If there's one thing worse than being caught in a lie, it's the silence that follows. At that table in the restaurant, the air felt like it had been sucked out of the room. Will looked at me like I was a stranger—or worse, a prank he didn't find funny.
"An intern?" Will repeated, his voice flat. He wasn't even shouting, which somehow made it hurt more. "The New York Director thing... that was all just a script?"
I opened my mouth to say something anything—to explain that it started as a mistake, but Suzette wasn't done. She was practically vibrating with the joy of finally crushing me.
"She's a fraud, Will," Suzette said, leaning against the table with a smug grin. "She's been wearing borrowed clothes and playing dress-up since she stepped off that flight. Honestly, it's kind of pathetic. I guess the 'First Class' air went to her head."
Gerard Abel just shook his head, looking at me with a mix of pity and professional disgust. "I think it's best you leave, Ana. I'll be calling Claire tonight. I don't think there's a place for you at the auction tomorrow. Or at Erwin's, for that matter."
I didn't wait to hear another word. I grabbed my bag and bolted out of the restaurant, my heels clicking frantically against the cobblestones. The London rain was pouring now, and within seconds, Vivian's black silk dress was soaked and heavy. I looked like a literal drowned rat.
I looked back once, hoping Will would follow me, hoping he'd at least want to hear my side. But the door stayed shut. I was alone in a city where I had no job, no boyfriend, and—as of five minutes ago—no future.
The Morning After the Massacre
I didn't sleep. I sat in my tiny, cramped hotel room (the one Suzette moved me to after the "scheduling glitch") and stared at my phone. Amy had sent about fifty texts.
"Ana, talk to me! Suzette posted a cryptic story about 'imposters' in the art world. Tell me you're okay."
I wasn't okay. I was the opposite of okay. I was "unemployed and probably blacklisted from every gallery in the Western Hemisphere" okay.
At 7:00 AM, my phone buzzed with a call I couldn't ignore. Claire.
"My office. Now," was all she said.
Walking into the gallery was like walking to the gallows. Every staff member turned to look at me as I passed. The "Director" rumors had spread like wildfire. I found Claire standing in front of a massive Julian Marx original, her back to me.
"Do you know why I hired you, Ana?" she asked, her voice dangerously calm.
"Because I found the typo in the catalog?" I whispered.
"No," Claire turned around, her eyes like ice. "Because I thought you had the eye for detail that most people in this generation lack. But instead, you used that eye to craft a fantasy. You lied to Catherine. You lied to Julian. You lied to our biggest clients. You put the reputation of this entire house at risk for a First Class seat and a boy."
"Claire, I can explain—"
"There is nothing to explain. You're done. Suzette has your flight details back to New York. It's economy, and it's non-refundable. Pack your things."
The Last Stand
I walked out of her office, my head hanging low. I saw Suzette and Renee watching me, their faces full of triumph. I was ready to just give up, go back to the futon, and start applying for jobs at Starbucks.
But then, I saw the auction floor.
Arnold Grant was there, looking at "The Swan" painting I'd talked to him about. He looked confused, flipping through a new catalog that Claire's team had obviously rushed out. He looked up and saw me.
"Ana!" he called out. "This new briefing... it says this piece was painted during the artist's 'blue period.' But you told me it was about his loss of sight. Which is it? Because the 'blue period' is boring, but the story you told me... that's why I'm here to bid."
I looked at Claire, who was watching us from across the room. I looked at Julian Marx, who was waiting for an answer.
Tbh, this was the moment. I could walk away and be the "loser intern," or I could own the one thing that wasn't a lie: my knowledge of art.
"The catalog is wrong, Mr. Grant," I said, my voice finally steady. "The 'blue period' is the technical label, but the soul of the piece is exactly what we discussed. If Erwin's can't see that, then they don't deserve the collection."
Julian Marx stepped forward, his eyes narrowed. "That's a bold claim for an intern."
"I might be an intern," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "But I'm the only one in this room who actually bothered to read the artist's private journals instead of just the sales data. Mr. Grant isn't buying a canvas; he's buying a legacy. And if you let me handle the presentation for the auction tonight, I'll prove it."
The room went silent. Claire looked like she wanted to evaporate me on the spot, but Julian Marx was actually smiling.
"Claire," Julian said, his voice smooth. "The girl has a point. The pre-bids are down. We need a spark. Let her talk."
Claire looked like she'd just been forced to eat glass, but she nodded slowly. "Fine. You have until tonight to fix the presentation. But Ana? If you fail, I'll make sure you never even get a job as a museum tour guide."
The Unexpected Ally
I spent the next six hours working like a maniac. No more lies, just pure research. I was in the zone.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over my desk. I looked up, expecting Suzette, but it was Catherine.
"I heard the news," she said, her expression unreadable. "My son is quite heartbroken, you know. He doesn't like being played."
"I know," I said, looking down at my notes. "I never meant to hurt him. I just... I wanted to be someone who belonged in his world."
Catherine sighed, sitting down across from me. "Ana, you already belonged. You're the only person who's talked to me about art without trying to sell me something in months. Will didn't fall for a 'Director.' He fell for the girl who spilled a drink on him and then talked his ear off about Caravaggio."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, velvet box. "This was supposed to be a gift for the 'Director.' But I think the 'Intern' needs it more for the auction tonight."
Inside was a pair of diamond earrings that cost more than my life.
"Go save the auction, Ana," Catherine said with a wink. "And maybe save my son while you're at it."
I felt a surge of hope. Fr, I wasn't just doing this for a job anymore. I was doing this to prove that even a girl on a futon could change the world.
Tbh, the auction is tonight. The stakes are 10/10. And I'm finally ready to show them who Ana Santos really is.