can do this. I just have to stay away from my employers. Easy peasy.
10
ROMAN
The auction housesmells like old money and new paint.
It’s not a metaphor. There’s actual fresh paint on the walls—Renner had them redone last week in a tasteful eggshell cream to match the brass lighting and imported walnut floors. The money, of course, seeps in through everything else.
The hush of tailored shoes on hardwood, the low laugh of someone who knows their bid will be honored no matter what number they name, the quiet hush of hunger disguised as taste. This is the kind of place people come to be seen pretending not to want what they’re here to take.
It’s a two-story affair—top floor for the drinks and the pretense of curation, bottom floor for the action. The chairs are arranged in clean, arcing rows, all lined up to face the low stage where Renner will perform. And itisa performance. It always is with him.
No one would guess the man who nearly sweat through his suit last week while trying to explain a provenance discrepancy is the same man currently floating across the stage in a custom-cut blazer, gesturing toward the night’s first piece with effortless grace. The gallery’s lighting system makes the canvas glow like it was blessed. A hush falls as he raises his hand.
“Lot seven,” Renner says, voice warm and intimate, like he’s telling a secret to every person in the room. “A piece by the elusive Svet—our Moscow master. Untitled, as always.”
A few appreciative murmurs ripple through the crowd.
I remain still in my seat, third row, center aisle.
I like to watch people from this spot. You can see who’s relaxed. Who’s tense. Who’s playing at wealth and who was born into it. Right now, to my left, there’s a man in a dove-gray suit, pocket square folded with surgical precision. His watch costs more than the car he arrived in. To my right, a woman in navy silk whispers to her husband in French and fans herself with a catalog. Her shoes are Louboutins, but her hair is two weeks past a salon visit. Their money is real, but it’s bleeding.
There’s no sport like watching the rich try to outbid each other for the illusion of refinement.
Svet’s work is good. Abstract. Painful in its way. Angled brushstrokes, color palettes that never settle. It looks expensive even if you know nothing about art—which is the point. But the reason I’m here isn’t to admire brushwork. It’s to protect our investment.
Because when someone buys a Svet, they’re not buying canvas and paint. They’re buying access.
Every painting sold is half art, half receipt. A favor owed. A hand extended. A line moved across a city map behind closed doors.It’s clean. Quiet. And elegant in a way the old methods never were.
Renner’s voice dips as the bidding begins. “We’ll start at three thousand.”
A paddle goes up.
“Thirty-five hundred.”
Another.
“Four thousand.”
It’s early. The bids are fast. Svet’s name still carries weight, but not as much as it did a year ago. There have been whispers lately. A dealer in Amsterdam declined a private offer. A buyer in Manhattan backed out before the ink dried.
That’s why I’m here. To remind them all that the name still matters.
Aunt Olenna sits next me. She always arrives just before the main pieces go up. Always in black. Always with a cane that she doesn’t need but carries like a relic. I’ve long thought there’s a sword in there. Her presence is a signal. Her silence, a threat.
When I was younger, I used to ask her why she came to these. “They smell like blood,” she said once. “The good kind.”
The final bid lands at forty-three thousand dollars. It’s a small painting, no bigger than a cell phone, so I understand the low rate. A murmur of polite approval follows.
