Chapter 1 — Whispers at the Auction
Hannah Sinclair
The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the wide bay windows of Hannah Sinclair’s apartment. Dust motes danced in the golden light, floating above the cluttered desk where she worked. A watercolor sketch of a mischievous fox stared back at her, its tail curling across the paper in whimsical swirls. She sat back, her fingers stained with ink, and let out a sigh. The deadline for her latest children’s book illustration was close—too close—but she couldn’t force herself to finish.
The fox’s sly expression mocked her. “You’re adorable,” she muttered to the drawing, “but you’re not exactly Friedrich. Or Kandinsky.”
Her gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where an easel stood draped with an old sheet. Beneath it was a painting she hadn’t touched in years. A relic of her past, from before she left the world of conceptual art. Before Mark Weston. She pushed the thought away, but her fingers lingered on the edge of her sketchbook as the itch of restlessness crept in.
The sharp trill of her phone broke the silence. She reached for it, brushing aside a tangle of brushes and pens, and saw Claire’s name flashing on the screen.
“Hey, Claire.”
“Hannah, you’re home, right? I’m coming up.”
“What?” Hannah frowned but didn’t get the chance to finish her question. Claire had already hung up.
Moments later, the sound of cheerful humming and the click of boots on the stairs announced Claire’s arrival. The door swung open, and Claire burst in, holding a sleek black envelope.
“What’s this?” Claire asked, brandishing the envelope like it was a golden ticket.
Hannah squinted at it. The embossed logo of St. Martin’s Auction House gleamed in the light. Her stomach tightened instinctively. “I don’t know. I haven’t checked the mail today.”
“Well, you’re in for a surprise!” Claire dropped her bag onto the couch and tore open the envelope with dramatic flair.
“Claire!”
“Relax, it’s not like it’s a subpoena. Let’s see...” Claire pulled out a thick sheet of ivory paper and scanned it quickly. Her expression shifted from curiosity to wide-eyed disbelief.
“I can’t believe this.”
“What?” Hannah asked, the tension in her chest ratcheting up a notch.
Claire handed her the letter. The elegant script seemed out of place in her modest living room.
Dear Ms. Sinclair,
We are pleased to inform you that your artwork, *Fractured Light*, has been included in our upcoming charity auction event at St. Martin’s Auction House. The auction will take place on Saturday evening and will feature works from several prominent artists...
The words blurred as Hannah read them. Her stomach twisted into a knot.
“*Fractured Light*? But that’s... that’s from... years ago. How is it in the auction?”
Claire perched on the armrest of the couch, her expression a mixture of sympathy and intrigue. “I mean, it’s definitely from that exhibition, right? The one that...”
“The one Mark Weston destroyed,” Hannah finished bitterly, the name sour on her tongue.
Claire winced. “I wasn’t going to say it like that, but yeah. I thought you sold all your pieces after that show.”
“I did—or at least I thought I did. Except...” Hannah’s voice faltered. Her gaze drifted back to the corner of the room, where the draped easel seemed to loom larger than before. She hadn’t been able to part with one piece from that ill-fated exhibition, though it had never seen the light of day since.
Claire followed her gaze, her voice softening. “You didn’t sell all of them, did you?”
Hannah shook her head slowly. “I kept one. Something I couldn’t let go of—something I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to. But not *Fractured Light*. That one... I don’t know how it ended up at St. Martin’s.”
“Maybe the buyer consigned it? This is a charity auction, after all. People love showing off their good taste at these things.”
Hannah let out a humorless laugh. “*Fractured Light* wasn’t exactly a crowd-pleaser, Claire. Remember? It was the piece Mark called ‘a hollow attempt at profundity.’”
Claire’s face darkened. “I remember. And I remember how wrong he was. Look, Hannah, I know this is weird, but maybe it’s a sign. A chance to—”
“To what?”
“To show them they were wrong about you. About your work. You’ve got to admit, it’s a little poetic.”
Hannah stood and began pacing the room, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. Every step stirred up memories she’d tried to bury: the cold, clinical lights of the gallery; the excited buzz of the crowd that night, turning to hushed whispers after Mark’s review came out; the humiliation of packing up her unsold pieces while the gallery staff avoided her eyes.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she admitted. The crack in her voice betrayed more than she wanted to reveal.
Claire stood and grabbed her shoulders gently but firmly. “You can. And you should. Look, you’re not the same person you were back then. You’ve got a career now. Confidence. And if Mark Weston is there—which, let’s be honest, he probably will be—you can prove that his opinion doesn’t define you anymore.”
“Claire, after everything that happened... I don’t know if I can face those people again.”
Claire’s gaze softened, but her grip on Hannah’s shoulders remained steady. “You don’t have to face them alone. I’ll be there. And anyway, this is your chance to remind them—and yourself—why you started painting in the first place.”
Hannah searched Claire’s face, looking for the cracks in her optimism, but found none. It was one of Claire’s maddeningly endearing qualities.
“I don’t even have anything to wear,” Hannah said weakly, a flimsy excuse that didn’t even convince herself.
Claire’s grin was wicked. “Oh, trust me. We’ll fix that.”
---
The night of the auction arrived faster than Hannah anticipated. Claire had insisted on taking her shopping, and now she stood in front of the mirror wearing a forest-green dress that hugged her frame in all the right places, paired with a statement necklace that felt equal parts bold and delicate. Her wavy auburn hair fell loosely around her shoulders, refusing to stay tamed despite her best efforts.
“You look stunning,” Claire announced as she swept into the room. “Now grab your coat. The car’s waiting.”
The drive to St. Martin’s Auction House was quiet, save for Claire’s occasional attempts to lighten the mood. Hannah stared out the window, watching the city blur past. The auction house loomed ahead, its gleaming glass façade reflecting the city lights like a beacon of unattainable sophistication.
Inside, the atmosphere was electric. The polished marble floors gleamed under soft lighting, while the low murmur of conversations was punctuated by the occasional clink of champagne glasses. Hannah’s eyes swept over the crowd, taking in the mix of sleek suits and avant-garde dresses.
“This is it,” Claire whispered. “Let’s find your piece.”
They wove through the crowd toward the display area. Hannah’s heart pounded as she caught sight of *Fractured Light*. It stood on an easel beneath a spotlight, its fractured, chaotic lines contrasted by the delicate interplay of color and shadow.
“It’s beautiful,” Claire said softly.
Hannah barely registered Claire’s words. She was too busy focusing on the small plaque beside the painting. Her stomach dropped when she saw the name listed: *Fractured Light, by Hannah Sinclair*.
“Fantastic,” she muttered to herself.
“What?” Claire asked.
“My name. Everyone knows it now. They’ll know it’s me.”
“That’s not a bad thing, Hannah. Let them know. Let them see.”
Before Hannah could respond, the sound of a familiar voice stopped her cold.
“Well, well. Hannah Sinclair.”
She turned slowly, her eyes locking onto Mark Weston. He stood just feet away, impeccably dressed in a black turtleneck and tailored blazer, his sharp features as composed as ever. His gray eyes glinted with a mix of curiosity and something she couldn’t quite place.
“I was wondering if I’d see you here,” he said smoothly, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Brave of you to return to the stage.”
Hannah’s pulse quickened. She straightened her shoulders, her voice steady despite the chill that ran down her spine. “I didn’t realize I ever left it.”
