bapa: from here to eternity

chapter 27: hurt and heal

Chapa POV:

I walked back to class from my coffee break, my mind a tangled mess of frustration, betrayal, and annoyance. What the hell was Bose doing? Acting like he liked me, and then I catch him hugging Bridget in the café? And now he's calling female students into his office? This wasn't something I could just let go. Sure, we weren't anything official, but this was unacceptable.

Back in the classroom, I let my anger fuel my work. My brush moved aggressively across the canvas, every stroke sharp and deliberate. When I'm frustrated, I can paint with a kind of brutal efficiency, like the emotions are flowing directly from my hand onto the canvas. By the time the clock hit 4 p.m., I was surprised at how far I'd gotten. The painting had taken on a dark, almost menacing quality—perfect for the mood I was in.

I had a meeting with George Davis at 4:30 p.m. to discuss the job offer he'd mentioned. I was leaning towards accepting it, but I needed more details first. I told Ms. Ambrose I had to leave, and she just nodded, saying she knew about the appointment. I walked out of the building, heading to the bus station, my mind still racing with thoughts of Bose and Bridget.

When I arrived at George Davis's place, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. A massive villa, easily worth at least ten million dollars, loomed before me. It was a stark contrast to the cluttered and chaotic thoughts in my head. I rang the doorbell, and a woman answered.

"You must be Chapa," she said with a warm smile. "I'm Katerina. I'll walk you to Mr. Davis's office, and he'll be there in a minute."

I followed her through the house, my eyes taking in the countless paintings and sculptures that lined the walls. Most of them were of George himself, or his abstract impressions of what I assumed were his various moods. This man clearly had an obsession with art—and himself.

I was seated in his office for about five minutes before George Davis finally walked in. "Hi, Chapa, sorry for keeping you waiting," he said, his voice smooth and confident.

"It's fine," I replied, keeping my tone neutral.

"So, have you reconsidered the job?" he asked, getting straight to the point.

"Yeah," I said, leaning forward slightly. "I'm willing to take it, but I need more information about the salary, working days, and everything else."

"Of course," he said, handing me a thick stack of papers. "Here's the contract. It has all the information you need."

I scanned the document quickly, and my eyes widened when I saw the salary. Eighteen thousand dollars a month if I produced five paintings a month that met his requirements. Thirteen thousand if I made three painting per month. I'd only have to work one day a week at his house, from nine to five. It was an incredible deal.

"I'll discuss with your academy which day you'll work here," he added, watching my reaction closely.

"I'll do it," I said, still a little stunned.

"Great. The contract lasts fifteen months. After that, you can choose to continue working here if I agree to it, or you can quit."

"Understood," I said, already thinking about how this could change everything for me.

"I'd like to work on Tuesdays," I said after a moment's thought.

"That's possible," he agreed. "And I'll give you a free day if there's another exhibition at the academy."

"Perfect," I said, feeling a small sense of relief as I signed the contract. I showed him my ID and bank account details, and he registered them before standing up.

"We'll make it official then," he said, offering his hand. I shook it firmly, trying to keep my excitement in check as he guided me back toward the door.