FATED STROKES

Milo had agreed to meet with Victor Kingsley in person, though not very reluctantly. Felix insisted it was an opportunity Milo couldn't pass up, but the more Milo thought about it, the more he felt it sink down his throat He wasn't one to go after rich businessmen, especially not someone like Victor Kingsley —who seems to have it all, the world expects it to bend to their will.

The meeting was held at the Kingsley Family Gallery, a spacious modern space with high ceilings and clean white walls adorned with some of the world's most expensive and famous art and Milo has to admit it was impressive, though it seemed sterile—like a museum rather than a place where art itself resided.

Victor had insisted on a private meeting in his office, a cozy, cold room, where all the art books and rare sculptures on the shelves looked like stepping into a man's cave — except for any real warmth.

Victor stood by the window as Milo entered, his back turned, his silhouette against the city skyline. Milo took a few steps inside, his boots clicking on the marble floor and the air in the room seemed strong.

"Milo Winter, I guess?" Victor's voice was low, weak, but held an edge. He didn't even go to acknowledge her at first.

Milo swallowed, trying to calm himself down. "Yes. That's me."

Victor seemed to struggle to greet her properly, still staring out the window. Milo's fingers trembled sideways, a panic he couldn't control. Something about the man—his air of superiority—made his skin tingle.

"You early," Victor finally said, his voice as disdainful as if he were under the control of time. "I said three o'clock, not two."

There was an uncomfortable silence, and for a moment Milo wondered if this meeting was even worth his time. The tension in the air was high, and Victor's attitude only added to the issue.

"So Milo, tell me why I should care about your art," Victor said, crossing the room and sitting behind a large table. I've seen hundreds, if not thousands, of artists come and go, and frankly, I don't have time to play with amateurs."

Milo's stomach dropped, and it seemed so absurd. He didn't know what to expect, but it wasn't this. However, he couldn't turn back now.

"I don't think you like amateurs, Victor," Milo said in a quiet but firm voice. "I'm not looking for handouts, if that's what you mean. I was doing my art out of love—not for glory or recognition."

Victor's eyes widened with excitement, as if Milo's words were funny. Leaning back in his chair, his arms smooth in front of him, he regarded Milo as if he were a piece of art he had no interest in buying.

"Love, huh?" Victor said, the words dripping with sarcasm. "How wonderful it is. But you're going to need more than passion if you want to make it in this world. You need connections, money and status. I can give you those things. But I expect something in return."

Milo's breath hitched in his chest. He hadn't expected it, not like this. But Victor, as he spoke, seemed able to buy and sell anything, and he felt sick to his stomach. He could already tell that their worlds—Victor's cold, calculating money power and his own simple, pristine art world—were too far apart for the bridge

"What exactly are you asking?" Milo asked with a smirk.

Victor leaned forward slightly and smiled, his eyes never leaving Milo's. "You have talent, I will give you that. But you're also a little… rough around the edges. You need a mentor, someone with the tools to take you to the next level. I'm offering you a deal: you work under me, you get exposure through my platform, and I will make you famous. In return, you will give me full creative control over your piece. I'll tell you what to color, what to sell and what to keep for yourself. You're not going to do anything like a kid."

Milo felt his jaw tighten. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Don't apologize," Victor cut her off and turned sharply to look at him, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I don't like excuses."

There was an uncomfortable silence, and for a moment Milo wondered if this meeting was even worth his time. The tension in the air was high, and Victor's attitude only added to the issue.

"So Milo, tell me why I should care about your art," Victor said, crossing the room and sitting behind a large table. I've seen hundreds, if not thousands, of artists come and go, and frankly, I don't have time to play with amateurs."

Milo's stomach dropped, and it seemed so absurd. He didn't know what to expect, but it wasn't this. However, he couldn't turn back now.

"I don't think you like amateurs, Victor," Milo said in a quiet but firm voice. "I'm not looking for handouts, if that's what you mean. I was doing my art out of love—not for glory or recognition."

Victor's eyes widened with excitement, as if Milo's words were funny. Leaning back in his chair, his arms smooth in front of him, he regarded Milo as if he were a piece of art he had no interest in buying.

"Love, huh?" Victor said, the words dripping with sarcasm. "How wonderful it is. But you're going to need more than passion if you want to make it in this world. You need connections, money and status. I can give you those things. But I expect something in return."

Milo's breath hitched in his chest. He hadn't expected it, not like this. But Victor, as he spoke, seemed able to buy and sell anything, and he felt sick to his stomach. He could already tell that their worlds—Victor's cold, calculating money power and his own simple, pristine art world—were too far apart for the bridge

"What exactly are you asking?" Milo asked with a smirk.

Victor leaned forward slightly and smiled, his eyes never leaving Milo's. "You have talent, I will give you that. But you're also a little… rough around the edges. You need a mentor, someone with the tools to take you to the next level. I'm offering you a deal: you work under me, you get exposure through my platform, and I will make you famous. In return, you will give me full creative control over your piece. I'll tell you what to color, what to sell and what to keep for yourself. You're not going to do anything like a kid."

The words hit Milo like a punch to the throat. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"No," Milo said firmly, his voice cold. "That's not what I want. I want to create, not be dictated to. My work—my art—is mine. I won't compromise it for anyone, not even you."

Victor darkened slightly, his face smiling. But it was just a squeak, moving as fast as it seemed.

"Then you'll never make it in this world," Victor said, his voice turning icy. "Art isn't about your 'integrity.' It's about making people buy it. Making them crave it. And I know how to make that happen."

Milo stood up for her, refusing to be intimidated. He felt anger building, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. This was not just a business deal—this was an insult to it all.

"If that's your offer, then we're done here," Milo said, turning toward the door. "I'm not interested in your 'guidance.' I'd rather fail on my own terms."

Before he could leave, Victor's voice stopped him.

"Suit yourself," Victor said, his tone sharp. "But remember—people like me don't forget."

Milo paused, looking over his shoulder, his back stiff.

"I'm not the one who's going to forget," he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Victor to hear.

Without another word, he walked out, slamming the door behind him.