Free Submersed by Rachelle Vaughn Page B

with Princess in the first place.
                  The auction items were displayed in a large room off to the side of the main showroom. I knew what was beyond those glass doors and I felt myself start to shake. My painting would be on display for everyone to see. And laugh at.
                  Besides that, I had no interest in an overpriced trip to Hong Kong or an original handcrafted locally made paperweight. Even if it was for charity.
                  “We’re getting an overwhelming amount of interest in your painting, Olivia,” Cornelia pointed out. “It ’ s absolutely precious . My sister Elaine will be ecstatic when I tell her about it.”
                  Dillon cocked his head to the side and smiled at me. “You didn’t tell me you donated a painting for tonight.”
                  “No…yeah. It was a last minute sort of thing,” I said tightly.
                  He leaned down to whisper in my ear. “You really don’t like talking about your art, do you?”
                  “Not really.” I whispered back. I hurried to add, “It’s complicated,” before he could ask why.
                  “Come on, Olivia. There are some people I want you to meet.” Cornelia detached herself from Dillon and sashayed into the room ahead of us.
                  I froze in the doorway.
                  Dillon squeezed my hand and after what seemed like hours, I reluctantly followed Cornelia, only because there were people behind me waiting to get through the door.
                  Cornelia cheerily ushered us over to a group of people assessing my painting.
                  My Princess was hanging on the wall and was lit in a way that made the little girl positively glow. The bangs of her golden blonde hair h u ng nearly to her eyes. If she blinked, her hair might have moved. She had big blue eyes, a perfect button nose and plump pink lips that looked like they could instantaneously thrust out in a pout if she didn’t get her way.
                  Princess captured the dreamlike innocence of youth and I immediately fell in love with the painting all over again.
                  I thought I should have named her Angel because she looked like she could sprout wings and flutter right out of the room. Too bad I couldn’t do the same.
                  “Everyone, this is Olivia Sharpe, the artist,” Cornelia announced.
                  The group let out an excited murmur.
                  Champagne mixed with panic and churned inside my stomach. It felt like I was swimming underwater. Drowning. Gasping for breath. Submersed in terror. Everything sounded like I had my earplugs in and my vision swirled. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t breathe.
                  Somehow, I managed to plaster a smile on my face and tried to focus on what the woman in front of me was saying. I think she was asking something about inspiration but her voice was jumbled inside my head with the eerie sound of laughter.
                  Repulsive. Ugly. Dirty.
                  The words choked me and the laughter clawed at my eyes.
                  I looked around for the exit and found myself surrounded by a whole mob of people. There were so many of them. Blurry faces and rumbling voices.
                  My legs were too wobbly to run away like I wanted to and I couldn’t exactly change my molecular structure to melt me into the floor.
                  Where was a transporter when you needed it? It was the twenty-first century. Weren’t we supposed to be able to announce, “Beam me up Scotty” and have it actually happen by now?
                  “She’s beautiful, Livi ,” Dillon was saying to me.
                  I couldn ’ t breathe. There was no air. The