The humiliation of my first show turning out to be a colossal failure is bad enough, but to have Oliver Strauss walk in...? I storm over to him and point toward the door.

“Turn around and walk right back out,” I tell him.

He smiles. “Sorry, Whitney, but I’m here on assignment. I have every right to spend as much time as I need here, seeing as I’m writing up a review of your work for a rather well-known paper.”

“What paper?” I ask. Priority News is long gone, and there’s no way Mr. Monohan would have hired Oliver to work at For the Record.

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information at this time.” He turns and starts walking down the line of paintings on the right wall. “Hmm...I’m sensing a pattern here. A rather unfortunate one. Tell me, Whitney, are you incapable of painting a different face? And why did you choose this particular face to repeat so many times? Did you obtain Alex’s permission first? You know you really are supposed to get permission before painting the likeness of someone, especially when your intent is to sell the work.” He scoffs. “Though I’m going to wager you won’t sell very many.”

“Are you finished?” I ask him.

“Not even close. I still have several more paintings to see.”

I resist the urge to let Oliver know how much he’s grating on my nerves right now. If I make a scene at my own art show, I’ll become a laughing stock. The woman who couldn’t keep her cool against one critic. I’ll be damned if I give Oliver Strauss the satisfaction of being the one to ruin me. I’m sure it’s exactly what he’s hoping for.

I glance over my shoulder to see Alex’s gaze pinned on Oliver. I have no doubt he’d love to personally escort Oliver out of the building, probably via one of the large windows in the offices. To his credit, he’s keeping his distance and letting me handle this myself. I’m grateful for that much.

“Your brush strokes got a little sloppy with this one,” Oliver says.

That’s it. I’ve had enough of him. “Feel free to keep looking around,” I say. “I have to go mingle.”

He turns and surveys the exhibit. “With whom exactly?” He gestures to the nearly empty room. “All I see are your former boyfriend and his colleagues.”

“He’s not my former boyfriend, and the people with him are from a reputable newspaper, unlike the one your mother bought for you.” I’m starting to doubt he’s actually writing a piece on my show. He’s most likely only here to get under my skin as payback for the role I played in his demise.

“I’m an excellent reporter, Whitney. Ask any one of Alex’s coworkers. Even they can’t deny that. I’ll bounce back from your pathetic attempt to ruin my career. In fact, I’m already doing just that.” He leans toward me, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Alex take two steps in my direction.

I hold my hand up both to Oliver and Alex. Alex stops, but Oliver doesn’t.

“The paper I’m writing for is The Sentinel. Your little show isn’t exactly front page news or local news for The Sentinel, but I’ll put a spin on it that makes it worthy of their readers’ time.”

Even I know The Sentinel is a huge paper. If Oliver rips me apart in that paper, my career will be over before it even begins.

“I think I’ve seen all I need to see, but let me get a quote from the artist herself before I go.”

My chest is heaving despite my attempt to remain visibly calm—at least until he leaves.

“How does it feel to be the kind of artist people will accept work from for free, but no one will pay good money for?”

“Look around, Oliver. Some of these paintings have ‘Sold’ signs on them. If you’re going to report the news, you should really make sure you have your facts straight,” I say, keeping my voice even.

“Huh? Let’s take a look then, shall we?” He walks over to the vase of flowers Aria purchased. “One small painting here.” He continues around the room. “Not sold. Not sold. Not sold.” He pauses. “Oh, and this one here is also not sold.”

I’ve never wanted to beat someone over the head with my own artwork before, but Oliver is really tempting me to do so.

He finally reaches the guitar player I’ve sold. “Ah, here it is.” He folds his hands behind his back. “Notice that the only two you’ve sold don’t seem to have that same face you’ve painted over and over again.” He turns to look at me. “What does that tell you?”

“That you’re a complete dick and you need to get the hell out of here before I give you a black eye,” Elana says.

I widen my eyes at her.

“I’m sorry, Whit, but I’m not letting this asshole talk to you like that. He obviously doesn’t have an eye for art.” She grabs his shirt, which has a paisley print. “Though that’s obvious judging by his sense of fashion.”

He yanks his arm free. “If I’m the one who has no eye for art, then why aren’t people flocking to see Whitney’s work?”

He’s right. I painted so many pieces specifically for the business owners, and not a one has shown up. They’ll take my free artwork, but they don’t deem me worthy of paying. Everything Oliver said is true. I did get sloppy with my brushstrokes because I was trying to paint so much in such a short amount of time. I rushed. And Alex’s face is all over these paintings. He’s an incredibly attractive man, but by portraying him repeatedly, I lost a huge audience for my work.

“Excuse me,” I say, walking toward one of the closed offices. Thankfully, the door isn’t locked, and I go inside and sink to the floor. I pull my knees to my chest and rest my head on them.

A soft knock sounds before the door is pushed open. I’m expecting Elana, but Alex pokes his head into the room.

“May I come in?” he asks.

I nod.

He closes the door behind him and sits down next to me, leaning his back against the wall. “Don’t let Oliver ruin today for you. The man is an ass, and everyone knows it.”

“He’s writing for The Sentinel now. He’s going to rip me to shreds in one of the biggest papers in—”

“Wait.” Alex places his hand on my arm. “That can’t be right. Paul Weston would never hire Oliver. He passed him up for a job once before, and according to Nate, Weston hates Oliver and Marjorie Strauss.”

“You think he was lying?” I wipe the tear that spills from my right eye.

Alex thinks for a moment and then pulls his phone from his back pocket. “Mr. Monohan, it’s Alex. I just ran into Oliver Strauss, and he says he’s writing for The Sentinel now. He’s covering Whitney’s art show.” He pauses before saying. “Okay. Thanks.”

As soon as he hangs up, I ask, “Is it true?”

“Mr. Monohan doesn’t see how it could be, but he’s calling Weston now to find out for sure.” He leans his head back on the wall, lost in his own thoughts.

“How badly did you want to hit him?” I ask.

His shoulders bob slightly as he laughs. “I wanted to rip his head off.”

“Thank you for letting me handle it, even though I did a terrible job of it.”

“I thought you maintained your composure quite well.”

“Maybe too well since Elana felt the need to step in.”

“Do you want me to see if he’s still out there? Knowing him, he left the second you did.”

Yeah, because I gave him exactly what he came for. I ran off crying. Before I can answer, Alex’s phone rings.

“It’s Monohan,” he tells me, before answering the call. “Figures. He told me he was using a different name. What’s Mr. Weston planning to do?” He nods and smiles. “I definitely need to see that.” He stands up and gives me his hand. “Thanks, Mr. Monohan. Right. Terry.” He hangs up.

“What’s going on? What do you need to see?”

“Weston is calling Oliver right now to fire him.” He opens the door, and his smile grows. “He’s still here. Come on. We have to make sure he doesn’t leave so we can witness this phone call.” He rushes out with me right behind him.

The For the Record crew has him surrounded. Thank God there aren’t any other people here to witness this. At least something good came out of the poor attendance.

Oliver is yelling at Nate, when his phone rings. Alex and I stop a few feet away from him.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Alex asks.

“That’s what voice mail is for,” he says. “I’d much rather continue this conversation with Nate.”

“I think you should answer it,” I say. “It could be important.” I give him a knowing smile he can’t ignore.

He narrows his eyes at me before bringing the phone to his ear. “Hello?” Oliver answers, his voice much more terse than it would be if he knew who was calling him. His eyes widen, and he tries to move away from us, but we have him surrounded. “Who gave you this number?”

Paul Weston is talking so loudly I can almost make out what he’s saying.

“I see, but sir, I knew if you read my work you’d see that I’m Sentinel material.”

Weston yells, and Oliver has to pull the phone away from his ear. “You’re shit, Strauss. That’s what you are. And you’re fired. If you ever contact one of my papers again, I will bury you in this industry.”

Oliver hangs up before Weston can say any more. His eyes lock on Alex, knowing he’s the one who had Mr. Weston notified of Oliver’s true identity. “I’ll kill you for this.”

“Hey, Oliver,” Emily says, her phone held up. “Smile for the camera. Do you have anything you want to add to that performance before I run it in tonight’s online edition?”

“You...?” He advances on Emily, but David steps in front of her.

Oliver stops and whirls around toward the exit. Nate and Aria step aside, letting him leave.

As soon as he’s gone, Alex wraps his arms around me. “It’s over. He’s gone, and he’s not publishing anything on this art show.”

As happy as I am that Oliver is gone and the article won’t get written, it doesn’t change the fact that this exhibit is a flop. “He was right. I haven’t sold anything to anyone I don’t know. I failed, Alex.”

“The evening isn’t over yet,” he says, rubbing my arm.

“The only thing that would save it is if the painting of your face sells for that ridiculous amount I put on the price tag.” And that’s never going to happen. Come tomorrow, I’m going to have to call Caleb about that open waitress position at Last Call.