Tempting The Flames

The cool Mont Blanc air hurt my cheeks as I peered out the gallery window, the beautiful peak reflecting the icy chill in my heart.

The Evans Gallery, my family's legacy, was on the verge of financial collapse.

Disappointment gnawed at me. The eviction notice loomed large, a constant reminder of the precarious state of the gallery.

Five million dollars was a lifeline, but it wouldn't arrive overnight.

We needed to find a new location, and fast.

Rejection letters from grant applications are stacked up on my desk, each one a monument to our fading hope.

"Another dead end, Isabel?" Amelia's concerned voice interrupted my daydream.

The gallery's loyal but perpetually flustered assistant, who was wrestling with a particularly stubborn grandfather clock.

She was more than an employee; she was the gallery's spirit, a dedicated advocate against the unrelenting stream of business.

"Nothing promising, Am," I murmured. turning to meet her friendly, worn expression.

The lines imprinted around her eyes reflected a lifetime spent rooted in the language of art.

"There has to be another way," Amelia sighed, her attention drawn to a brilliant Van Gogh spinning with stars.

"This gallery holds too much history to simply… disappear." An icy dread settled in my stomach.

The possibility of the Evans Gallery falling into oblivion, its walls stripped of the lively stories it had housed, was distressing.

Suddenly, a recollection surfaced, one I'd fought to suppress - a name that shot tremors down my spine. "Alessandro Volkov," I said softly, the word flowing off my lips like a terrible curse.

"The Volkov Group?" Amelia's eyes widened. "The billionaire with a reputation for vicious acquisitions?"

I nodded, a sour flavor lingering on my tongue. "He isn't simply ruthless, Amelia.

He's like a force of nature, grabbing anything he wants with an iron hand and a smile that chills you to the bone, and also, don't forget his escapades with women”.

Years ago, I met Alessandro at a major art sale.

He was a predator in a tailored suit, his steely blue eyes searching the room with deliberate intent.

He'd set his sights on a specific Monet, a magnificent dance of water lilies, and would not stop until it was on his private walls, no matter what the cost.

I had dared to outbid him because of my teenage innocence and intense loyalty to the artist.

When the vote was dropped in my favor, there was a brief flash of surprise on his face, followed by a sharp flicker of determination.

He approached me later, his voice a low whisper that made me shudder.

"You've made a mistake, Miss Evans," he muttered, his stare fixed on mine.

"A mistake you'll come to regret." His statements were a terrifying prophecy.

Months later, a seemingly unconnected firm, thought to be a front for Volkov's massive empire, began building a gigantic high-rise across the street.

Suddenly, foot traffic to the gallery decreased, and potential contributors appeared to vanish into thin air.

It was a slow, choking torture planned by a man who never forgot an inconvenience.

"He'll squeeze the life out of this gallery before he throws us a lifeline,"

Amelia said, echoing my concerns. But, with each fleeting skepticism, another frantic thought emerged.

What if that lifeline was precisely what he was offering? The concept was daring, and insane. But the desperation eating at me surpassed the dangers.

A deadly idea began to form in my head, including a high-stakes gamble with the mysterious Alessandro Volkov.

"Amelia," I said, my voice hard with determination, "I have an idea.

A strange, daring concept, but perhaps just crazy enough to work."

I spent the next few hours presenting my strategy, my voice becoming more confident with each syllable.

The Mont Blanc peak outside appeared less intimidating now, replaced by an excitement of approaching disaster.

"I will invite him to a game, Amelia," I finished, with a twinkle of determination in my eyes.

"A game where the winner gets… Anything they want."

Amelia glared at me for a long time until a gentle smile came across her face.

"Isabel," she replied, her voice full of dread and apprehension

"you're either devious or nuts. Let us hope it is the former."

With shaky hands, I took up the phone and dialed a number I swore I'd never call again.

A relaxing, accented voice responded on the other end.

"Mr. Volkov," I replied, my voice remarkably calm, "I believe I have a proposition for you."

The silence that followed carried the weight of a thousand unanswered questions.

Then a quiet laugh came through which jolted me to reality about the trap I was setting for myself.

“ Fascinating Miss Evans,” he finally said,” My ears are itching to hear.”

The Confidence I had earlier began to wane but remembering he could be the gallery's saviour boosted my confidence, so i proceeded to tell him.

"Hmmm, a tempting proposition Miss Evans", he said in a seductive voice.

"A chance to win anything I want? Sounds enticing".

He gave a low chuckle, giving me the impression that he had a dangerous agenda.

"So, it seems we have a shared passion for… games, Miss Evans," he said after a while.

"Tell me, what are the rules of this… compelling gamble?”

I outlined the details, my voice steady. We stake till one of us wins.

"A simple game," he admitted, "yet with consequences far-reaching.

I admire your audacity, Miss Evans. but mind you I am very competitive and don't play easy. I always get what I want”. With that, he hung up the call.

Was that it? Did I intentionally set myself up as the ultimate price?

However, there was a tingling form of excitement in me which I desperately hoped would fade.

Different thoughts were rummaging through my mind.

Was risking the little savings in Evans Gallery on a bet with Alessandro Volkov really worth a shot?

And what would my fate be if I eventually lose?

Who would hold the winning hand?

Who would walk away with their heart's desire?