Chapter 3 Cold Resolve

At 2:12 a.m., the wine bottle lay abandoned on the rug, hollow and gleaming like a relic. The Bluetooth speaker hummed soft jazz-slow saxophone curling around the silence like cigarette smoke. Kate was passed out sideways on the futon, one sock hanging half-off her foot like she'd given up halfway through a war.

Marina sat cross-legged on her bed, back resting against the wall, her phone glowing against her face with the cold luminance of artificial moonlight. She hadn't moved in over an hour.

Julian's Instagram profile was still open, mocking her. Public, of course. The Sinclairs didn't do privacy. Privacy was for people without legacy PR firms and family foundations.

His latest post was four hours old.

Celebrating freedom, vision, and new beginnings. Thank you, @TaliaRaeFine.

Marina read it three times before the photo attached even registered. Julian, in a navy linen shirt half-unbuttoned, arms draped over a willowy blonde in a white satin slip. The woman looked vaguely Eastern European, disturbingly symmetrical, and utterly bored. Like a human sigh.

Marina zoomed in on the image without meaning to. Talia Rae-tagged and luminous-was curled up next to Julian on what appeared to be the rooftop bar of the Mandeville Hotel in West Hollywood. A skyline twinkled behind them. Julian's hand rested on her thigh, his fingers inching north in that casual, proprietary way Marina remembered all too well.

"So soon," Marina whispered to no one. "He recycled the caption from San Francisco. Classy."

She scrolled back. Yes. There it was. A post from seven months ago: Celebrating freedom, vision, and new beginnings. Thank you, @MarinaCortezArt.

Identical.

Talia had already posted three stories: a cocktail clinking under neon light, Julian half-smirking in that cultivated way he did when cameras were around, and a boomerang of the two of them kissing-languid, staged, perfect.

Marina placed her phone on her knee, letting the image settle over her. Her pulse didn't spike. Her hands didn't tremble. If anything, her heartbeat was too steady. Icy. Surgical.

This wasn't pettiness.

This was theater.

Julian knew she would look. Of course he did. He had probably posted it for her. To show her that she was replaceable. That he had moved on and upgraded. That she was last month's opening, yesterday's buzz.

But she wasn't going to feel humiliated.

Not again.

She opened her browser, fingertips steady as stone, and typed: Alexander Sinclair Gallery.

The homepage was sleek, stark, and intimidating. Minimalist fonts, full-bleed images, clean white-on-black contrast. At the top, a gold-lettered banner: Sinclair & Vision: Patron Night

Black-tie fundraiser. Three weeks away.

She clicked. The event promised appearances from major collectors, industry leaders, and "a celebration of emerging voices in contemporary art". She found the RSVP page.

Students from partnering institutions may request attendance through faculty nomination.

Perfect.

Her phone was suddenly a scalpel in her hands.

She toggled to her messages and typed:

Hey, I'd love to talk about the Sinclair fundraiser tomorrow. I know I'm only a junior, but I have a few ideas for representing the department. Can we meet?

Send.

There. The seed had been planted.

She leaned back against the wall, feeling a flicker of warmth that had nothing to do with wine or comfort. It was a heat born of intent. Direction. Purpose.

Across the room, Kate stirred, face buried in her hoodie. "You still plotting?" she murmured.

"Not plotting," Marina said, voice soft, even. "Architecting".

Kate rolled onto her side and flopped a hand over her eyes. "Remind me again who the target is?"

"Julian's father", Marina said.

Kate groaned. "You're going to kill us all."

Marina smiled to herself. The kind of smile that never made it to her mouth but lived in the bones of her face.

She turned off the phone. The room dropped into darkness.

But in her mind, lights were turning on.

Spotlights. Gallery lights. Headlines.

Alexander Sinclair didn't know her name yet.

He would.

The next morning arrived like a threat.

Marina stood at her closet with the slow precision of a surgeon. She needed something academic but confident. Neutral, but not forgettable. She finally settled on a charcoal turtleneck, high-waisted black pants, and minimalist silver earrings. Enough to imply poise without begging.

Kate, now vertical and clutching coffee like a rosary, watched her from the kitchenette. "Are you going to war or a faculty meeting?"

"Both", Marina replied.

"You realize he's a billionaire and a predator, right?"

"He's a curator of influence. And I'm not prey."

Kate grunted. "Just don't lose yourself in this thing."

Marina paused and met her friend's gaze. "I'm not becoming someone else, Kate. I'm becoming undeniable."

The meeting with her advisor was short and efficient. Marina made her case: representation, initiative, and institutional pride. She highlighted her recent gallery appearance and her dedication to curation and critique. By the end of ten minutes, her name was unofficially added to the shortlist.

By the end of the week, it was confirmed.

She was going to the Sinclair fundraiser.

That night, she returned to her painting.

The canvas on her easel had darkened over the past few days, layered with aggression and poise. Deep crimsons threaded through muted purples. Stark whites slashed like bone. Her brush danced without hesitation.

She painted not to exorcise her pain, but to arm herself with it.

Each stroke whispered a different truth:

He left you like you were disposable.

They watched you bleed and called it beautiful.

Now let them watch you burn.

As the night deepened, Kate fell asleep again in a blanket pile on the floor, her presence grounding the room like ballast.

Marina painted well past midnight, the sound of her brush the only rhythm left in the world.

Julian had made her an afterthought.

Alexander would make her a legend.

And neither of them would see her coming.