Chapter 5 Meticulous Research

The screen's light flickered gently over Marina's face, pale blue and unblinking. Her coffee sat abandoned at the edge of her desk, cold and stale, its surface ringed with quiet disappointment. The apartment was still except for the hum of the fan in her laptop and the occasional scratch of her pen across the paper.

Her sketchbook was open beside her, half-covered in thumbnails of gallery corridors and notes in cramped, angled script. But tonight, the figure taking shape in the margins wasn't a structure.

It was a man.

Her browser tabs multiplied like cells under glass.

Alexander Sinclair.

Age: 52.

CEO, Sinclair Art Holdings.

Estimated Net Worth: $1.4 billion.

Alma Mater: Yale-double major in art history and economics, naturally.

Residences: Los Angeles. New York. Capri.

Marital Status: Divorced. One son.

Marina paused. One son. As if Julian were a minor footnote in a corporate bio. The boy-prince of West Coast art, reduced to an italicized aside. That was something. That meant something.

She clicked through the press photos first. There were dozens-each one a study in calculated power. Alexander in sharp suits with soft pocket squares. Whiskey glasses, gold-rimmed, always half-full. Art behind him. Art beside him. But never art with him.

And never anyone his age.

In each frame, he was surrounded by beauty. Not friends. Not equals. Just decorative people placed like candlesticks at his side. Models, curators, influencers. Names half-remembered, expressions vacant.

She opened a video next.

A gala for art preservation. Alexander at the podium, one hand resting on the lacquered edge. No notes. No stumbles. His voice was calm, polished, familiar in its confidence.

"I don't collect art for comfort. I collect it because it resists control. If it doesn't fight me, it's not worth the wall."

Marina froze the video. Rewound. Played it again.

She scribbled in the margin of her sketchbook:

Values tension. Thinks resistance = beauty. Control is currency.

She underlined resists control twice.

A tab to the right held another article. This one with a headline wrapped in suggestion:

"The Playboy Patron?"

Beneath it, photos-Alexander stepping into a black car with a Russian model in a red dress. The following week, the same shot, different woman. French. A sculptor this time. Then another. And another.

Each young. Thin. Beautiful. Expressionless.

And always: disposable.

"Pattern," Marina murmured. "Short attention span. Likes contrast. High turnover."

She jotted more notes:

Motivated by novelty. Likes being the center of gravity.

She tapped the desk, then pulled up the floor plan of the Sinclair Gallery. Sleek interactive map, part of a press kit. She zoomed in.

Third floor-restricted archives.

Staff access only.

Private collections.

Closed-door cataloging.

Digital inventory on a local-only network.

Marina smiled. Interesting.

Another tab, this one messier-a forum thread with former gallery staff gossiping anonymously. Mentions of Delia, the tight-lipped coordinator. Notes about how Alexander would drop in unannounced, always alone. One user mentioned a locked room on the third floor that "smelled like cedar and money."

She copied that into her notes.

The ping of an email dragged her back.

From: Prof. Ellis

Subject: Re: Sinclair Fundraiser

Body:

Marina, I'd be happy to recommend you for the student guest list. Let's touch base tomorrow-I believe your recent work more than qualifies.

-E.

She stared at the screen for several seconds, eyes unfocused.

One foot in the door.

That was all she needed.

She leaned back, spine cracking. Her eyes burned. She hadn't blinked enough tonight.

Still, her hands moved on instinct, returning to the sketch of Alexander's profile. She shaded the hollow of the cheekbone deeper, then smudged the temple. The mouth was finished-flat, unreadable. The suit was blocked in.

But the eyes remained blank.

She wasn't ready to draw those yet.

From the desk drawer, she pulled out a different notebook-smaller, leather-bound, the one she'd kept hidden since the day Julian first invited her to dinner and called it mentorship.

Inside were more notes.

Week One: Julian invites me to the Venice show. Talks about his father like he's mythology.

Week Four: Julian says I have "natural edge." It's a compliment meant to control.

Week Nine: Julian name-drops Alexander three times during sex. I pretended not to hear.

Marina traced her finger down the page until she reached the final entry:

Final Night:

He looked at me like I was a chapter in his biography, not a person.

So I'll rewrite it.

In blood if necessary.

She closed the notebook and exhaled slowly.

Across the room, her phone lit up.

Sasha: Got you on the list for next Wednesday. 8PM. Sinclair Gallery. Dress like you belong.

Marina's heart thudded once, too loud. She set her charcoal down and reached for her phone.

She typed:

Thank you. I'll be silent, stylish, and slightly unhinged.

Sasha's reply came with a skull emoji and a lipstick kiss.

Marina turned back to the screen. The image of Alexander was still paused mid-sentence, lips parted like he was about to say something profound.

She muted him.

She didn't need his voice anymore.

She already knew how to answer it.