The Seven-Day Agreement

Vera was not finished. She grabbed the microphone and hurled it at the painting on display behind me.

It was the last piece my mother had ever painted, the only thing she left me before she died.

The room erupted. I did not stop to think. I pushed forward, trying to reach the painting, but before I took two steps the press closed in around me from every direction. They shoved microphones toward my face and made it impossible to move.

“Mr. Spencer, can you explain what happened here? Did you really take something that belonged to someone else?”

“Mr. Spencer, you have always presented yourself as an independent artist. Why would you bully an innocent person?”

“Mr. Spencer, are you not ashamed of what you have done?”

“Mr. Spencer…”

The questions came one after another until I could barely breathe. I tried to steady myself and stand, but the reporters pressed in closer, climbing over each other as if they wanted to swallow me whole.

With no other choice, I called out to Vera and told her it was the last painting my mother ever made.

Vera hesitated, and her raised hand dropped slightly. In the next moment, Austin pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the easel, playing up how shaken he was.

The painting crashed to the floor, and he stepped on it in the chaos, crushing it again and again.

“Vera, I did not mean to. I did not know the stand was unstable.

“Sean is going to lose it on me. I am scared.”

Vera pulled him into her arms without a second thought. She rubbed his back and told him it was fine.

“It was something that belonged to a dead person. It was morbid to keep it around anyway.”

I stood trapped in the crowd, staring at the ruined painting on the floor, unable to move or speak.

That evening, the story of a rising painter playing the third wheel for love reached the top of the trending searches, and the hate comments poured in.

“No wonder he gets to hold exhibitions in the city. Turns out he slept his way there.”

“Do not jump to conclusions. Could be other things he did on his knees.”

“I always said it. There are no real artists anymore, only people who know the right people.”

“Wonder what a night with this one costs. My boss turns sixty-eight this year and wants something premium.”

“Why bother paying? Just buy a few of his paintings. Call it supporting the arts.”

“Artists were never clean to begin with. Boycott every young painter going forward and be done with it.”

I sat alone in my studio and scrolled through every comment. Each one settled deeper than it should have. The noise downstairs broke the silence, and then Vera rushed up and pulled me into her arms before I could speak.

“Sean, I am sorry. I had no idea it would blow up like this.

“I already had the trending posts taken down, and our legal team sent warnings to everyone who posted those comments. As for Austin, I know what happened now. He went too far, and I will make him apologize to you.”

I looked up at her. “My mother’s painting is gone. And all he has to do is apologize?”

Vera stiffened. Her gaze shifted away.

“There is also… I will make sure he is banned from going out or spending money for three days.”

I pulled back from her arms with a short, humorless smile. “That is it?”

Vera’s expression tightened, and an edge entered her voice.

“Sean, Austin is still so young. He is a kid who does not know better. Would it kill you to cut him some slack?

“And another thing. I never liked you painting. Do you know how much it bothers me every time I see paint on your hands or smell it on your clothes?

“And your mother was not a famous artist. It was only a painting. I will have someone make a better copy if it means that much to you. Can you stop turning this into something bigger than it is?”