14. Tyson

Chapter 14

Tyson

Christmas Eve

I checked my Rolex for the tenth time in as many minutes. In less than an hour, the Benefield Building would open its doors for the gallery launch. Every detail had been meticulously planned - from the strategic placement of Denise Jordan’s cornerstone pieces to the timing of the permanent collection reveal.

“Everything’s perfect,” Autumn said, appearing beside me. She wore a deep burgundy gown that hugged her curves, her hair swept up to expose her neck. My fingers itched to pull her close, but dozens of staff members bustled around us, making final adjustments to displays and lighting.

“Almost perfect.” She straightened my bow tie. “There’s still one more surprise.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

“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.

Autumn’s head snapped toward me. “There’s that ‘next’ again. What are you planning?”

“Patience.” I checked my watch. “It’s almost time. Rose, will you help me gather everyone?”

While Rose corralled guests toward the main gallery, I pulled Autumn aside. “Do you trust me?”

“You know I do.”

“Then close your eyes.”

She hesitated, then complied. I guided her through a set of doors we’d kept locked all day, positioning her just so.

“Keep them closed,” I instructed, then addressed the assembled crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us on this special night. The Benefield Project represents nurturing talent, creating opportunities, and honoring those who dedicate their lives to making dreams possible.”

I moved behind Autumn, hands on her shoulders. “Open your eyes.”

Her lids fluttered open, and she gasped. The previously empty wing had been transformed into a permanent gallery space. Above the entrance, bronze letters spelled out, “The Autumn Williams Permanent Collection.” Inside, the walls showcased artwork from every student she’d mentored and every emerging artist she’d championed.

“This space,” I continued, “will always belong to Chicago’s newest voices. Every season will bring fresh talent, guided by the woman who taught me that true luxury is creating beauty that changes lives.”

Autumn turned to me, tears streaming down her face. “Tyson...”

“You’ve spent your life fighting for others to be seen.” I wiped away her tears. “It’s time someone fought for you.”

She threw her arms around my neck as applause erupted. Against my chest, she whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you more.” I held her tight, not caring about cameras flashing or the crowd watching. “And I’ll never stop.”

A deep voice cut in. “Those pieces moved me to tears.” Corey Rome, Chicago’s top art critic, joined our circle. “The raw emotion, the technical skill. Where did you find him?”

“Working at his uncle’s auto shop,” Autumn said. “He welded during lunch breaks.”

“Not anymore.” I nodded toward Marcus, who chatted with three collectors. “He just received a grant to open his own studio.”

The room buzzed with similar stories. Denise Jordan’s grandmother had called every relative in Chicago - they filled an entire corner, taking photos and crying happy tears. Three of Autumn’s former students, now teaching art in South Side schools, brought their current students to see what was possible.

“Five thousand for the third piece in Denise’s series,” called out a collector in Italian wool.

“Seven,” countered a woman in vintage Chanel.

“Ten,” said a quiet voice. The crowd parted to reveal a teenager in jeans and a hoodie. “I’ve been saving since I heard about the gallery opening.”

“You must be Anthony,” I said, recognizing him from the community center. “The one who paints murals at dawn before school.”

He nodded, hands shoved in his pockets. “That piece... it speaks to me. About fighting for your art even when nobody believes in you.”

I caught Autumn’s eye across the room. She gave a slight nod.

“The piece is yours,” I told Anthony. “Keep your savings for art supplies.”

“But... those collectors...”

“Will find other pieces to buy. This one belongs to someone who truly understands it.”

Denise overheard and rushed over, hugging Anthony. “You better send me photos of where you hang it!”

Near the dessert table, I overheard two critics discussing the impact.

“When’s the last time you saw Aboriginal art next to South Side graffiti?”

“When’s the last time you saw Black artists under thirty commanding these prices?”

“It’s about access,” his colleague argued. These kids now have studios, mentors, connections...”

“They have a future,” the first critic finished.

I shifted my attention back to Autumn, who danced between groups, introducing artists to collectors, explaining techniques to critics, and hugging proud parents. In her element, radiant with joy, she embodied everything this project stood for.

Near midnight, as the last guests departed, I found Autumn in her gallery, studying a piece from one of her first mentees.

“He used to paint in the museum basement because he couldn’t afford studio space.”

“Now he teaches at the Art Institute.” I stood behind her, pulling her back against my chest. “Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to us.” She leaned into me. “This whole project... it’s everything I ever dreamed of.”

“Not everything.” I turned her to face me. “There’s still Christmas morning.”

“What’s happening Christmas morning?”

“That would be telling.” I kissed her softly. “But I promise it’ll be worth the wait.”

“No hints?”

“None.” I lifted her hand, kissing each finger. “We should head to Rose’s. She’s expecting us for late dinner.”

“It’s almost midnight!”

“Since when has that stopped her from feeding people?”

Autumn laughed. “True. Let me grab my coat.”

As she walked away, I touched the small box in my pocket that I’d carry until tomorrow’s dinner. Rose had helped me plan every detail, from the timing to the perfect moment.

“Ready?” Autumn called.

I joined her at the door, taking in the space one last time - the art, the dreams, the love poured into brushstrokes. But mostly, I took in her, standing there in her burgundy gown, more beautiful than any masterpiece.