The Wrong Fiancée: A Billionaire Second Chance Romance (Marriage by Contract Book 3)
The Wrong Fiancée: Chapter 18

The past two weeks had been the best I had ever lived. Even better than the two weeks with Dean. I mean, that was amazing, but working with the Giordano Art Director, Melody Levy, was a dream come true. Dante had brought her from New York to run the Giordano Hotels & Resorts art program. She was going to be responsible for acquiring art for all the high-end resorts and hotels, as well as building art galleries like the Ke Ala O Ke Kai at the Hale Moana resort, the first of its kind for Giordano.

‘What do you think of the name?’ Melody asked me when we first met. ‘It’s a Hawaiian name, and I have no idea how it connects to the art gallery, but some ad agency came up with it.’

I looked around the large room being set up to become a permanent art exhibition space and smiled. ‘Ke Ala O Ke Kai meant the path of the sea in Hawaiian. I think it’s very à propos. For me, it evokes the islands’ deep connection to the ocean, and the journey of both traditional and contemporary Hawaiian art. It combines a sense of movement and history.’

Melody arched an eyebrow. ‘The path of the sea. I like that. What do you think of the space?’

‘I think it’s perfect to showcase island art, and bridge the past and present, much like the natural and cultural paths of Hawaii.‘

Melody put an arm around me. ‘I can see why Dante wanted you to work with me on this. You know your art.’

‘I know a little.’

‘Well, hang with me, kid; I’ll teach you a lot more.’

In the short two weeks I worked with Melody, she did just that. Most of the work for the gallery was already done—it was all about the finishing touches—but I felt like a kid in a candy store the entire time.

My life had changed so much so quickly, and I was grateful to Dante. I had quit my job at the Lava Lua Tiki Lounge because now I needed to make time for the gallery, take management courses, and work as a hostess as part of my training at the restaurants. I would be doing four-week rotations at all the restaurants. Since I’d already worked there and knew the staff and chef, it had been much easier than I thought.

The only fly in the ointment was my new supervisor. Desmond Rykes was old school and known to be a stick in the mud. He was responsible for all the management trainees at the resort, so I’d had to lose Leilani as a boss, who had been thrilled for me. Desmond’s problem with me came from the fact that my promotion had been authorized not by traditional channels—but by Dante Giordano himself.

‘I don’t know and don’t care what you’re doing with him, but I run a tight ship. Got it?’

What the fuck? Did he think I was sleeping with Dante? Me? Had he seen Dante? Did he really think he’d sleep with someone like me?

‘Got it,’ I replied. I knew a bully when I saw one and knew exactly how to work with them to ensure the least amount of damage. I’d only be under his supervision for six months, after which I’d get a job as a manager in the resort. That in itself had seemed like an impossibility as I had worked every and any menial job possible at Hale Moana.

According to Leilani, whom I confided in about Desmond, I had paid my dues, and this was well deserved. Except for Desmond, all my other colleagues had been encouraging. They knew me and didn’t put any stock in the rumor that I suspected Desmond had started of me sleeping with Dante.

I had spent every spare minute in the Ke Ala O Ke Kai Art Gallery since I got the role. I helped arrange the furniture, figured out the placement of paintings with Melody, and did the planning for the reception. I had worked more hours than my contract warranted, but I loved every minute of it.

The only constant from my old life was that I still saw Noe once a week. My days off were now Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and I was still getting used to having so much time to myself.

My first paycheck as a management trainee was twenty percent more than before, which was amazing for someone who had been scrimping, saving, and checking past-due dates on food items to save money.

I was grateful to Dante—but I also knew that this happened because Dean had pushed the issue. Leilani disagreed. She’d put my name up for management trainee for the past year, so it was about time that I got here.

I looked around the gallery, proud of what the team had achieved. The room’s minimalism was in stark contrast to the lush, natural beauty that lay just outside its floor-to-ceiling windows.

The gallery had been designed to draw attention to the art, the bold strokes, and the intricate details that adorned the canvases. The cool air of the gallery hummed with quiet sophistication. This curated calm felt worlds away from the wildness of the island. But every so often, the sound of the waves crashing just beyond the windows seeped in, a reminder that we were still in Kauai, still surrounded by the untamed beauty of the ocean and the land.

The juxtaposition was striking—inside, all clean lines and modern edges; outside, the beach stretched endlessly, the colors of the sunset reflecting on the water, soft pinks and oranges that could have been plucked straight from a painting themselves. And yet, here in this gallery, island art brought those two worlds together. Historic and contemporary pieces hung side by side, each one a visual story that connected the past with the present, the natural with the crafted.

The reception was proving to be a success because, thanks to a strong social media push from marketing, guests from the resort and people from around the island came for opening day.

When Melody said I’d be responsible for explaining the art on one of the walls—the whole wall with the seven paintings, I’d been dumbstruck.

I had worked hard to learn everything I could so that I would not come across as a dilettante who didn’t know what she was talking about.

As the first group of people came by, I smiled nervously. I was in a blue wrap dress and two-inch nude pumps. I needed to be able to walk and be comfortable, but I also wanted to look nice. I had left my hair loose and, in island fashion, pinned a white plumeria to the side of my hair above my right ear.

The people standing in front of me, waiting for me to speak about the painting behind me, were in designer outfits. They held champagne glasses. I had never been more intimidated.

‘This painting by Solomon Enos is a perfect example of how contemporary island artists are reimagining our mythology.’ I gestured toward the bold, almost chaotic use of color on the canvas. ‘You can see how he takes traditional Hawaiian stories—like the legend of Pele—and pushes them into the modern world. The intense reds and oranges, the way the lines seem to pulse and burn, it’s all about the emotion, the mana, the energy of the island.’

The group nodded, murmuring in agreement as they studied the painting. A well-dressed older man leaned in closer, inspecting the texture of the brushstrokes with a critical eye.

‘And then,’ I continued, leading them to the painting next to it, ‘we have Herb Kawainui Kane, one of the great historical painters of Hawaiian culture. His work here,’ I indicated toward a large, serene canvas of a traditional Polynesian canoe slicing through the deep blue sea, ‘is rooted in history, capturing the spirit of our ancestors. You can feel the reverence in every brushstroke—the connection to the land, the ocean, the journey. It’s a tribute to the voyagers who first navigated these waters, to the very foundation of Hawaiian identity.’

As I repeated the descriptions and explanations, my confidence grew, and my passion for art bubbled to the surface. This wasn’t simply about displaying art; it was about sharing the story of the islands, weaving together the history and culture that had shaped me—shaped all of us.

I was alone for a few minutes, so I grabbed a glass of water from the waiter to soothe my parched throat.

Even before I saw him, I felt him. It had always been like this, hadn’t it? Damn it! Why was he here? Couldn’t he let me have this without him taking over my senses?

I glanced around and saw Dean standing at the edge of the room, his eyes fixed on me. The look on his face was unmistakable—curiosity, admiration, surprise. I had never been this person to him before. The woman who knew her stuff, who could command the attention of wealthy collectors and speak with authority about art. For so long, he’d seen me as someone who faded into the background. But now, I was front and center, in my element, and I could feel his gaze following me like he was seeing me for the first time.

And I wasn’t going to lie—I wanted him to see me. It felt damn good to be seen as more than the maid kneeling on the floor scrubbing.

A new group of people came to where I stood, and I began to tell them about the paintings.

‘What makes these two artists so significant?’ a man, a collector whom Melody had pointed out to me as someone to take extra care of, asked. He was in his early sixties and had a distinguished look about him.

‘Enos and Kane are monumental figures in Hawaiian art, not only because of their extraordinary talent but because of how they interpret the island’s spirit through vastly different lenses. Enos, with his contemporary abstract approach, often reimagines traditional Hawaiian myths and cosmology. His work is deeply rooted in a forward-thinking exploration of identity, often challenging colonial narratives through bold, dynamic compositions that pulse with energy.’

I gestured toward the next piece, my hand brushing the air delicately. ‘Kane, on the other hand, approaches Hawaiian history with reverence and meticulous accuracy. His work is ethnographic in nature—painstakingly researched and historically grounded. Kane’s paintings feel like a visual archive of the Polynesian voyaging tradition of our ancestors navigating the vast Pacific Ocean. His use of soft realism and precise detail honors not only the physical landscape but also the intangible connection to our ancestral lineage. The mana, or life force, in his paintings is palpable. Kane’s work is not just about the islands; it is about the very spirit of Polynesian navigation, of discovery, of survival.’

The man nodded. ‘If I were to say acquire an Enos or a Kane, which ones do you recommend?’

You want me to recommend a three hundred thousand dollar painting? I don’t think so.

I smiled. ‘Well, you can’t go wrong with any of their art.’

‘Tell me which one is your favorite,’ he challenged.

‘I don’t have one,’ I told him honestly. ‘I’m still learning their work, and right now, I’m mesmerized by it all. As I understand better and learn more, I’ll be able to determine what I like best.’

The man grinned at me. ‘So, you’re not going to try and pawn a painting off on me? You should, you know. I acquire a lot of art. It would be a feather in your cap.’

I laughed then. ‘Sir, as you know, when you collect a piece like this, you’re not simply buying a beautiful painting to hang on your wall; you’re preserving a story, a culture that stretches back over a thousand years—one that was almost erased. Whether it’s Enos’s reinterpretation of Hawaiian mythology or Kane’s tribute to the voyaging tradition, these works hold more than just aesthetic value. They carry the legacy of a people’s history—their struggle, their endurance. You’re taking home a fragment of that legacy, a piece of what makes Hawaii not just visually stunning but culturally profound. It’s not simply art for art’s sake. It’s art as a form of cultural stewardship.’

The man nodded appreciatively. He held out his hand. ‘Jeff Wexler.’

My mouth went dry. Jeff Wexler was a towering figure in the art world—a name spoken with reverence, often in hushed tones, at every major gallery and auction house across the globe. He wasn’t just an art collector; he was the art collector, one whose acquisitions could skyrocket an artist’s career overnight.

He had a reputation for discovering emerging talent, finding those diamonds in the rough and placing them in the spotlight, ensuring the world would notice. Galleries clamored to get his endorsement, and artists would kill for a single conversation with him.

And he was standing in front of me, holding out his hand like it was no big deal. I shook it. ‘Elika Hamlet, Mr. Wexler.’

‘And you’re running the art program here with Melody?’

I chuckled at that. ‘No. I started working here two weeks ago; before that, I was one of the housekeeping staff.’

The others in the group walked away, leaving the famous Mr. Wexler alone with me.

‘That’s quite a change, and you seem to be handling it with aplomb, my dear.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘So, how does someone from…what did you do in housekeeping?’

‘I cleaned rooms, sir.’

‘How does someone who cleans rooms know so much about Enos and Kane?’

‘I worked really hard to learn everything I could in the past few days,’ I admitted. ‘I…was studying art history…a long time ago but dropped out. I’ve always had an affinity. I love Enos, so being here surrounded by his work is intoxicating.’

A woman who had been examining a painting next to the one we were standing by put a hand on Jeff’s shoulder. ‘Darling, are you harassing this poor girl?’

Her silver hair and jewelry caught the soft glow of the gallery lights, glittering with every movement beneath their warm illumination.

‘No, Shira, I’m getting to know someone who seems to have a deep passion for island art.’

I licked my lips. Anyone who knew anything about island art knew Shira Mandel. She had moved to Kauai when she was a child and was the Georgia O’Keefe of Hawaii.

‘Oh my God,’ I blurted out, ready to practically genuflect. ‘You’re Shira Mandel. Oh my God. I love everything you paint. Since I was a little girl, I’ve had a print of yours on my bedroom wall. It’s Eclipse Two, you know, the one with the ocean swirling around the moon…of course, you know, you painted it.’ I was babbling now. I couldn’t help myself. This was Shira Fucking Mandel. ‘I used to stare at it for hours, dreaming of seeing your work in person. I can’t believe you’re here!’

Shira smiled, a glimmer of amusement dancing in her eyes. ‘I hope it inspired more than daydreams,’ she said with a soft chuckle. ‘The Eclipse series was all about transitions—finding strength in the unknown.’ Her gaze shifted briefly to Jeff. ‘I painted it right after I divorced the one whose name we do not mention.’ Then she turned back to me, her smile warming. ‘I’m flattered it meant something to you.’

‘Meant something?’ I shook my head, still awestruck. ‘It made me fall in love with island art. It inspired me to study art…I can’t believe I’m talking to you.’

‘Here, I thought she was impressed by me,’ Jeff mocked.

‘Darling, you just buy art; the artist enamors true art lovers.’ Shira looked at me. ‘You know, I’m having a personal art exhibition at my home in a few weeks. You should come. It’s my new series. I think you’ll get a kick out of it.’

My eyes went wide. ‘Really?’ I squeaked.

‘This kid is awesome for my ego.’ Shira patted my cheek. ‘Jeff, darling, will you make sure she gets all the information for my exhibition.’

She walked away, and Jeff winked at me. ‘She’s like a cat, hates most people. But your love for art…yeah, it’s special. You keep at it. Okay?’ He pulled out a card and gave it to me. ‘Send me an email so we can send you an invitation to Shira’s little event. Also, can you put a red dot on the Enos and the Kane for me?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Melody came by after he was gone, and I was gaping at his business card. ‘Is he buying something?’

‘The Enos and the Kane.’

Melody gasped. ‘Both of them? That’s over a half million dollars in sales on the first night? Are you kidding me? What did you do? He’s picky as hell, asks a million questions, nags, and never buys anything.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ I protested. ‘I met Shira Mandel,’ I whispered loudly. ‘She invited me to her house.’

Melody shook her head, amused. “Of course, she did. Dante Giordano knows his shit. When he told me he wanted me to mentor someone from housekeeping, I thought he’d lost his mind. Obviously, he could see that you, Elika, are made for this.’