Even Steven

I was ten years old.

They died. My parents.

It was raining the day of the funeral. The rain hit the rows of black umbrellas with a dull sound. A lot of people came. I wore a new black dress. The fabric was itchy. A woman had her arm around my shoulders. Her hand was heavy.

I saw him.

That man was standing in front of my parents’ coffins. He wore an expensive black suit. Rain dripped off the edge of his umbrella. He bowed his head, like he was paying his respects. Then he looked up, right at me.

He gave me a nod.

I’ll never forget that look. It wasn’t sad. It wasn’t sympathy. It was an acknowledgement. Like checking if something was really broken.

Later, he walked over, bent down, and said to me, “My condolences, little girl. Your parents were excellent people.”

His voice was low, with a strange kind of gentleness. I smelled his cologne. I remembered that smell for many years after.

After he walked away, the woman whispered to me, “That’s Mr. Sterling. He worked with your dad.”

I knew who he was. I also knew what he had done.

That night, I lay in the guest room at my relatives’ house. The curtains weren’t closed all the way, letting in a strip of streetlight. I looked at that grayish-white light.

I said to myself: I will find him. I will find all of them. I will make them pay.

Then I closed my eyes and started planning.

——

Sixteen years later.

Spring in New York is windy. I stood by the gallery’s floor-to-ceiling window, holding a coffee. The coffee was cold.

Outside was a Soho street. Tourists walked around, taking pictures with their phones. My reflection was in the glass. A twenty-six-year-old woman, dark brown hair cut to her collarbone, wearing a beige sweater and black pants. Very ordinary. Very proper.

My name is Ivy Cole.

At least, that’s my name now.

The gallery manager, Leah, walked over, her high heels clicking on the marble floor. “Ivy, how’s everything for the evening reception?”

“All set,” I turned and smiled at her. “Champagne’s on ice. Canapés arrive at six. Name cards for the patrons are out.”

“Perfect.” Leah patted my shoulder. “Tonight is important. The Sterlings might come.”

My heart skipped a beat, then kept going. Steady. “Sterling? The real estate company?”

“Yeah. They’ve been buying up old buildings in Chelsea lately. Word is the younger Sterling, Caden, is into contemporary art. If he shows up, make sure he’s well taken care of.”

“I will.”

Leah walked away. I put down my coffee cup and went to the restroom.

I locked the door and looked at my face in the mirror. This face wasn’t the same as when I was ten. Higher cheekbones, a sharper jawline. I learned how to smile so it looks sincere. How to make my eyes look gentle.

I practiced many times.

“Hello,” I whispered to the mirror, “I’m Ivy Cole. Master’s in Art History from Columbia. Nice to meet you.”

Then I dropped the smile.

“Your father killed my parents,” I said to the air, my voice calm. “I’m going to make you fall for me. Then I’m going to destroy you.”

I turned on the faucet and washed my hands. The water was cold.

——

The reception started at seven.

The gallery was packed. People held champagne flutes, talking softly in front of the paintings. The air smelled of perfume and alcohol.

I wore a simple black dress. My hair was neatly styled. I moved through the crowd, introducing works, answering boring questions. My eyes kept scanning the entrance.

At eight-forty, he arrived.

Caden Sterling.

He was taller than in photos. Broad shoulders, wearing a custom gray suit, no tie. His light brown hair was a bit messy, like it was on purpose. He walked in, glanced casually around the gallery. Two guys were with him, probably friends or security.

I adjusted my breathing.

This was the chance.

I picked up a tray with six champagne flutes. I walked towards his area. Calculated the angle. Calculated the timing.

Just as I was about to pass him, I let my foot slip.

Not a real slip. I’d practiced this.

The champagne glasses flew. Golden liquid splashed out, right onto his suit jacket.

A glass hit the floor and shattered.

The music played on, but the area went quiet for a second.

“Oh my god,” I said immediately, with just the right amount of panic in my voice. “I am so sorry. So sorry.”

Caden looked down at his jacket. The stain spread quickly on the gray fabric.

His friend started to say something. Caden held up a hand, stopping him.

Then he looked at me.

His eyes were light green. Like a summer lake. He looked at me. Not angry, not annoyed. It was a careful look. Top to bottom.

“It’s fine,” he said, his voice gentler than I expected. “Just a jacket.”

“I really am sorry,” I continued, bending down to pick up glass shards. “I was so clumsy. I’ll pay for the cleaning, or—"

“Don’t.” He said suddenly.

I stopped.

“You’ll cut yourself.” He bent down himself, picked up a large piece, and put it on my tray. “Let the cleaners handle it.”

He straightened up. We were close. I could smell his faint aftershave. Different from cologne. Fresher.

“You work here?” he asked.

“Curatorial assistant,” I said. “Ivy Cole. Again, really sorry, Mr. Sterling.”

“You know who I am.”

“Manager Leah mentioned you might come.” I gave an apologetic smile. “Didn’t expect to meet you like this, though.”

He smiled. It made him look younger. “Memorable.”

His friends called him from over there. Caden didn’t move.

“You like these paintings?” he asked, pointing at the walls.

“I do. Especially that blue-toned one.” I pointed further away. “The artist’s use of color is special. Looks calm, but there are lots of layers underneath.”

He looked at me again. That probing look was back. Like he was trying to see past my face.

“Ivy,” he repeated my name, like testing how it sounded. “You studied art?”

“Master’s in Art History from Columbia.”

“Smart.” He took two fresh champagne flutes from a passing waiter’s tray and handed me one. “A toast?”

“To what?”

“To me ruining my jacket.”

I took the glass. “Should be an apology toast.”

“Then to me accepting your apology.” He raised his glass.

We clinked glasses. A crisp sound. I took a small sip. Champagne bubbles popped on my tongue.

“So, Ivy Cole,” he said, “show me that blue-toned piece? Since you like it so much.”

“Of course.”

We walked towards the painting. He walked half a step beside me. I could feel people looking at us. Whispering.

In front of the painting, I started my explanation. The artist’s life. The context. The technique. I spoke smoothly. I had memorized all this.

Caden listened carefully. He looked at the painting, glancing at me occasionally.

“You explain it well,” he said when I finished. “Doesn’t sound like you’re reading from a script.”

“Thank you.”

“Do this often?”

“Do what?”

“Spill drinks on guests, then take them to see art.”

I smiled again. “First time. I’m usually steadier on my feet.”

He turned to face me fully. His light green eyes looked bright under the gallery lights.

“You know,” he said, “you seem a little nervous.”

My heart tightened, but my expression didn’t change. “Because I spilled champagne on you.”

“Not because I’m a Sterling?”

“That too, a little.” I was honest.

He smiled again. “Most people either suck up to me or avoid me. You don’t seem like either.”

“What do I seem like?”

“Observant.” He said, casual, but his eyes didn’t leave my face. “Like you’re trying to figure out what kind of person I am.”

I gripped my glass. The glass was cold.

“So what kind of person are you?” I asked.

“Complicated.” He said, finishing his champagne. “And tonight, my jacket is wet, so I gotta head out early.”

He put his empty glass on a nearby table.

“Nice meeting you, Ivy Cole.” He held out his hand.

I shook it. His hand was warm, firm, but didn’t squeeze hard.

“Likewise, Mr. Sterling.”

“Call me Caden.” He said, then let go, turned, and walked towards the exit.

After a few steps, he stopped and looked back at me.

“Oh yeah,” he said, “I’m having a get-together at my place in the Hamptons next week. Lots of art folks will be there. If you’re interested, I can have my assistant send you an invite.”

I nodded. “I’d be honored.”

“Good.”

He left. His friends followed. The gallery door opened and closed.

I stood there, looking at the blue-toned painting. The canvas was large swathes of deep and light blue, woven together. A seemingly calm sea surface.

My fingers were trembling slightly. I made a fist.

First step: done.

Leah came over, eyes shining. “I saw that! He talked to you for ages! And he invited you to a party?”

“Seems like it.”

“Oh my god, Ivy, you gotta seize this chance. Crumbs from the Sterlings’ table could feed this gallery for a year.”

“I know,” I said.

I turned and headed for the restroom. Locked the door, faced the mirror again.

In the mirror, my cheeks were a little flushed. My eyes were bright. Was it the excitement from the performance just now, or something else?

I turned on the faucet, splashed cold water on my face.

The water was icy.

I looked in the mirror and said to myself: Game on.

Then I fixed my hair, walked out of the restroom, and back to the reception.

Champagne still flowed. Music still played. People still laughed.

No one knew revenge had just begun.