Chapter 91
Chapter 9
Joanna knew who this guy was the second she saw him.
The artsy type, always scribbling, throwing shade with every word–Ryan, the third heir of the Newburn family, totally hooked on painting.
A wild plan sparked in her head.
Word was, Ryan had the shortest fuse in the Newburn crew.
If she got him riled up, maybe she could get herself kicked out of this joint.
Ryan was head over heels for The Night. So, if she trashed it, picking apart its flaws, he’d probably blow a gasket.
Honestly, Joanna thought the painting was just okay. She’d sketched it while nerding out over quantum mechanics, and it somehow got hyped to an insane price. She didn’t get the obsession.
But for a collector like Ryan? It was like a signed LeBron jersey. Fanboy vibes were strong.
Joanna hid a smirk. Roasting her own work? That’s a new level of savage.
She flicked her hand toward The Night.
“Hey, I’m calling this a fake ‘cause the pigment’s way too fancy. Sniff it–bone glue, camphor, musk, pine. Smells like someone got crafty with their own ink.“She leaned in, voice low. “But the real deal? Dollar–store acrylic, like five bucks a tube. Fades quick, smells like amp laundry. Total cheapo.”
“And this ‘The Night‘ hype?” she said, shrugging. “It’s just a psych trick. Like one of those viral brain–teaser pics people overthink. The artist’s got clout, sure, but her stuff’s not some masterpiece. It’s just… neat. Vibes with some folks.”
Ryan stood there, dead still, then flashed a cold grin, brushing off his jacket.
“What do you know about art? A masterpiece is a masterpiece!” he snapped. “Yeah, this Night’s a fake–I painted it. “Couldn’t score the original. But don’t think you can just sniff out ink and talk trash.”
He pointed at her. “You don’t get to hate on it.”
Joanna laughed, nodding at the painting.
“Hate on it? Dude, what, I need a fancy art degree to have a take? Some art’s all classy, sure, but the stuff regular folks dig?
That’s art too.”
She crossed her arms, chill as ever. “Art’s whatever you make of it. You’re obsessed with The Night? Cool. Me? I’m not feeling it. I’m more into that drip painting over there.”
Joanna knew Ryan was cocky, pride practically oozing out of him. Time to jab that ego.
He loved her work? Fine, but she wasn’t gonna act like it was the only art worth a damn.
She pointed at a wild black–and–white painting, all messy lines with no clear shape, her voice soft but pointed.
“This one’s got brown, white, black lines all jumbled up,” she said. “Looks chaotic, but you can feel it–the artist’s fighting, like they’re stuck in a trap and clawing out.”
She tilted her head. “A painting’s worth isn’t just the paint. The Night was made with bargain–bin pigment but sold for 600
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Chapter 9
million. Why? ‘Cause people slapped that price on it.”
Ryan’s brows furrowed, his eyes narrowing as he sized her up.
He stood straighter, voice sharp. “Nah, that painting’s worth every penny!”
Joanna jabbed a finger at it. “Its value’s whatever someone’s ready to drop at auction.”
Joanna tapped the wall, smirking.“If you bid 500 million and your rival’s cheap, it’s a 500–million–dollar piece. If I throw 600 million at this drip painting? Boom, it’s worth 600 million.”
Ryan’s hand clenched at his side. Her words hit him like a fastball.
They didn’t match how he saw things, how he’d always thought. It was like a new vibe was messing with his head.
Value… is it really what I thought?‘ he wondered.
He’d been called the Newburn family’s screw–up, his art labeled garbage. But maybe… maybe his work just hadn’t found its hype man.
Maybe he didn’t just need inspiration. Maybe he needed someone who got him.
Like a singer looking for the one fan who feels his lyrics.
‘She’s out here dropping truth bombs like it’s nothing–could she really be the one who gets it? Who sees me?‘ Ryan thought, his heart sparking with a hope he hadn’t even realized was buried deep inside.
