Starving artist hadn’t been a stereotype, it had been a long, necessary reality. But it was officially in the past now. Just like the girl who’d pined for a man who could never love her. There was a new, wonderful reality to grow into.

The week before, she’d sold a piece for more than what it had cost her to go to art school. She didn’t recognize her bank account with more than three digits in it.

She turned in a circle, watching her paintings drift past. Around and around, a merry-go-round of color and music. Of light and life. She was officially a big fucking deal in the art world. Well, Alessandra Ballard was.

Just a few months ago, she’d sold a piece to some charming British guy in Florida just so he could stick it to an asshole. Remi liked him so much when Mr. Charm came back to negotiate the purchase of another piece his fiancée had fallen for, she gave him a discount that made Rajesh cry.

“Happy?” Rajesh asked, tucking his phone in his suit jacket and adjusting his cuffs. “Because if you’re not, you’re a big enough deal that you can throw a temper tantrum and make them rearrange the whole thing.”

Remi snorted. The gallery had gone above and beyond to make sure the entire collection was beautifully and respectfully displayed. Each painting had a nameplate that included the name of the piece as well as the song it had been inspired by. Throughout the evening, the playlist would run through each song, and the lighting would change to match the colors that synesthesia produced in her head.

It was a sensory experience that would give visitors and patrons an idea of what it was like to be in her world. She approved.

“I still say it would be even better if they could watch you paint something. Have one of the money bag buyers pick a song, and everyone could watch you paint it. They’d drop six figures easy for a piece you create on the spot in front of them.”

Remi rolled her eyes at him. “Nope.” No one watched her paint. That was a rule.

“There you go being difficult again.”

“I’m an artist. I’m temperamental. You don’t like it, go sell car insurance,” she said, snatching a glass of champagne off a tray.

“I’m just pointing out how you could raise your profile and your profits.”

“Yeah, by putting my process up for sale,” she complained. “Not happening. What happens between me and the paint and the music is personal. And I’m not letting your mercenary little heart commercialize it.” She booped him on the nose, just to annoy him.

“You’re missing a huge opportunity.”

“No one watches me paint.”

“Why?”

“I only paint naked,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m going to go eat half a tray of appetizers before they open the doors.”

She was mid-conversation with the gallery curator and a couple on the board of the Chicago Arts Coalition when heads turned toward the door.