The man in the dark suit pulled out the chair across from me without asking and set the drawing down between us with a care my father had never once shown my work. “My name is Desmond Hale,” he said. “I own this restaurant, and three others in the city. This building you’ve drawn here,” he tapped the paper, “is the Ashcroft Tower. I developed it. I have spent two years looking for an artist to capture my properties for a gallery installation in my flagship hotel, and I have not found a single one who sees the city the way this drawing sees it.”

I could barely speak. Behind him, Trevor stood holding my portfolio like it was something precious. “The bill,” I finally managed. “I can’t pay it. My parents left me here to humiliate me.” Desmond’s expression hardened, not at me, but at the empty chairs where my mother and father had sat. “I gathered as much from my manager,” he said. “So here is what I’m going to propose, Miss Mitchell, and I want you to listen carefully, because it’s going to change the entire shape of this evening.”