3. Chapter 3 Natalie

Chapter 3 Natalie

I stare at the email, my heart pounding a staccato beat against my ribcage. The words seem to blur and dance before my eyes, a dizzying ballet of disbelief and elation.

"Dear Ms. Quinn,

We are thrilled to inform you that an anonymous buyer has purchased your entire 'Shattered Illusions' collection. The sum of $500,000 has been transferred to your account, effective immediately.

Congratulations on this incredible achievement. We look forward to seeing more of your groundbreaking work in the future.

Best regards, The Crimson Gallery"

Half a million dollars. For my art, my blood, sweat, and tears splashed across the canvas. It doesn't seem real, like at any moment I will wake up from this fever dream and find myself back in my dingy studio, just another starving artist chasing an impossible fantasy.

But the numbers don't lie. I refresh my bank account with trembling fingers, watching in awe as the balance jumps from double digits to more zeroes than I have ever seen in my life.

I let out a whoop of pure, unadulterated joy, spinning around in circles like a child on Christmas morning. For so long, I have fought and scraped and clawed for every scrap of recognition, every glimmer of validation in a world that seemed determined to chew me up and spit me out.

And now, finally, my moment has arrived. My art, the twisted manifestations of my broken psyche, has found a home, a patron who sees the value in my vision.

I fumble for my phone, my hands shaking with adrenaline and disbelief. There is only one person I want to share this news with, the one person who has always believed in me, even when I couldn't believe in myself.

"Dad," I breathe when he picks up on the first ring. "You're never going to guess what just happened."

"You finally won the lottery and you're going to buy your old man a yacht?" he teases, his voice warm with affection.

"Better," I say, my grin threatening to split my face in two. "I sold my collection, Dad. The whole damn thing, for half a million dollars."

There is a beat of silence, then a whoop of joy that echoes my own. "Hot damn, pumpkin! I knew you had it in you, I always knew you were destined for greatness."

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, blurring my vision. "I couldn't have done it without you, Dad. You've always been my biggest fan, my rock. I don't know what I would do without you."

"Well, you'll never have to find out," he says fiercely. "I'm so proud of you, Natalie. So damn proud. You've worked so hard for this, and you deserve every bit of success that comes your way."

I sniffle, wiping away the tears with the back of my hand. "Thanks, Dad. That means everything to me."

"Listen, why don't you come over to the house tonight?" he says, a note of excitement creeping into his voice. "We can celebrate properly, crack open a bottle of champagne, and toast to your bright future."

I hesitate, glancing around at the chaos of my studio. I had planned on spending the night in a paint-fueled frenzy, pouring my elation and creative energy into a new series of works.

But the thought of celebrating with my dad, of basking in his pride and love, is too tempting to resist. "Yeah, okay," I say, my heart swelling with anticipation. "I'll be there in an hour."

"Can't wait to see you, pumpkin," he says, the smile evident in his voice. "Drive safe, okay?"

"I will, Dad. Love you."

"Love you mostest."

I hang up, a giddy laugh bubbling up from my chest. For the first time in longer than I can remember, everything seems to be falling into place. My art, my career, my relationship with my father - it all feels like pieces of a puzzle clicking together, forming a picture of a life I have only dared to dream of.

I dash to my closet, rummaging through the hangers until I find the only dress that isn't covered in paint splatters or frayed at the edges. It is a simple black sheath, the fabric clinging to my curves in all the right places.

I slip it on, the silk whispering against my skin like a promise. For once, I don't feel like the broken girl in the mirror, the one with the haunted eyes and the scars that run soul-deep.

I feel like a woman on the cusp of something great, something transformative. A phoenix rising from the ashes of her past, ready to spread her wings and soar.

The Uber to my father's house in Flushing is a blur of neon lights and honking horns, the city's lifeblood pulsing to the beat of my own racing heart. By the time it pulls up to the curb, my cheeks are flushed with excitement, my eyes bright with anticipation.

Dad is waiting for me on the porch, a bottle of champagne clutched in one hand and a wrapped package in the other. He looks different somehow, his usually rumpled shirt crisp and pressed, his hair slicked back with a pomade that glints in the fading light.

But his smile is the same, warm and wide and full of love. He pulls me into a crushing hug as soon as I step out of the car, the champagne bottle digging into my back.

"There's my little superstar," he says, his voice gruff with emotion. "I'm so damn proud of you, pumpkin. So damn proud."

I bury my face in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of Old Spice and cigarette smoke. "I couldn't have done it without you, Dad. You've always been my biggest supporter, my rock."

He pulls back, his eyes suspiciously bright. "Enough of that mushy stuff. Tonight is about celebrating your success, not stroking your old man's ego."

He leads me inside, the house warm and inviting after the chill of the evening air. The living room is dim, the only light coming from a few flickering candles scattered on the coffee table.

"What's all this?" I ask, gesturing to the romantic ambiance. "You trying to seduce me, Dad?"

He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that reverberates through my chest. "Hardly. I just wanted to make tonight special, a night you'll never forget."

He pulls me down onto the couch, the wrapped package heavy on my lap. "Open it," he says, his eyes dancing with excitement. "I've been saving this for a moment just like this."

I tear into the paper with trembling fingers, my breath catching in my throat as the contents are revealed. It is a book, a rare first edition of "The Art Spirit" by Robert Henri, one of my all-time favorite artists.

I had mentioned it to my dad once, in passing, a wistful sigh escaping my lips as I spoke of the way Henri's words had inspired me, and the way he had given me the courage to pursue my dreams against all odds.

And here it is, the holy grail of art books, the pages crackled and yellowed with age but still vibrant with passion and purpose. Tears spring to my eyes as I run my fingers over the cover, tracing the embossed letters with something like reverence.

"Dad," I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. "This must have cost a fortune. How did you even find it?"

He shrugs, a small, secretive smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I have my ways. I've been saving up for years, waiting for the right moment to give it to you."

I shake my head in disbelief, the tears now flowing freely down my cheeks. "I don't know what to say. This is too much, too generous."

He reaches out, cupping my face in his rough, calloused hands. "Nothing is too much for you, Natalie. You're my world, my everything. I would move heaven and earth to make your dreams come true."

I lean into his touch, my heart swelling with a love so fierce it threatens to consume me. "I love you, Dad. More than anything."

"I love you too, pumpkin. More than my own life."

We sit like that for a moment, the rest of the world fading away until it is just us, a father and daughter bound by a love that defies explanation.

I notice an unfamiliar envelope resting on the console table, my name written in an elegant, masculine script.

"What's this?" I ask, picking it up with a frown. The paper is heavy, expensive. Definitely not the usual bills and junk mail.

Dad shifts uncomfortably, a shadow crossing his face. "Ah, that. It's nothing, probably just some fan mail from the gallery. Why don't you open it later, after we've had a chance to celebrate properly?"

But curiosity gnaws at me, an itch I can't ignore. I tear into the envelope, revealing a single sheet of thick, cream-colored cardstock.

"Ms. Quinn," it reads. "Your presence is requested at the Annual Gala for the Arts, to be held this Saturday at the Accel City Museum of Fine Art. Cocktail attire required. A car will arrive for you at 7 pm sharp. I look forward to making your acquaintance. Sincerely, An Admirer."

I stare at the invitation, my heart pounding in my throat. The Annual Gala is the most prestigious event in the art world, a glittering who's who of collectors, critics, and rising stars. To be invited is an honor in itself, but to be personally requested by an anonymous admirer?

It's like something out of a dark fairy tale, a handsome prince whisking me off to the ball. Except in this story, I have a feeling the prince might be more villain than hero.

"Who sent this?" I ask, looking up at dad with wide eyes. But he just shakes his head, his expression unreadable.

"I don't know, pumpkin. But I think you should go. This could be a huge opportunity for you, a chance to make some important connections."

I waver, torn between excitement and trepidation. But in the end, my ambition wins out over my unease. This is what I have been working towards all these years, the chance to break into the upper echelons of the art world. I can't pass it up, no matter how mysterious the circumstances.

"Okay," I say, taking a deep breath. "Okay, I'll go. But I don't have anything to wear, let alone a gown fancy enough for the fucking Met Ball of the art scene."

As if on cue, the doorbell rings, making us both jump. Dad goes to answer it, returning a moment later with a large black box, an elaborate red bow perched on top like a pustule about to burst.

"It's for you," he says, his voice oddly strained. "I guess your secret admirer thought of everything."

With trembling fingers, I lift the lid, revealing a dress of such dark magnificence it steals the breath from my lungs. Yards of inky silk spill over my hands, the fabric so soft it feels like a lover's caress. It is a gown fit for a queen...or a sacrifice.

But then I hear a sound, a faint rustling coming from the kitchen. I pull away, my brow furrowed in confusion.

"Is someone else here?" I ask, my voice suddenly tight with apprehension.

My dad's face clouds over, a shadow passing behind his eyes. "It's nothing, just the neighbor dropping off some mail."

But I'm not convinced. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, a primal warning that something isn't right.

I stand up, the book clutched tight to my chest like a shield. "I should probably get going," I say, my voice wavering with a fear I can't quite name. "It's getting late, and I have a lot of work to do tomorrow."

My dad stands up too, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. "Of course, of course. Let me walk you out."

We make our way to the front door, my heart pounding a staccato beat against my ribcage. Just as I step over the threshold, I catch a glimpse of movement in the hallway mirror.

It's a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his features obscured by the shadows. He's walking away, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor.

I whirl around, my eyes wide with fear and confusion. "Dad, who was that? What's going on?"

But my dad just shakes his head, his face a mask of sorrow and regret. "I'm sorry, Natalie. I'm so sorry, you should be on your way."

And then he pushes me out the door, the lock clicking into place with a sound like a gunshot.

I stand there on the porch, my mind reeling with questions and accusations. What has my dad gotten himself into? Who was the mysterious man in the hallway?

With the book clutched to my chest, the only solid thing in a world that has suddenly tilted off its axis.