If I ever want to experience a literal heart attack while standing perfectly still; I try being an intern pretending to be a Director while my actual boss is in the same building. No cap, my nervous system was screaming.
I spent the morning after Catherine's party back in the basement of Erwin's, wearing a baggy sweater to hide my exhaustion. I was sorting through shipping manifests for Arnold Grant's collection when Suzette walked in, looking like she'd just sucked a lemon.
"Ana, why is there a massive floral arrangement at the front desk addressed to 'Director Santos'?" she asked, crossing her arms. "And why did the delivery guy say it was from a 'William'?"
My heart stopped. For real, I forgot how to breathe for a second.
"Oh, that?" I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking. "Must be a mistake. Probably for one of the other Directors. I'll go tell them to move it."
"Better yet, throw them out," Renee added, following Suzette like a shadow. "Claire is in a mood. Julian Marx is breathing down her neck about the auction order, and if she sees flowers for someone who isn't her, she'll lose it."
I waited until they left, then sprinted to the lobby. The bouquet was massive—peonies and roses that probably cost more than my flight. I grabbed the card and tucked it into my pocket just as Gerard Abel walked by. He paused, squinting at me like he was trying to solve a difficult math problem
"You're the girl from Catherine's party," he said, his French accent making the words sound even more intimidating. "The one she called 'the future of New York.'"
"I was just... assisting," I stammered.
"Catherine doesn't ask assistants for their opinion on de Kooning," Gerard said, leaning in. "Be careful, petite. The art world is small. If you fall, everyone hears the thud."
The Auction Prep Chaos
By noon, the gallery was a war zone. The "Big Auction" was only forty-eight hours away, and the VIPs were starting to arrive for private viewings. This was where the real money happened.
I was busy polishing the glass on a display case when Amy called me from NYC.
"Ana! I just saw a post on a London socialite's IG," she whispered, sounding hyped. "Is that you in a black silk dress standing next to Julian Marx? Girl, what is happening?!"
"Amy, I'm literally living a double life," I hissed, ducking behind a pillar. "Will's mom thinks I'm the boss, and Claire thinks I'm a glorified coat rack. If they ever end up in the same room, I'm moving to a different continent. Fr."
"Just stay focused," Amy said. "I looked up Arnold Grant's file. He's obsessed with 'The Swan.' If you can get him to talk about that piece, Claire will have to notice you."
I hung up just in time to see Claire walking toward the center of the room with Arnold Grant himself. Arnold looked bored, which in the art world is a death sentence for a sale. Claire was trying her best, but she was leaning too hard into the technical stats.
"The brushwork is unparalleled for the period," Claire said, gesturing to a large canvas.
Arnold sighed. "It's a fine piece, Claire, but it lacks... spirit. I'm looking for something that speaks."
This was it. My "main character" moment, or my "get fired" moment. I stepped forward, pretending to adjust the lighting near the painting.
"Actually, Mr. Grant," I said, my heart pounding against my ribs. "The artist painted this while he was losing his sight. He wasn't looking for perfection; he was trying to capture the last thing he ever saw. It's not about the brushwork it's about the memory."
The room went dead silent. Claire looked at me like I'd just grown a second head. Suzette looked like she was about to faint. But Arnold Grant? He actually stopped walking. He looked at the painting, then at me.
"The last thing he saw," Arnold repeated quietly. "Finally. Someone who isn't reading from a script."
He spent the next twenty minutes talking to me. Me about the collection. Claire stayed in the background, her face a mask of cold fury, but she couldn't stop the conversation without looking unprofessional in front of a billionaire.
The First Class Date
I thought I'd survived the day until I checked my phone. William had texted me an address.
"Dinner at 8? I want to hear more about your 'vision' for the auction. And don't worry, I picked a place where no one will talk about provenance."
I knew I should stay in and work. I knew the lie was getting dangerous. But one look at the grey London rain and the thought of another cup of lukewarm coffee in the office made my choice for me. I put on Vivian's shoes, touched up my makeup in the gallery bathroom, and slipped out the back door.
The restaurant was tucked away in a cobblestone alley. It was intimate, lit by candles, and felt like a scene from a movie I had no business being in. Will was already there, looking like a dream.
"You look stressed," he said, pouring me a glass of wine. "The 'Director' life is catching up to you?"
"You have no idea," I laughed, and for the first time, it wasn't a fake laugh. "It's a lot of... managing expectations."
"You're good at it," Will said, his voice dropping an octave. "My mother hasn't stopped talking about you. She thinks you're the most refreshing thing to happen to Erwin's in a decade. And tbh? I think she's right."
We talked for hours. No art talk, no business, just... us. He told me about growing up in London, the pressure of his family name, and how he wanted to do something that actually mattered. I told him about my dreams of opening a gallery that didn't feel like a museum.
For a second, I forgot about the futon. I forgot about Claire. I forgot that I was a lie.
Then, the door opened.
A group of people walked in, laughing loudly. My heart dropped into my stomach. It was Suzette, Renee, and Gerard Abel.
"Is that... Ana?" Suzette's voice cut through the air like a knife.
I turned my head, trying to hide behind my hair, but it was too late. They were walking straight toward our table. Suzette's eyes went from my face to the expensive wine, then to Will, and finally to my "Director" outfit.
"Ana Santos," Gerard said, a smirk playing on his lips. "I didn't realize the assistants were allowed to dine at The Ivy. And with William? This is... unexpected."
Will looked confused, his eyes darting between me and Gerard. "Assistants? What are you talking about? Ana is the New York Director."
The silence that followed was deafening. Suzette started to laugh—a high, mocking sound that made me want to vanish into the floorboards.
"Director?" Suzette sneered. "She's the girl who fetches our dry cleaning and sleeps on a couch. She's an intern, Will. A low-level, unpaid, coffee-running intern."
I looked at Will. The look of pure shock and disappointment on his face was worse than any lecture Claire could ever give me. The castle in the air didn't just crumble; it exploded.
Tbh, I'm not just cooked. I'm burnt to a crisp.