We settled at the table with silent choreography: Grace and I side by side, forming a united front, while Eziquel occupied the seat across from us like an aesthetic judge on his velvet throne. The leather of the chairs was soft, the clinking of silver cutlery around us was almost musical, and the candlelight danced in Grace’s brown eyes, which still seemed to be processing the magnitude of the moment.
It didn’t take long for the waiters, moving with the precision of well-trained ghosts, to appear and take our orders. The menu was a constellation of French names that seemed to intimidate Grace.
“Eziquel, what do you suggest to open the palate?” I asked, leaning back in my chair and observing the master of the arts.
“Oh, my dear man, for a night of revelations, nothing less than the classic: Escargot,” he replied, his ring-adorned fingers gesturing in the air with enthusiasm.
“I’ll pass,” I shot back with a dry smile. “I find them a bit too revolting for my taste. But Grace… you should try them. It’s a necessary experience.”
She looked at me sideways, hesitant, and whispered so only I could hear:
“I’m going to eat the same thing as you, Luke… I don’t know half of what’s written here.”
“Trust me,” I whispered back, feeling the proximity of her body. “*Escargot* for the lady, and for me, the *Foie Gras*. You can bring one for her as well.”
“What is that last one?” she asked, curious.
“If I tell you the method of preparation, you’ll refuse to taste it. Better to savor the texture first and let the palate decide,” I replied with a complicit wink. Eziquel let out a short laugh, his eyes gleaming with amusement, and nodded, confirming that mystery was, indeed, the best seasoning.
As soon as the waiters withdrew, the air between us shifted. The tone became more confessional, less focused on protocol and more on the souls sitting at that table. Eziquel crossed his hands under his chin, fixing his attentive gaze on Grace.
“You know, my dear, I was eager for this meeting. Luke rarely goes to the trouble of interceding for someone with such vehemence. For him to organize a meeting of this magnitude, you must occupy a very special place in his heart.”
The comment, loaded with an obvious intent to probe our depth, could have left Grace disconcerted. But she, now more relaxed and acclimated to the scent of the wine and the warmth of the environment, gave a smile that mixed sweetness with an enigmatic wisdom.
“Sometimes,” she began, her voice soft yet firm, “the wooden floor of an atelier can be a more sacred place than this restaurant. It has the power to make people expose their feelings and grow closer in ways no one imagines.”
Eziquel frowned for a brief second, the metaphorical response hanging in the air like an abstract brushstroke he hadn’t yet deciphered. However, as he shifted his gaze to me and found the smile I couldn’t (or didn’t want to) hide, the piece clicked into place in his mind.
In that instant, the noise of the restaurant seemed to fall silent. My mind traveled back to that Saturday morning—to the smell of oil paint and old wood. I saw myself again, lying on that hard floor beside Grace, feeling the dust and the truth. In that atelier, far from Bianca’s suits or the power games with Artem, I had stripped away my defenses. I had exposed the ghosts of my past and the gears of worry that moved my current life. Grace hadn’t just known the Luke who dominates; she had known the Luke who bleeds.
Eziquel let out a sigh of satisfaction, realizing there was something there that his money could never buy.
“Ah… I understand,” Eziquel murmured, raising his glass. “Art does not imitate life, Luke. It strips it bare.”
I nodded in silence, agreeing with Eziquel’s observation. Art, indeed, had that nagging ability to undress us when we least expected it. The conversation flowed more lightly from there, sliding through trivial topics like Grace’s current job in a daycare—a waste of talent that Eziquel listened to with an aristocratic grimace of disdain—until the dishes were finally served.
The escargot arrived submerged in herb and garlic butter. Grace, armed with a courage that made me admire her even more, took the first one to her mouth. The result was immediate: an involuntary wince, her lips tightening in an expression of strangeness she tried, fruitlessly, to hide.
Eziquel and I broke into sincere laughter, shattering the rigidity of the posh surroundings.
“I’m so sorry!” she murmured, her face turning a shade of crimson that rivaled her dress.
“Don’t apologize, Grace,” I said, still smiling, feeling a lightness I rarely allowed myself. “The first time is always a cultural shock for the palate. It’s an… acquired taste.”
Next came the *foie gras*. She looked at me suspiciously, but after my insistence, she tried a small portion. Her eyes closed for a second, and the expression of pleasure that followed was the opposite of the previous one.
“This is… wonderful,” she admitted, surprised. “It’s your favorite, isn’t it?”
“The king of French cuisine,” I replied.
“And what is it, anyway?”
“Fattened goose liver,” I explained calmly. “They are force-fed so that the liver grows and gains this buttery texture.”
Grace stopped her fork in mid-air, shocked.
“Luke! That’s cruel!”
“It’s a delicious cruelty,” I teased, shrugging with light cynicism, receiving a reproachful look that only made me laugh harder.
Dinner continued through intense flavors and expensive wines, but I could feel the electricity in the air. Eziquel was watching us, studying Grace’s every gesture, our every interaction. When the plates were cleared and only the aroma of coffee and liqueur remained, the tone at the table changed. Eziquel leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands, and launched the question I knew was the turning point. The final test.
“Grace…” he began, his voice now devoid of any theatrical affectation. “Why do you paint? What makes you hold a brush instead of anything else in the world?”
The silence that followed was dense. I looked at her, hoping she wouldn’t try to give an over-intellectualized or technical answer. But Grace didn’t need a script. She looked into the distance for a moment, as if standing before a blank canvas, and then fixed her eyes on Eziquel.
“Since the first time I touched a canvas,” she began, her voice gaining a depth that seemed to vibrate in the room, “it was as if something missing in my life finally became complete. To me, the brush isn’t an instrument; it’s an extension of my own body. And the painting… the painting isn’t just paint. It’s the reflection of my soul, my pains, and my joys. I paint because it’s the only way I know to translate what I feel without needing words.”
A more than satisfied, almost triumphant smile lit up Eziquel’s face. He wasn’t just hearing an answer; he was witnessing the raw passion that separates artisans from artists. He looked at me and gave a slight nod—a gesture that sealed Grace’s fate that night.
In that moment, I knew I had won. But looking at Grace, I felt a pang of tightness in my chest. I had given her the world, but tomorrow, I would have to face my own hell.
—
Eziquel leaned forward, elbows resting on the white linen tablecloth, his eyes shining with the intensity of someone about to anoint a new talent. The playful tone from before was replaced by a professional seriousness that was almost solemn.
“Listen closely, my dear,” he began, his voice dropping to a confidential tone that seemed to exclude the rest of the restaurant. “Twice a year, I open the doors of my museum for what I call ‘The Vanguard of Tomorrow.’ It’s an exhibition dedicated to new names, but I always reserve a central pedestal—the heart of the show—for an artist I wish to highlight as the great revelation.”
He made a dramatic pause, observing the effect of his words on Grace’s face.
“Next Sunday, at four in the afternoon, I want that spotlight to be yours. I want to exhibit a brand-new painting of yours, Grace. Something the world hasn’t seen yet. You have until next Saturday to bring this work to life. I want something new, something visceral… something that surprises us.”
The silence that followed was sharp. I saw the exact moment the realization hit Grace. It was no longer just a promise whispered on a dusty atelier floor or a remote possibility articulated by me; it was reality knocking at the door, dressed in gala. She seemed to be in a trance, trying to process that her art would leave the anonymity of the shadows to inhabit the walls of the museum of one of the most influential men in the country.
Grace turned to me, and what I saw in her eyes broke the little ice left in my heart. Her brown eyes were watery, a storm of contained emotion, as she fought desperately to keep the first tear from falling in front of Eziquel. She looked to me for confirmation that this wasn’t a delusion, a cruel illusion I had constructed.
I kept my expression firm, though my hand beneath the table sought hers for a brief second to give her courage.
“Save the tears, Grace,” I said, my voice coming out firm but laced with a protective discipline. “You can only cry after everything goes right. For now, this is just an open door—an opportunity. You cry for achievements, not for promises. Focus on the brush.”
My words acted as an anchor. She took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in her throat, and wiped the beginning of moisture from her eyes with admirable dignity. She turned back to Eziquel, her posture now erect, accepting the burden and the glory of that challenge.
“I will give my best, Eziquel,” she affirmed, her voice now steady. “You will have what you are looking for.”
Eziquel broke into a radiant smile, leaning back in his chair with an air of triumph, as if he had just discovered a new color.
“I’m looking forward to it, my dear. I can’t wait to see what Grace’s soul has to say to the world this Saturday.”
I looked at my wristwatch. Grace’s clock was starting to run toward success.
The dinner was reaching its epilogue. Grace and Eziquel exchanged contacts, her fingers trembling slightly as she typed the number into his device. I took the moment to lean toward the tycoon, lowering my voice to a frequency only he would catch.
“Eziquel… no funny business with her. Understood?”
He let out a vibrant laugh, not at all offended.
“Oh, Luke! You know I don’t have the habit of stealing anyone’s treasure. My interest is purely aesthetic… and perhaps a bit commercial.”
We stood up and walked through the dining room in an unexpected atmosphere of camaraderie. To anyone looking from the outside, it looked like an idyllic scene of three old friends on a night of celebration. When we reached the register, I decided to close the night with my signature move. Before Eziquel could pull out his card, I approached the attendant.
“Put everything on Mr. Eziquel’s tab,” I announced with an impassive face.
Eziquel’s eyes widened, and he began to protest.
“Luke, what is this?”
I placed my hands on his shoulders, staring at him with a glint of irony in my eyes.
“You were the one who chose this absurdly expensive restaurant. It’s only fair that the host of the palate bears the consequences. It’s the least you can do for this discovery I’ve given you as a gift.”
I gave his shoulder two light taps, leaving him momentarily speechless. I pulled Grace by the arm—she was watching the scene completely static, not knowing if this was a joke or a monumental gaffe.
“Say goodbye to Eziquel, Grace,” I commanded.
She just waved her hand mechanically, still in shock from my audacity. Before crossing the exit, I looked back one last time. Eziquel was still standing there with an expression of pure bewilderment, while the cashier stared at him with ill-disguised shock. I gave him a provocative wink.
Eziquel finally let out a defeated sigh of laughter and turned to the cashier.
“Fine, I’ll pay for everything!” And then he shouted to me as I walked away: “Luke, don’t ever invite me to dinner again! Next time, I’m going to cause you a loss you won’t recover from!”
I just waved my hand behind my back, smiling. The valet brought the car, and the silence of the night enveloped us as soon as the doors closed.
“Luke… are you sure there’s no problem?” Grace asked, her voice heavy with worry. “Everything was so expensive…”
“Relax, Grace. Eziquel is filthy rich and loves these eccentricities. Deep down, he found it funny. I know him well enough to know this only made him more interested in our next encounter.”
I started the engine, leaving the glow of the restaurant behind. The damp asphalt reflected the city lights as the car slid smoothly.
“And so?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the road. “What did you think of your big night?”
“I loved everything,” she said, letting out a long sigh that seemed to carry all the nervousness of the past few hours. “I was terrified at first, thought I was going to faint, but… it all worked out. It was perfect.”
She paused, the silence in the car suddenly becoming dense, charged with an electricity different from that of the restaurant.
“But one thing is missing for it to be truly perfect,” she added, her voice low.
“What would that be?” I inquired, curious.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Grace blush violently. She turned her gaze to the window, but the question came out steady enough to fill the car’s cabin:
“Do you… want to sleep with me tonight?”
I felt my grip on the steering wheel tighten slightly. It was the last night before Saturday. Her invitation was the refuge I desired most, but it was also what made the possibility of not returning tomorrow so much more painful.
