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Click hereEpisode 4: Exposure
Time couldn't move quickly enough.
When Friday arrived, Ivan was up even earlier than usual, eager to hit the gym and get down to his fathers place to get it prepped for listing... and his impending meeting with Serafine. He felt a sense of smug satisfaction at the thought of selling the house. The idea had only occurred to him recently, when it became clear that whatever was going on with his inheritance wasn't going to be resolved within the week.
He needed cash, and the house was old and valuable -- and, crucially -- not apart of the corporate assets that were tied up in an unending battle with the board, so he figured he'd be able to get rid of it free and clear.
Nobody would question him about it at the brokerage. It should be easy. Couple weeks, max.
He was still waiting on one of the girls from the office to pull the title for him, but he'd spent the week since his visit to the Conservatorium scheduling cleaners, having the houses exterior paint retouched, windows washed, the cobblestone driveway power washed, and a long list of other little updates, hoping to get the place looking as good as possible for photos.
When he arrived at the property that afternoon to check on the progress, the sky was overcast gray and the wrought iron gates were already open, several cars parked in the courtyard.
Admittedly, the house was stunning, an old stone Romanesque mansion, wedged between much newer skyscrapers and apartment buildings in downtown Chicago, like it was somehow trapped in time.
It was the same place he'd passed out in a couple nights ago after leaving the Playpen, but it felt much different in the daytime. Dreamy and serene, with birds chirping from the greenery like a countryside villa.
He was vaguely aware that it had been built by some famous architect, years ago, and he knew that buildings like this were exceedingly rare in the city, and almost never came up for sale. If he did his part right, it could sell for tens of millions.
I can't wait to see the look on Jo's face when he finds out it's been sold, he thought. You just can't put a price on something like that.
Passing a large flowerbed, he nodded approvingly at a few landscapers who were tidying up the shrubbery before his attention landed on a greenish-blue minivan with a dent on one side. His eyes narrowed when he recognized a cat-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror, a spur of disdain making him cock his neck to one side until the bones cracked.
Not Bernice, he thought.
When he'd told the brokerage to send someone out to take photos of the property, he meant someone capable. Someone who understood the importance of a listing like this.
From day one, he'd been suspicious that Tonio only hired Bernice for the purpose of some long-tail joke. Given that he kept the brokerage full of young, fresh, almost model-worthy female agents at all times, and Bernice's soft, middle-aged body fell far below their usual standards...but if so, they'd yet to get to the part where it was funny.
It wasn't that Ivan didn't like working with women. On the contrary, he found them to be very useful when matched with work that suited their feminine qualities, like staging a house or luring in more male clientele with their bodies, but anything that required rational thought, a firm will, or creative problem solving was obviously better suited to a man. The roles of the two genders had simply evolved too differently to see it any other way.
Bernice hadn't done anything specific to garner his distaste. It was how all the little interactions he'd had with her since she was hired to do the brokerage's photo/video work added up that now made his hands clench and unclench unconsciously. Every time he worked with her, he'd wind up sending back tens of photos for obvious revisions - too dark, too grainy, not focused on the part of the room that mattered.
He could do without the added stress on this listing.
We could've hired my neighbor's teenage son and gotten this done faster and better, he thought, but then shook his head, reminding himself to stay professional. She couldn't help it, after all. Society expected so little from women outside of rearing children, he was sometimes surprised they could do anything else at all.
It was men who faced all the pressure to aspire to greatness in life, and as one of those men, he didn't like when his time was wasted repeating himself and managing people, but he tried to stay optimistic. Maybe she'd done her job right this time. Maybe she was learning.
When he opened the door to the house, it looked much different than it had last time he'd seen the place, the furniture draped with drop cloth and some of the walls still covered by a thin layer of plastic film. There were some cleaning supplies propped in one corner, and as he walked deeper into the mansion, he passed a stack of boards wrapped in brown paper that he knew to be paintings.
The presence of several large black studio lights made him pause at a wood-paneled cigar room just off the main foyer, where he found a woman dressed in a brightly patterned skirt and blouse bending over to get pictures of a leather seating area. For a moment, he watched her in silence, carefully managing the feelings of derision that came bubbling to the surface at the sight of her overweight body, but as soon as she saw him, her face lit up and she lowered her camera.
"Oh, good afternoon, Ivan. I wasn't expecting you."
"Likewise," he said.
"You want to take a look at what I got so far?" she enthused. "I know you're very particular."
"Please," he said, extending a hand to take the camera. He wasn't particular, she was just blind, he reflected, scrolling through the photos.
"I tried to get some exterior shots earlier, but the overcast lighting is just terrible. I think I'll have to come back again when the weathers better."
"Mmn," Ivan responded noncommittally, the doubts he'd felt earlier now returning to make his muscles tense all over again.
The outdoor photos were gray and flat, but worse, the indoor photos featured hundreds of shots of rooms with dusty furniture, cleaning supplies, and harsh shadows. A few that must have been taken much earlier in the day featured two men dressed in overalls bending over baseboards in the shot.
Fucking carpenters? So, she'd been here for at least three hours and these were the results?
There were a few decent photos -- but then, the cigar room, foyer, and expansive stone kitchen were pretty hard to fuck up. Most of the rooms were so well-designed that no special photography tricks were needed. She should have known better than to spend any time on the rooms still being cleaned, but then he reminded himself, no, she probably didn't know any better.
His expectations were exactly where they'd always been. At precisely zero.
"Maybe get a few of the entry," he suggested, trying to keep his voice light. "And try keep the cleaning supplies out of the shot, yeah?"
"Oh, yeah, no problem," she smiled. "But honestly I wouldn't worry about that kinda stuff too much. We can fix it in post."
Ivan handed her back the camera with a tight smile.
He suspected that her artistic approach had a lot more to do with billable hours, but decided not to say anything, instead reaching for his phone to fire off a message to Tonio, before walking away to check out the condition of the rest of the property.
ton. you've got to get her out of here. its not working out. the pics of my dads place look haunted bro
Seconds later, laughing, crying, and ghost emoji's came back in response, but before Ivan could reply, his phone rang, and a female face popped onto the screen with the name Rachele Ferraro over the top.
"Rachele," said Ivan as he picked up the phone, his voice suddenly upbeat. It was the agent from the office he'd been waiting to hear from about the title, and he could use some good news right about now. What was the house really worth? When could they get it listed? "Give me the update. How's our timeline lookin'?"
"Good afternoon, Eve-aughn," she said. She had a sexy Italian accent and always pronounced his name right.
"Hm, so, here's the thing, I did some research, annnnnd, it actually looks like your father's house is in a trust," she added, a little hesitantly. "It never went through probate... I am surprised you did not know?"
"Books could be written on what I didn't know about this man," Ivan responded, nevertheless considering this new information. "Well, we can move faster if we don't have to deal with the state, so that's a positive. What's the process from here? Do I just sign some papers?"
"I...don't know as much about this side of the business, but I think you'll first have to talk to the executor," she said. "But it should be easy, as it's your uncle whose named in the documents I can see here. Joseth R. Masters."
"Is it," Ivan breathed numbly.
Why was everything in life trying to fuck him over lately? What had he ever done wrong?
For a moment, he thought the ringing noise he was hearing was only in his ears, until, with a bit of a start, he realized it was the doorbell chiming.
"Would you like me to call him?" Rachele offered on the other end of the line, but Ivan only gave a short, sharp laugh and said, "God no. I'll handle it," before ending the call.
Inside he was fuming.
Of course, he thought. He should have known it wouldn't be an easier to sell the house than it was to get to his rightfully-owed inheritance. The legal red tape around the company should have been a clue how things would unfold here.
Was there nothing he could do?
Hearing the name Joseth Masters made him want to choke someone, but there was nothing around except a bunch of furniture, a massive dining room table and chairs extending before him like The Last Supper. In a sudden surge of frustration he drove his shoe into the nearest chair, four, five, six times in quick succession, stopping only when one of the legs bent, then splintered, and the chair clattered to the floor.
The doorbell rang again and, breathing heavily, he turned on his heel, ready to snap at whichever one of the contractors thought their question was so important, but after a brusque walk back to the foyer, he opened the front door to find a teenage girl standing by herself, and his anger evaporated.
She was dressed in the same style of ratty jeans and t-shirt as he'd seen her in before, her hair tied back carelessly at the base of her neck, but the way her face was flushed pink and dewy by the summer humidity made her complexion glow with youth and natural beauty.
He'd seen pornos that started like this.
All she needed to do was swap out those dirty Converse for a pair of platform heels and tie her t-shirt in a knot, and she'd really have his attention.
"Oh, it's you. I forgot you were coming today," he said, although he hadn't, and stepped aside so she could come in. "Stephanie, right?"
"It's Serafine," she corrected gently, while Ivan looked down the driveway behind her.
"No Professor Whathisname today?"
"Uh," she wrung her fingers together, seeming to have the exact same concern. "No."
"So it's just us, then?"
"...I'm afraid so."
Ivan closed the door, a single fact rising prominently in his mind: She'd come alone. A nineteen year old girl, here to see him by herself.
It was like a reward. He could sense the day improving already.
"How unexpected. Welcome."
Inside, she did a small semi-circle, staring at the magnificent iron chandelier hanging overhead, while Ivan admired how narrow her waist looked when she turned to the side. "Wow. This place is like a castle."
"Glad you think so, honey," he responded impartially.
Whatever concern she had about being here alone, she seemed willing to set aside to admire the house, which he had assumed would be the case. Maybe she thought nothing would happen, that he wouldn't risk trying anything while she had the faculty on speed dial.
Or maybe she wanted it, he considered, looking her up and down. It was hard to tell with this chick. The more he was around her, the more he sensed that strangely complimentary energy, like, whatever he wanted to do...she'd probably let him do it.
One way to find out, he mused.
"Do you live here?" she asked, studying him with those brilliant blue eyes.
He laughed at the absurdity of the question. "No, it's part of my inheritance. I'm trying to get rid of it, but," he exhaled as the fresh news of that new impossibility swirled around his head. "But it's turning out to be more trouble than it's worth. As always."
"Oh," she echoed. "Inheritance. That's...cool."
She didn't seem to know what to really say to him, but then, he thought, that was part of the appeal.
The little she knew about his personal life was alluring. Usually, the people he interacted with were those he worked with and had to act somewhat professional around. Around this girl, he sensed he could behave the way he really wanted to.
"There's some stuff in the attic that we can start with," Ivan continued, eyeing her for a reaction. "Everything down here-" he gestured at the paper-wrapped paintings stacked against the wall, the statues wrapped in foam. "-was on display, so I doubt its as valuable as the stuff he was keeping hidden, right?"
"Probably not," she said unexpectedly. "Most private collectors display their best pieces. Otherwise, why even do it?"
Was she stalling? Trying to avoid walking two flights of stairs to a secluded location, alone, with him? She'd provided a logical explanation, but he easily countered.
"Almost everything down here is wrapped up while the contractors are working, so," he canted his head toward a carved wooden staircase on the opposite side of the entryway. "You'll have to come back on another day for those. Unless you plan to re-wrap everything yourself."
"Okay," she said after a pause. "You said...the attic?"
"Follow me."
A familiar, predatory sense of certainty filled Ivan's lungs as they ascended the stairs together. He felt hungry -- physically hungry -- at the thought of being alone with her. It was like his senses got sharper, the wallpaper around him seeming suddenly too bright, and the creaking floorboards too loud.
He could hear his blood rushing in his ears as he lead her down an upstairs hallway lined with doors, some open some closed, leading to bedrooms, sitting rooms, even a small library. When they passed the open door to his fathers old room, the four poster bed he'd passed out in a few nights ago beckoned to him -- he hadn't railed a girl there since college -- but he pressed on.
The attic would be better.
More secluded.
Two floors and a closed door would separate them from the outside world once they were up there, which would make it unlikely for them to be bothered for any of the contractors still coming and going throughout the property.
"I'll level with you, I don't really know fuck-all about this art stuff," he said congenially when they arrived at the attic door. It was plain and the wood stuck when he tried to open it until he put his shoulder against the frame and gave it a hard pull. "Collecting was my old man's domain. I just want to get an idea of if any of this stuff has value so I can sell it or donate it and take the tax write off."
A dark staircase loomed before them, getting darker at the top until it all but disappeared. He flipped on a light switch, and an ugly bulb on a chain buzzed to life, flickering ominously.
"After you," he said.
Although she hesitated, if she suspected anything, she seemed to be trying to play it cool. It wasn't a spooky attic screaming at her to run away, because she was a grown-up and could handle herself, right? He assumed her logic was some simple nonsense like that, and as if to prove him right, she walked right up the stairs ahead of him.
He closed the door before following behind her, arriving at a dark space lit only by a few small windows recessed high above near the rafters. All around them, Ivan could feel the presence of heavy objects - furniture, art - all draped in cloth that made the ambient sounds feel muted like they were walking through dense snow.
"Here's the other one," Ivan pulled on another delicate chain hanging from the ceiling, and another lightbulb hummed to life, swinging back and forth to create eerie shadows from the shapes around them.
"I didn't realize how much shit he had up here," he said as the room came more fully into view.
Clearly, some of the items weren't valuable. There were open boxes of hangers, crates of metal rods and construction tools, a broken mirror, dusty outdoor furniture, but lifting the corner of a heavy gray blanket, Ivan was relieved to see the rough edge of what looked like canvas, and pulled the fabric completely to one side to reveal a larger-than-life painting of a nude woman, one arm raised to cover her face, the other hanging limply to one side.
He cleared his throat, unprepared for what he was seeing, but to his surprise, Serafine didn't seem the least bit perturbed.
Maybe these art students were desensitized to images of nudity by now, but instead of the mortified silence he expected, she walked right up to the painting, her fingers hovering centimeters from the canvas.
This couldn't have gone better if he'd planned it.
"Oh, wow," she breathed, then, addressing the painting directly, asked. "Why are you here?"
Ivan quirked an eyebrow at this interaction, but she quickly turned to him and said. "Sorry. It's just, Greek Slave was on display during my freshman year, but got taken down because it got suuuper controversial keeping it on display. When it never got processed back to the archives, I guess I just assumed the Haggin's finally got it back."
Ivan looked at the painting with renewed interest.
It was half finished, with charcoal lines still visible in some places, but it was still incredibly lifelike, a scene from an ancient open-air market. Men in colorful robes were depicted shuffling around, still half-finished, while a nude woman was on display in the foreground in full detail, being appraised by a group of men like something for sale.
It didn't seem any more controversial than other pieces of art he'd seen celebrated so much. Nude Indian goddesses, statues of Greek men with their dicks out. Didn't artists love that type of shit?
"Seems perfectly natural," he said.
"Doesn't it," she said, a little coldly. "That's part of the problem. The artist Jean-Leroux Haggin painted lots of pieces like this one in his lifetime, possibly hundreds."
Clearly, they'd landed on subject matter that she knew a lot about, and she was eager to have an audience.
Ivan's attention blanked out as a litany of art facts came streaming at him. Something-something "the painting was stolen before it was finished" and "the family sued to get it back" and "objectifying women." He tried to pay attention, but when she bent over to point to an area at the bottom of the canvas, his eyes were transfixed instead on the space between her legs.
"...but it's the lighting that really gives it away," she went on. "Imagine. It's the year eighteen hundred and you're seeing Greek Slave for the first time in Bougival. It's so lifelike, it really gives the impression that the artist saw this scene unfold in person, doesn't it? Like he's saying, this really happened, this is what you should think of the women of Greece. But did you notice the lighting is all wrong? Look."
Ivan leaned forward, the buzzing lightbulb overhead providing painfully little light to see by.