"You're wasting your time," Victor said, his fork clinking against his plate.
"You think these... splashes of paint will feed you? You think galleries will respect you because you're talented?"
"I don't paint for respect, Father," she replied, quietly stabbing her chicken with her cutlery, clearly frustrated.
"I paint because it's the only thing that makes sense to me."
"You have the chance to build something real, Neoma. A future. Power. Legacy," he said softly, trying to persuade her.
She pushed her meal aside.
"Legacy is not made of steel and glass. It's what you leave in people's hearts."
Victor set down his wine glass harder than necessary. Her mother, as always, remained silent, her eyes flicking between them like a spectator at a chess match.
He studied his daughter, his own words echoing in his head: Legacy.
To her, it was some abstract idea.
To him, it was survival. Honor. He had built everything from the ground up—brick by brick, deal by deal. He had faced humiliation, rejection, and sacrifice. The skyscrapers, the company name, the wealth—it was the only armor he knew against the chaos of the world.
And here she was, tossing it all away like it meant nothing.
"You feed on my money. Your apartment, your car, clothes, and jewelry all come from this legacy you've refused to uphold. I've given you enough chances. Think twice and choose what's right…"
"I choose what's best for me, Father. This is what I have passion for. Painting is my whole life, and you know it. You can't just take it away from me. Cutting my allowance wasn't enough—now you want to take the building?" Neoma's voice rose slightly.
Her outburst made her father angry. It was obvious in his eyes.
"Oh yes, I will. That building is mine. You can't have it if you don't work for it."
He paused, jaw tightening.
"I had talent too. I was a great soccer player, but I had to handle serious matters—more than just racing after balls on a field."
There was a long pause.
"Fine. Have it your way then," Neoma dropped her fork and stormed out of the dining hall.
Seeing how furious her husband was, Emily reached across the table and gently held his hand.
"I'll talk to her," she said, giving him a reassuring look.
He let out a heavy breath and nodded slightly, then continued eating.
He had gifted her the gallery on her 23rd birthday. Within two years, the gallery had grown into an empire of paintings. He was proud of her—but who would take over when he died? He had thought making her a boss of her own would help her understand what it took to be in charge... but he was wrong.
**************
Neoma angrily slammed her bedroom door behind her. She hated coming to family dinners—it always ended like this. After she graduated from college, her father had started taking her to board meetings. She wore suits. She even closed some redevelopment deals. But she returned home every night feeling like a mannequin. Suits weren't her thing. Sitting at a desk with endless files wasn't her thing.
Her brother John had loved painting. She had taken interest in it from him. The first time she held a brush, it felt like her birthright. She had pure talent. When John died in a car accident, she buried her sorrow in painting. At first, she abandoned it because it reminded her of him. But then she realized—she never wanted to forget him. So she went back to painting. She never mentioned him when arguing with her father, but she knew he was in all their minds. She didn't want to remind them of their loss.
A knock on the door brought her out of her thoughts. Her mother entered with a warm smile. Neoma knew exactly why she was there—but she wasn't ready to change her mind. She didn't think she ever would be.
Emily sat on her daughter's bed, giving her a motherly smile.
"You look so much like your brother," was the first thing she said after a long pause. The loss of her only son had been heartbreaking. She had lost her womb due to complications while giving birth to Neoma. She loved her daughter and supported her in everything—but without clashing with her husband. She respected and loved him too. She had watched him work so hard for the company. Together, they had fought to build it. She couldn't bear to watch it come to ruins either.
"You gave us strength when John died. Seeing you hold up so well after his death gave us hope. Your paintings remind us of him—especially your father. That's why he supported you from the start. And giving you that gallery... it was to prepare you for this. This is your future. Your father's legacy."
"Mom... I'm not cut out for this. I can't."
"Oh yes, you can. And don't give up on painting either."
" But Mama it's not as easy as you think"
" I know, but you have to try. You'll get used to it, i promise" he mothe urged
"I'll think about it, Mama." she eventually said almost giving in
"Thank you, Neoma. Your father will be proud of you." Her mother hugged her tightly, kissed her forehead, and left the room.
"I wish you guys understood," Neoma whispered as she walked toward the window.
She had won trophies and awards as an artist. Her paintings were auctioned in other galleries.
The gallery was her whole life—and she was going to do everything in her power to save it.