Sixth Time’s a Charm

Isabelle

The Parisian sky was an unforgiving slate of gray as I hurried through the narrow streets of Montmartre, my worn-out sneakers slapping against the cobblestones. The dampness in the air seeped into my bones, amplifying the coldness I felt inside. My life had become a canvas of chaos, smeared with broad strokes of desperation and anxiety. 

“Isabelle, we’re cutting your hours again.”

The words from my manager at the café still echoed in my ears. That part-time job was the only stable income I had, and losing even a few hours meant an even tighter squeeze on my already minuscule budget. Rent was due in a week, and I had barely enough to cover it, let alone the mounting utility bills and the meager groceries that kept me going.

As I turned the corner, the comforting sight of my favorite art supply store came into view. The smell of paint and canvas was a solace, a brief escape from my troubles. My fingers itched to create, but without money for supplies, my passion remained just out of reach.

My small apartment, just a few blocks away, was a sanctuary of sorts. It was cluttered with unfinished canvases and sketches pinned to the walls. It was far from the spacious studio I dreamed of, but it was mine. I pushed the door open, letting it creak shut behind me as I surveyed the chaos. The sight of my half-finished masterpiece, a vibrant depiction of the Seine at sunset, mocked me from the easel. Inspiration was abundant, but resources were not.

The vibration of my phone pulled me from my thoughts. A text from Juliette, my best friend and fellow artist, lit up the screen.

Juliette: “Got us an invite to the Voss charity gala tonight. Be ready at 7. We’re gonna mingle with the elite! Dress nice ;)”

My heart skipped a beat. The Voss charity gala was one of the most prestigious events of the year, hosted by none other than Alexander Voss, the billionaire who seemed to have Paris at his feet. I couldn’t fathom why Juliette had thought it a good idea for us to attend, but the opportunity to network with influential people in the art world was too tempting to pass up.

I glanced at the clock. Four hours. Panic set in as I realized I had nothing suitable to wear. My wardrobe consisted of paint-stained jeans and oversized sweaters, hardly the attire for a high-society event.

“Okay, Isabelle, think,” I muttered to myself, rifling through my closet. Buried at the back was an old dress, black and simple, a relic from a better time when I could afford such luxuries. It would have to do.

By the time Juliette arrived, I had managed to make myself presentable. She breezed in, her vivacious energy filling the room, and immediately started fussing over my hair and makeup.

“You look stunning, Isa. This is going to be amazing!” she exclaimed, her enthusiasm infectious.

We arrived at the venue, a grand chateau on the outskirts of the city, just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The courtyard was filled with luxury cars and elegantly dressed guests, the air buzzing with chatter and the clinking of champagne glasses.

Inside, the gala was a sensory overload. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the opulent décor, and the scent of expensive perfume mingled with the aroma of gourmet hors d’oeuvres. My heart raced as I took it all in. This was a different world, one where wealth and influence reigned supreme.

Juliette and I wove through the crowd, exchanging polite smiles and making small talk with other attendees. My mind was a whirl of thoughts, half-focused on the conversations and half on the realization of how out of place I felt. That’s when I spotted him.

Alexander Voss stood at the center of a small group, his presence commanding the room. Tall and impeccably dressed, he exuded an air of control and confidence that was almost palpable. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room with a mixture of boredom and disdain, as if he had seen it all before.

“Come on, let’s get closer,” Juliette whispered, nudging me forward.

Reluctantly, I allowed myself to be drawn into his orbit. As we approached, I caught snippets of conversation—business deals, charity donations, and political maneuvering. It was all so far removed from my reality.

Just as I was about to turn away, a haughty voice cut through the air.

“And who might you be?” The question was directed at me, delivered by a woman whose expression oozed condescension. She was one of the elites, her designer gown and diamond jewelry a stark contrast to my modest dress.

“I’m Isabelle Dupont, an artist,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady despite the wave of insecurity that washed over me.

“An artist?” she repeated, her tone dripping with disdain. “How quaint.”

Heat rushed to my face, and I felt the sting of tears threatening. But before I could respond, a new voice entered the conversation.

“Art is the heartbeat of culture,” Alexander Voss said, stepping forward. His gaze was fixed on me, and there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “What kind of art do you create, Miss Dupont?”

I swallowed hard, gathering my composure. “I paint scenes of Paris, mostly. Landscapes, cityscapes, capturing the beauty and essence of the city.”

He nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I’d like to see your work sometime.”

The woman who had spoken earlier looked scandalized, but Alexander’s attention had already shifted away from her. He extended his hand to me, and I hesitated only for a moment before taking it.

“It would be an honor,” I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Juliette and I continued to mingle, but my mind kept drifting back to that brief encounter with Alexander Voss. His interest in my art had been unexpected, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it meant.

Back in my apartment later that night, I replayed the evening’s events in my mind. The encounter with Alexander felt surreal, like a scene from a movie. Could this be the opportunity I had been waiting for? A chance to break free from my financial struggles and make a name for myself in the art world?