Page 8 of Doomed

A spark that feels important.

3

BIANCA

The brush trembles in my hand as I add another layer of crimson to the canvas. I’ve been working on this piece for hours, but my concentration keeps fracturing. My attention drifts to that black business card propped against my easel for the tenth time in as many minutes.

Knox Blackwood.

The silver lettering catches the gallery’s overhead lights, seeming to mock me with its elegance. I force myself to focus on the painting—a woman’s silhouette dissolving into wispy trails of vapor. The memory of his touch on my cheek burns hotter than the sting to my palm after slapping him.

“Working late again, I see.”

I nearly drop my brush as Michelle’s voice cuts through the silence. My roommate pushes through the gallery’s front door, her scrubs wrinkled from a long shift at the hospital.

“Jesus, Mish. You scared me.”

“Clearly.” She dumps her purse on the reception desk and studies my canvas. “This is gorgeous, but shouldn’t you be home by now? It’s almost nine.”

“Lost track of time.”

“Uh-huh.” Michelle’s gaze shifts to Knox’s business card, then back to me with a knowing smirk. “Busy day?”

“Nothing unusual.” I mix paint on my palette. “Elliot had some clients come through.”

“Clients?” She picks up the card, squinting to examine it. “Knox Blackwood. What did he want?”

“Paintings. For some club.” I gesture vaguely at the paintings surrounding us. “Apparently, my work fits their aesthetic.”

Michelle raises an eyebrow. “Their aesthetic? What kind of club are we talking about?”

“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “He said his brother needs to approve everything first.”

“And you’re okay with not knowing?”

I pause mid-brushstroke. Am I okay with it? Everything about today felt wrong—the way Knox touched me without permission, the way he photographed my work, the way I physically responded to his attention despite my brain telling me he’s a walking, talking red flag.

“I should probably research them first,” I say finally.

“Probably?” Michelle laughs, but there’s concern in her voice. “Bianca, you always research everything. You spent three hours googling that coffee shop before our first time there.”

She’s right. I research paint brands, gallery policies, and potential buyers. I don’t make impulsive decisions.

So why am I considering this one?

“Michelle.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “What do you know about the Blackwoods?”

Her teasing smile vanishes, and she sets the card down like it might bite her.

“Honestly, Bianca.” Her voice carries a warning I’ve never heard before. “You want to stay away from them.”

“I said I’d consider it if his brother approves.” The words sound pathetic. “What’s wrong with that?”

Michelle runs her hands through her blonde hair, leaving it disheveled. “The Blackwoods aren’t simply wealthy, B. They’re dangerous. Like, seriously dangerous.”

My stomach drops. “Dangerous how?”

“They run this city’s underworld. Drugs, intimidation, who knows what else.” She paces the small space between exhibits. “My dad used to warn me about them because I went to the same school as Knox, although he was two years ahead of me. Said they had their fingers in everything—politics, business, law enforcement.”