The Last Flame

~Sophia~

I wasn't sure which weighed more heavily on my mind, the overwhelming scent of turpentine in my cramped art studio or the increasingly daily harsh reminders from my landlord about my outstanding rent.

Three months, that's how far behind I was on my rent. The last call from Mr. Kelvin had been less of a conversation and more of an ultimatum. "You have got a week, Sophia. No excuses this time," he'd said, his tone firm and final.

I sighed as I set down the brush I had been using. The canvas in front of me was meant to be my salvation- a bold, fiery piece inspired by the storms that seemed to rage within me. The reds and oranges blended in chaotic harmony but staring at it now, all I saw was the crushing weight of failure. I looked around my room. The scattered paint tubes, half-finished sketches, and stacks of unpaid bills created a landscape of chaos I couldn't escape. This wasn't how I'd imagined my life when I'd packed up my small-town dreams and moved to New York City to pursue art (my long life dream).

The loud buzzing of my phone cut through the erring silence and brought me back to reality. I grabbed it off the table, expecting another call from Mr. Kelvin the landlord, but instead, my phone screen flashed an unfamiliar number.

"Hello?" I answered hesitantly.

"Ms. Sophia Bennet," came a voice on the other end, so smooth and professional. "This is Mr. Crawford, personal assistant to Julian Blackwell. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time?" he asked.

I was frozen in that spot. Julian Blackwell? The name sent a jolt through me. Everyone in the city knew who he was- the billionaire CEO of Blackwell Corp, known for his cutthroat business strategies and an empire that stretched across industries. But what could someone like him possibly want with me? I thought.

"No, not at all," I managed to say with a shaky voice.

"Mr. Blackwell recently came across your portfolio," he continued. "He's very impressed and would like to discuss a potential collaboration with you. Are you available this Friday evening to meet with him at an event he's hosting?"

I blinked repeatedly, unsure if I heard him correctly. A billionaire was interested in my work? It didn't make sense. I wasn't famous or connected, just a struggling artist trying to make ends meet.

"Friday?" I asked repeatedly, my mind racing. "Yes, I'm available."

"Excellent," Mr. Crawford replied. "You'll receive an email shortly with the details. Mr. Blackwell looks forward to meeting you."

He ended the call before I could process it fully. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at my phone as though it might explain what just happened.

That evening, I met up with my brother Ethan for dinner at our favorite diner, a midestvolace with checkered tablecloths and the best coffee in the city. As I recounted the phone call, Ethan listened intently despite his struggles.

"So let me get this straight," he said leaning forward. "Julian Blackwell, the guy who owns Manhattan; wants to work with you?" Ethan asked with all seriousness.

I nodded, still half convinced it was some sort of mistake. "That's what his assistant said." I retorted.

"That's insane! This could be your big break, Soph!" Ethan grinned.

"Or a massive mistake," I muttered slowly. "What if it's a scam? Or he wants something shady?"

"You've got to stop doubting yourself, Soph," Ethan said, his expression softening. "You're insanely talented! Have you seen your work from people's view, maybe he sees what I and a hundred other people have always seen."