Page 4 of Wicked God
“I must say, Olivia, you have impeccable taste in restaurants.” Theodore’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “The eggs Benedict here are divine.”
I smile and nod, pushing my barely touched croissant around my plate. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
Theodore launches into a detailed analysis of the hollandaise sauce techniques, and I find myself mentally cataloging his potential usefulness. He’s wealthy and well-connected through his mother’s side. Respectable. Boring.
But would he risk a scandal for a woman he’s just met, just to spite the Carters? Doubtful.
“My ex-wife loves French cuisine as well. I must say, you remind me of her in some ways.”
I raise an eyebrow. A red flag if ever there was one. “Is that so?”
Theodore nods enthusiastically, oblivious to my tone. “Oh yes, Monica has the same refined palate, the same appreciation for the finer things. Of course, she lacks your entrepreneurial spirit.” He gestures vaguely in my direction. “Running an art gallery must be quite the adventure.”
The way he says ‘adventure’ makes it sound like a quaint hobby rather than the business I’ve poured my heart and soul into building. I take another sip of my latte, buying myself timeto formulate a response that won’t send him running for the hills before I can properly assess his marriage potential.
“Thank you.” I steer the conversation to more neutral ground. “I hear you own quite the art collection. Do you have any favorite periods or artists?”
Theodore’s eyes light up with the fervor of a man who’s finally found someone willing to listen to his favorite subject. “Oh, absolutely. I’m particularly drawn to the Dutch Masters—Vermeer, Rembrandt, you know. There’s something about the way they captured light that modern artists simply can’t replicate.”
I nod politely. His taste runs toward the safe, the established, the utterly predictable. Not that there’s anything wrong with the Dutch Masters, but his dismissal of contemporary art tells me everything I need to know about his willingness to take risks.
“I actually have a small Monet sketch. Nothing major, just a study for one of his water lily series, but it’s been in my family for three generations.”
“How wonderful.”
As Theodore drones on about provenance and auction prices, my mind wanders.
I’ve been systematically working through every eligible bachelor in Empire Heights’s social circles, looking for someone who might be desperate, bold, or crazy enough to help me execute my plan.
So far, my search for a suitable husband has proven to be more difficult than I had anticipated, and my expectations were not high to begin with.
My best friend Cassandra and I spent the past week scouring social events, high-class parties where wealthy bachelors might gather like expensive peacocks. I’ve sat through charity galas, wine tastings, and museum openings, smiling until my cheeks ached.
The problem is that most of these men are either happily committed to their comfortable lives, too risk-averse to consider something as scandalous as marrying someone like me on such short notice, or, worse, too enamored with their own self-importance to see the value in aligning with someone outside their immediate social circle. Theodore, for all his charm and wealth, falls squarely into the latter category. He’s the kind of man who would balk at the idea of upsetting the status quo, let alone taking on a family as powerful as the Carters.
“Of course,” Theodore continues, “Monica always preferred the Impressionists. She had an exquisite eye for...”
I force my features into a mask of interest while thinking,not again. This date may be heading down an all-too-familiar path.
I clear my throat. “That’s fascinating. Speaking of art, have you ever visited my art gallery?”
Theodore pauses mid-sentence, blinking as if he’d forgotten I was more than just a polite audience for his reminiscences about his ex-wife. “Your gallery? Oh, yes, of course. The... what was it called again?”
“Millhouse Gallery,” I supply, trying not to let my irritation show. We’d discussed this five minutes ago.
“Right, yes. I’ve been meaning to stop by. Contemporary art, isn’t it? Monica and I used to debate the merits of modern versus classical. She was quite passionate about abstract expressionism, though I never quite understood the appeal myself.”
I sink back into my chair, feeling more like an audience member than a participant on this date. When the waiter approaches our table, I take advantage of the opportunity and subtly signal for the check. Theodore continues to ramble on about his life with Monica, but I tune him out.
I need to cut this date short before he launches into another monologue.
I interject, “I’m so sorry to cut our time short, but I have an urgent meeting at the gallery this afternoon. Thank you for a lovely breakfast, Theodore.”
He blinks in surprise. “Oh, well, of course. It was a pleasure meeting you, Olivia.”
“You should stop by Millhouse Gallery sometime,” I suggest, standing up and adjusting the hem of my designer dress. I leave a few notes of cash on the table to cover my portion of the bill. “I’d be happy to give you a tour and introduce you to some of our contemporary artists. You can also invite Monica to join us. Perhaps she could offer us a fresh perspective on our collection.”
Theodore’s eyes widen at the suggestion, uncertainty flashing across his face. “I-I’m not sure if that would be appropriate. Monica and I haven’t been on good terms since our divorce.”
