“I don’t think you understand,” she tells me again. “The offer is for five hundred thousand dollars.”
I nearly fall out of my ballet flats when she repeats that number three times as though I didn’t
understand her.
Bastien is also in shock beside me, trying to shake me out of it, encouraging me to say something.
Something that sounds like yes.
But I can’t.
“It has sentimental value to me,” I try to explain.
They both look at me like I’m crazy. But Mrs. Hilliard just nods and continues on.
“The buyer thought you may be hesitant to part with it,” she says. “So he offered to make the
contribution entirely to the Witherton Foundation.”
The Witherton Foundation. Otherwise known as the charity for the victims of the Rellek theater
bombing.
“Why would he do that?” I ask.
My heart is beating too hard and too fast. Waiting for an answer. An answer that will help me make
sense of this.
“He assumed it was of importance to you,” she answers, “based on your work with the yoga
studio.”
“Oh,” I reply. “Right.”
Bastien and Mrs. Hilliard are both staring at me expectantly. This is huge. This donation would
mean so much to the foundation. The cause that is so close to Keller’s heart.
But that painting means the world to me.
A memory I can’t get back. The value isn’t monetary to me.
“I don’t know what to do,” I tell them, because I feel like I need to say something.
“Chloe,” Mrs. Hilliard says in a gentle voice. “This is a huge opportunity for not only a
worthwhile cause, but for you as well. Once word gets around that someone purchased one of your
paintings for that amount… your work will have real market value. This is incredible. And you would
be foolish not to take this opportunity.”
She doesn’t get it. This isn’t about my career. At all.
“I need to think about it,” I tell her. “For the night.”
She sighs out her obvious frustration. “You have until the end of the night. After that, I doubt you