Page 39 of The Beast's Broken Angel
An interesting assessment from a man whose artistic appreciation usually extended no further than tattoo designs and weapon craftsmanship. If Dominic found Isabelle's work compelling, it suggested genuine talent beyond my initial research.
“Stay where you are. I'm pulling up now.”
The Bentley stopped outside Halcyon Gallery, where a modest crowd mingled for the “Emerging Artists” exhibition. Through the window, I immediately spotted Noah and Isabelle among the attendees, her wheelchair positioned before one of her haunting medical-themed canvases. Even from a distance, the sibling resemblance was striking, same determined jawline, same intense focus, though illness had hollowed Isabelle's features where Noah remained lean but solid.
I watched them for a moment, noting Noah's protective hover behind his sister's chair. They shared identical expressions of pride examining the small red “SOLD” dot newly placed beside Isabelle's largest canvas, a moment of normalcy I found myself strangely reluctant to shatter.
What was it about Noah that made me hesitate? I'd broken men for far less significant transgressions, yet I sat watching him steal this moment of freedom with a feeling closer to admiration than fury.
Time to remind him of reality.
I entered silently, the hushed atmosphere of the gallery enveloping me like a familiar cloak. Years of collecting had taught me the unspoken protocols of such spaces, the reverentquiet, the calculated distance between patrons, the deliberate performance of cultured appreciation. I moved through the room, noting which observers possessed genuine understanding and which merely mimicked the poses of connoisseurship.
The gallery owner noticed me first, her professional smile faltering at my unexpected appearance. Christina Harlow, early forties, divorced, ambitious, with excellent taste and questionable financial management. My research department compiled detailed files on anyone connected to my interests, and Isabelle's artistic debut had put Harlow squarely in that category.
She hurried over with nervous deference, champagne flute clutched like a talisman. “Mr. Calloway, had I known you were attending, I would have arranged a private viewing.”
“The surprise is intentional,” I replied, eyes still fixed on Noah and Isabelle across the room. “I prefer authentic reactions.”
“Of course,” she nodded rapidly. “Ms. Hastings' work is generating significant interest. Two pieces already sold, and several collectors inquiring about commissioning similar works.”
Interesting. Genuine talent, then, not merely my biased assessment based on Noah's connection.
Noah's body tensed as he finally registered my presence, his hand instinctively gripping Isabelle's shoulder. The defiance in his stance sent a now-familiar current of interest through my body. Still challenging rather than cowering, despite knowing consequences awaited him.
I approached them with measured steps, enjoying the way Noah's posture shifted subtly, protective, anticipatory, a fighter recognising an incoming threat but standing his groundanyway.
“I've purchased your sister's collection,” I stated without preamble, stopping before them. “Talent deserves patronage.”
Isabelle's eyes widened, darting between Noah and me with dawning comprehension. The family resemblance extended to her perceptiveness, clearly reading the undercurrents flowing between us.
“That's... very generous,” she managed, her voice stronger than her frail appearance suggested. “But unnecessary. Two pieces have already sold independently.”
“I'm buying the entire collection,” I clarified, extending my business card to Christina without breaking eye contact with Noah. “Deliver everything to Ravenswood tomorrow. And ensure Ms. Hastings receives appropriate feature placement in your next major exhibition.”
The gallery owner accepted the card with barely concealed excitement, recognising the potential value of my patronage beyond this single transaction. “Absolutely, Mr. Calloway. We'd be honoured to continue showcasing Ms. Hastings' work.”
“Good.” I finally shifted my attention to Isabelle directly. “Your brother speaks highly of your talent. I see his assessment was accurate.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, artist's perception cutting through social niceties to the underlying dynamic. “Funny, he hasn't mentioned you much at all.”
Noah's fingers tightened on her shoulder in silent warning, but she ignored him, studying me with the same clinical detachment he had first shown toward my scars.
“An oversight I'm sure he'll correct,” I replied, enjoying the flash of alarm in Noah's eyes. “Your work deserves wider recognition. I have connections in several major galleries who would be interested in featuring an artist of your calibre.”
“Why?” she asked directly, ignoring the social protocols that typically governed such interactions. “You've alreadybought my brother's services. Why bother with my paintings too?”
The bluntness was refreshingly familiar. The Hastings siblings shared more than physical features, they possessed the same direct gaze that cut through pretence and performance to the core truth beneath.
“Art speaks truth where people cannot,” I answered, surprising myself with the honesty. “Your work captures the brutality of medical suffering without surrendering to it. I respect that perspective.”
Something in my response seemed to satisfy her, though wariness remained in her expression. “Thank you for the support, then. Though I'd have preferred earning it on merit alone.”
“You have,” I assured her, gesturing toward the small crowd still admiring her pieces. “My purchase simply ensures the collection remains intact rather than dispersed among multiple buyers.”
I turned to Noah, whose tension had only increased during this exchange. “I believe it's time to return your sister to Westminster Memorial. The doctors expressed concern about her outing.”
“How would you know that?” Noah challenged, voice tight.
