Chapter 3 A night of mixed impressions

I took in a deep breath, my heart racing as I pushed through the sea of people. Luca Vermicelli was only a few steps away, standing in a circle of art collectors, his sharp silver eyes scanning the room full of people. He seemed intimidating, but the need to introduce myself and to seize this rare opportunity, was almost magnetic. He had an air of effortless charm, the kind of presence that made you forget everyone else in the room.

Just walk up and say something, Isabella, I told myself. It's now or never.

But just as I took a step forward, a group of well-dressed businessmen swooped in, cutting off my path. They shook his hand, patting his back, and within seconds, Luca was swept away, disappearing into the crowd with them. My shoulders slumped, disappointment settling in as I stood frozen in place.

I let out a frustrated breath. It had been a fleeting window, and I'd missed it. Before I could dwell on it too long, Maria appeared at my side, her voice bubbling with excitement.

"Don't worry, Isa." You could get another chance." she said, giving me a reassuring smile as we both turned our gaze toward Luca, now deep in conversation across the room. "He's bound to come back around."

I tried to smile, but it felt forced. "Yeah, maybe," I muttered, watching as he effortlessly commanded the attention of everyone around him. He rarely smiled but his presence commanded attention. Someone who people gravitated toward without even realizing it. Who was I to think I could get his attention?

I was too busy stewing in my nerves, replaying the almost-encounter over and over in my head, while Maria chatted beside me, pointing out various artists and collectors, but her words barely registered. My mind was still on Luca, wondering if I'd ever get close enough to talk to him tonight.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and a spotlight highlighted the centerpiece of the exhibit. The crowd hushed as a soft gasp rippled through the room.

A large sculpture was displayed before us, bathed in soft lighting that enhanced it's ancient allure. Made from a rare clay that shimmered in shades of bronze and deep earth tones, the piece spiraled upward in abstract, organic forms, evoking both chaos and balance. Its surface was marred by delicate cracks, hinting at its centuries-old existence, yet it held a polished, timeless beauty. Subtle writings ran along its curves, almost invisible, like a forgotten script lost to history.

The artist's masterpiece was bold, commanding, and yet hauntingly delicate.

Maria nudged me, her voice soft. "Wow. This piece is incredible, right?"

I nodded, my eyes fixed on the sculpture, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Luca had been so close, and now he was somewhere across the room, mingling with people far more important than me. I should've been thrilled to be at such an event, but all I could think about was how I'd let the moment slip away.

****

As Isabella stood near the large clay sculpture that dominated the center of the room, admiring its bold yet intricate design, she was interrupted by a voice from her left.

"Quite the statement piece, wouldn't you say?" the man remarked, his tone laced with a subtle condescension.

She turned to find Roger Fenwick, the well-known but not-so-adored art enthusiast. His sharp features, Lack luster smile and Bold colored suit matched the reputation that preceded him-someone with an eye for art, but a tongue that could cut through the pompous nature of the art world with ease. He was notorious for being blunt, often steering conversations toward critique rather than admiration.

Isabella forced a polite smile. "It certainly commands attention."

"Commanding attention doesn't make it worthwhile," Fenwick replied with a dismissive wave, his gaze never leaving the sculpture.

"Look at the lines, the form-there's no coherence. It's a mess, really. The artist obviously tried to create a sense of movement, but failed to ground it in any real technique."

Isabella shifted uncomfortably. She didn't agree, but there was something unsettling in his tone, a subtle hint of disdain that went beyond the art itself. His words dripped with disdain, not just for the piece but perhaps for something, or someone, else entirely.

"I think the chaos is intentional," Isabella offered cautiously, glancing back at the sculpture. "It feels like it's meant to portray a struggle, something deeper beneath the surface. Art isn't always about following protocol."

Fenwick's lips curled into a smirk. "Ah, the struggle. How very modern of you." He tilted his head, considering her for a moment. "But then again, you're probably used to artists who favor symbolism over skill."

Isabella raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I'm sure you've heard of Luca Vermicelli's... preferences," Fenwick said, his voice carrying an edge that made Isabella uneasy. "He tends to gravitate toward these types of pieces-bold, chaotic, unusual. He has an eye for spectacle, I'll give him that, but not necessarily for substance."

There it was again-that bitterness, subtle yet undeniable. It felt like Fenwick's criticism wasn't entirely aimed at the sculpture. Isabella couldn't help but sense that there was more going on here, something personal between Fenwick and Luca. Though Fenwick masked it with his critique of the art, the real disdain seemed to lie beneath the surface.

"I've heard of Luca, of course," Isabella said carefully. "He's made quite a name for himself."

"A name, indeed," Fenwick muttered, his gaze hardening as he looked back at the sculpture.

"That's what it's all about now, isn't it? Luca has a way of turning anything into a headline. Doesn't matter if the work is half-baked or unpolished. If it catches his eye, it'll end up in the spotlight."

Isabella felt a twinge of discomfort. She didn't know Luca personally, but she had always admired his ability to see potential in artists that others overlooked. Hearing Fenwick's disdainful tone, she wondered if there was a personal vendetta lurking behind his words. Something about the way he spoke of Luca seemed far too sharp for a mere critique of taste.

"Maybe Luca sees something that others miss," Isabella said, trying to stay neutral. "Sometimes it's not about perfection, but the emotion a piece stirs in you."

Fenwick chuckled, though it wasn't a warm sound. "Emotion. Yes, that's always the fallback argument, isn't it? I suppose you're right in one way-Luca has a talent for making people feel something. Whether or not it's genuine, well... that's another matter."

Isabella nodded, unsure how to respond. She could feel the tension in the conversation, a thinly covered hatred that seemed out of place at an art exhibit. But she didn't press further. She didn't know enough about Fenwick or Luca to engage in whatever rivalry might exist between them.

"I should be going," Isabella said, offering a polite smile in hopes of escaping the conversation. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Fenwick."

"Likewise," he said, though his words were laced with the same disdain he'd carried throughout their exchange. "Good luck navigating this... unpredictable world of ours." Fenwick said, with a lack luster smile.

As she walked away, Isabella couldn't shake the sense that Fenwick's words had been more about Luca than about the art. There was a bitterness there, something unresolved, though she couldn't be sure what it was. It left her feeling unsettled, as though she had been caught in the middle of something she didn't understand.

*****

Across the room, Luca Vermicelli glanced over his shoulder once again, his attention momentarily pulled away from the conversation. He scanned the crowd until his eyes found her again-the woman in the black dress. She stood quietly at one of the bar sections, her expression weary, perhaps even a little distant.

There was something captivating about the way she didn't try to insert herself into the spotlight, unlike so many others in the room.

Luca had been watching her since he first noticed her standing near the center of the gallery. There was an understated elegance about her, a calm manner that contrasted with the loud energy of the evening. He was curious. Much to his surprise. Who was she, and what brought her here?

But before he could entertain the thought of approaching her, a potential investor clapped a hand on his shoulder, pulling him deeper into conversation. Luca smiled politely, nodding along to the talk of upcoming acquisitions and gallery openings, but his mind drifted back to her.

There was something about the way she carried herself, something unspoken that piqued his interest. He knew people in this world-the ones who made noise to be seen, and the ones who quietly carved out their own path. She seemed to be the latter, and that intrigued him more than he expected. He wanted to know more, but tonight wasn't the night. He had too many commitments to keep, too many faces to greet, and before he could make his way back to her, the night would be over.

Luca made a mental note as he turned back to his associates. Their paths would cross again soon. He would make sure of it.

But Isabella, unaware of the brief attention she had captured, felt the night slipping away. As the minutes ticked on, the energy of the gallery hummed around her, as her conversation with Maria continued, she couldn't help but feel like the opportunity to introduce herself had passed. She would leave tonight the same way she had come in-an observer, waiting for her moment.