Chapter 2: Still Stubborn

Maya's POV

Julian walks in the next morning with three people trailing behind him.

Two guys, one woman, all in their twenties wearing identical black BlackCanvas T-shirts. They're clutching laptops and tablets like weapons.

"My team," Julian says, gesturing vaguely. "Alex handles data analysis, Emma does user experience design, Marcus is tech implementation."

They nod at me. Polite but cold.

I can feel their eyes dissecting me. They know who I am. Julian's ex-wife. The woman who vanished two years ago.

"We analyzed your initial proposal." The guy—Alex—opens his laptop and projects something onto the wall. "Based on our AI model, audience engagement with interactive installations is 37% higher than static paintings. We're recommending you adjust the exhibition ratio. Bump digital installations up to 60%."

The screen fills with graphs and data curves.

My professional pride flares up.

"Mr. Black," I keep my voice level, "art isn't a data game. The emotional value of these paintings can't be measured by your algorithm."

Julian leans back in his chair, one eyebrow raised. "Emotions? Ms. Vance, emotions are quantifiable. Heart rate, pupil dilation, galvanic skin response—all measurable data points."

"That's not emotion." I lean forward. "That's your body reacting. Real emotional connection is when someone stands in front of a painting and sees their past, or their future, or some truth they've been too scared to face. That moment can't be captured by your sensors."

"Sounds poetic." His tone gives nothing away—mockery or sincerity, impossible to tell. "But I need an executable plan, not poetry."

We're staring at each other now.

The air feels combustible.

His team shifts uncomfortably, exchanging glances.

I'm the one who breaks first. Not because he's convinced me. Because I need this collaboration.

"Fine," I say. "I'll add interactive installations. But the core space, the main exhibition area—traditional oil paintings. Non-negotiable."

Julian studies me, something complicated moving behind his eyes.

After a long pause, he nods. "Deal."

The memory hits me without warning.

Eight months into our marriage, we had a similar fight.

I'd wanted to hang an abstract painting in our apartment.

"The colors disrupt the overall design harmony," Julian had said, standing in front of the canvas with his forehead creased. "The interior designer specified neutral tones for this space."

"But I love this painting." I'd held onto the frame. "It makes the place feel warm."

"Warmth can be achieved by adjusting the heating system."

"Julian!"

"Maya." He'd turned to look at me, genuinely confused. "I don't understand. It's just a painting. Why does this matter so much?"

I'd set the frame down.

"Because it's not 'just a painting,'" I'd said. "This was from the first exhibition I ever curated. This is my work, my passion, my—"

"I know." He'd cut me off, voice softer. "I know art is important to you."

"Then why do you keep dismissing it with data and logic?"

He'd gone quiet for a long time.

Then he'd walked over and touched the edge of the frame carefully. "Alright. Hang it up."

"Really?"

"Really." He'd looked at me with something in his eyes I couldn't read. "Maybe... maybe some things don't need logic to explain them."

That painting hung in our bedroom.

Until the divorce.

By day three, we're still at the gallery at ten at night.

Sophia left hours ago. It's just me and Julian now.

We're arguing about lighting design.

"Natural light and warm tones," I insist. "Artworks need warm lighting to reveal texture and subtle color variations."

"Programmable LED system," Julian counters. "Automatically adjusts based on time of day and visitor traffic. Optimal viewing experience."

"Optimal?" I can't help laughing. "Julian, art isn't an optimization problem."

"Why not?" He sets down his tablet and looks directly at me. "Why can't art be optimized? Why can't we use technology to help more people appreciate it, understand it?"

"Because some things, once you optimize them, lose what makes them matter."

"And what's that?"

"Imperfection," I say. "Vulnerability. Truth. The parts that can't be programmed."

Julian stares at me for a long moment.

Then he says, "You're still so stubborn."

I freeze.

He said "you," not "Ms. Vance."

"I mean..." He catches himself, immediately redirecting. "That kind of stubbornness might work in art circles. But in business partnerships—"

"I get it." I cut him off. "Business partnerships require compromise. So let's compromise. Warm-toned LEDs, programmable control, but keep manual adjustment as an option."

He nods. "Acceptable."

Silence again.

Awkward silence.

"It's late," Julian says, gathering his things. "See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

I walk him to the door.

His car is parked across the street.

I close the door and head back into the gallery, but I don't hear his engine start.

I move to the window and look out carefully.

Julian's still sitting in the driver's seat, hands on the steering wheel, head down.

He sits there for fifteen minutes.

Then finally drives away.

My fingers unconsciously touch my ring finger.

There hasn't been a ring there in a long time.

But sometimes, I still forget.

The next morning, Sophia signs for a package.

"For you," she says, setting it on my desk. "No sender info."

I open it.

A book.

Hardcover art book, deep red cloth binding with gold foil lettering: Rothko: The Masterworks.

My hands start shaking.

This book...

Three years ago, Vance Gallery held an auction. This book was one of the lots.

I'd stood in the corner of the auction hall, watching the bidding climb higher and higher.

Final price: twenty-three thousand dollars.

"Too expensive," I'd whispered to Julian, who was standing beside me. "Can't afford it. But it's beautiful."

He'd just nodded. Didn't say anything.

Now the book is lying in front of me.

I open to the first page. There's a note tucked inside.

Familiar handwriting:

"Art might not be quantifiable, but I remember you loved it."

No signature.

But I know who sent it.

Sophia peeks over. "Who's it from? What is that—wow, is that the Rothko monograph? Isn't this book out of print?"

I close it and hold it against my chest.

"Don't know," I lie. "Probably some artist friend."

But I'm distracted the entire day.

Keep imagining Julian buying this book.

How did he find it?

How much did it cost?

Why would he send it to me?

Aren't we supposed to be over?

That night, I'm alone in the gallery, flipping through the pages.

Rothko's color field paintings. Vast expanses of color, blurred edges, subtle layers.

People say looking at Rothko's paintings makes you cry.

Because those colors reach the softest parts of your heart.

I'm staring at one now—deep red bleeding into black, like a wound, like a sunset, like memory.

Tears are sliding down my face before I realize it.

Not because of the painting.

Because of the person who remembered I loved it.