Chapter 2 — Faces in the Crowd

Hannah Sinclair

The gentle hum of conversation ebbed and flowed through the gilded halls of St. Martin’s Auction House, mingling with the faint clinking of glasses and the occasional ripple of polite laughter. Hannah felt as though she were moving underwater, the weight of the room pressing down on her as she and Claire wove their way through the opulent crowd.

“Smile,” Claire whispered under her breath, nudging Hannah with her elbow. “You look like you’re walking to your own execution.”

Hannah forced her lips into a semblance of a smile, but her jaw remained tight. Everything about this place—its marble floors, its soaring glass walls, the curated perfection of its attendees—felt as though it had been designed to make her feel small, an intruder in a world meant for someone else.

Claire, however, was entirely at ease. She moved with her usual confidence, her bold patterned dress standing out amidst the sea of muted grays and blacks. Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of curiosity and mischief, darting between the various clusters of collectors, critics, and artists who seemed engaged in an intricate game of social chess.

“Just breathe,” Claire added, her voice softening. “Remember, you belong here as much as anyone else.”

Hannah wasn’t so sure. Her gaze flickered to the painting that had brought her here—*Fractured Light*. Under the spotlight, it almost seemed alive, its jagged lines and swirling colors shifting with the changing angles of the light. Seeing it displayed like this, amidst works by celebrated artists, was a jolt to her system.

It was beautiful, she realized with a pang of surprise. For years, all she had associated with this piece was failure and ridicule. But now, there was something about its rawness, its vulnerability, that struck a chord. She remembered the long nights spent creating it, pouring everything she felt—anger, grief, hope—into its chaotic strokes. It felt like a piece of herself hanging there, exposed and vulnerable.

Before she could dwell on the thought, a ripple of movement to her left caught her attention. A cluster of impeccably dressed attendees parted slightly, revealing Mark Weston at its center, his presence magnetic and inescapable.

Hannah tensed, her earlier composure slipping. The man hadn’t aged a day since the last time she saw him, his sharp features as polished as ever. He was laughing at something a gallery owner had said, his hand resting lightly on the edge of a champagne flute. But even as he appeared at ease, there was a sharpness to his movements, a calculated precision that kept the room orbiting around him.

Claire followed Hannah’s gaze and let out a low whistle. “Well, if it isn’t the king of smug himself. Think he’ll stop by for another round of ‘constructive criticism’?”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about it,” Hannah muttered, clutching her glass of water a little too tightly.

Claire’s expression softened. “Sorry. Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

“You’re going to do great,” Claire said firmly, squeezing Hannah’s arm. “And if he so much as breathes in your direction, you let me at him.”

Hannah couldn’t help but smile faintly, the tension in her chest easing just slightly. Claire always had a way of making her feel less alone.

They continued their slow circuit of the room, stopping occasionally to admire the pieces on display. Most of the works were bold, conceptual statements—elaborate installations, abstract sculptures, and canvases that seemed to dare viewers to interpret them. Hannah’s painting, with its emotional complexity and vibrant palette, felt out of place here, like an imposter masquerading as one of the elite.

And yet, as the evening wore on, she began to notice something unexpected. People were stopping to look at *Fractured Light*. Not just glancing, but lingering, their expressions thoughtful and contemplative. A pair of collectors murmured to each other in hushed tones, their eyes fixed on the painting. A young woman in a sleek black dress pulled out her phone to snap a quick picture before moving on.

Hannah’s stomach tightened. She wasn’t sure whether to feel elated or terrified.

“What are they seeing?” she whispered aloud, more to herself than to Claire.

Claire leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial murmur. “They’re seeing something real. Something they can’t fake with all their fancy talk.”

Hannah swallowed hard. “But what if it’s just... luck? Or novelty?”

Claire shook her head firmly. “It’s not. Look at them. They’re drawn in, Hannah. You can’t fake that.”

Before Hannah could respond, a sudden hush fell over the room, followed by the distinctive sound of a gavel striking wood. The auction was about to begin.

They moved toward the main hall, where rows of plush seats faced a raised platform. The murmur of anticipation was palpable as attendees settled into place. Hannah and Claire found seats near the back, close enough to see the action but distant enough to avoid drawing attention.

The auctioneer, a poised woman with a crisp British accent, took the stage and began introducing the evening’s lots. The energy in the room shifted with each piece, the tension rising as bids climbed higher and higher.

Hannah’s nerves were a live wire, snapping and sparking with every passing moment. She barely registered the first few items, her attention fixed entirely on her own impending moment.

Finally, the auctioneer’s voice rang out, clear and commanding: “Lot number fourteen, *Fractured Light* by Hannah Sinclair. A stunning exploration of chaos and harmony, this piece invites the viewer into a deeply emotional narrative. Shall we begin the bidding at five thousand?”

The room seemed to hold its breath. Hannah’s pulse thundered in her ears.

“Five thousand,” came a voice near the front.

“Six thousand.”

“Seven.”

The numbers climbed steadily, each new bid a shock to Hannah’s system. She had expected it to sell, of course—that was the point of the auction—but this? This was surreal.

When the bidding reached fifteen thousand, a murmur rippled through the crowd. Hannah’s grip on her glass tightened to the point where she feared it might shatter.

“Going once,” the auctioneer intoned, her voice calm but commanding. “Going twice...”

“Twenty thousand,” a voice interrupted, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Heads turned, searching for the source of the bid. Hannah’s stomach dropped as she saw who had spoken.

Mark Weston.

He was leaning back in his chair, his expression unreadable, as though this were all a matter of casual interest. But there was a glint in his eyes that set Hannah’s teeth on edge.

“Twenty-five,” came another voice, pulling the attention away from Mark. The bidding resumed, climbing higher and higher until it finally closed at thirty-five thousand.

A round of polite applause followed, but Hannah barely heard it. Her focus was locked on Mark, who had risen from his seat and was making his way toward her.

“Brace yourself,” Claire whispered, her tone light but her expression wary.

Mark stopped a few feet away, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice smooth and deceptively warm. “Thirty-five thousand. Quite a leap from your earlier works.”

Hannah’s jaw tightened. “That was a long time ago.”

“Indeed it was. And yet, here we are.”

There was a flicker of something in his expression—curiosity, perhaps? Amusement? She couldn’t tell, and it infuriated her.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her voice clipped. “I need to—”

“To what?” he interrupted, his tone still maddeningly calm. “Revel in your success? Or perhaps plot your next move?”

Hannah’s fists clenched at her sides. His words were a calculated provocation, and she knew it. But she refused to rise to the bait.

“My next move,” she said evenly, “is none of your concern.”

Mark chuckled softly, the sound low and measured. “Fair enough. But let me give you a piece of advice, from one professional to another: the art world has a long memory. Be careful where you step.”

With that, he turned and disappeared back into the crowd, leaving Hannah standing there, her heart pounding and her mind racing.

Claire stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on Hannah’s arm. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Hannah admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. But as she looked back at the now-empty space where Mark had stood, a spark of determination ignited within her.

Whatever game he was playing, she wasn’t going to let him win.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

Claire nodded, and together they left the hall, the buzz of the auction fading behind them. As they stepped into the cool night air, the weight of the evening began to ease. But in its place, a new resolve took root. This wasn’t the end. Not by a long shot.