Lauren’s throat tightened. She swallowed around it, palms damp. “Do you think the client?—?”
“Will love it,” Vivian said, finally turning. “But even if they don’t, Muse does. We’ll feature it in February regardless.”
Sage shot a last frame, then straightened. “That’s the commercial shots out of the way. Now, let’s get a shot just for us.”
Wren pulled Lauren’s wrists, positioning her in the frame behind her piece.
Click.
Lauren felt the pride bloom inside her. She loved what she’d made. And she loved that other people would get to enjoy it too.
That was what she had felt at Christmas, too. Before Tom and his family had ruined it all.
Lauren wiped her palms on her skirt. “So… next steps?”
“Next steps,” Zoe said, “we send proofs to the client with the word ‘vibe’ used sparingly.”
“My god,” Rina said, “do not use vibe.”
Zoe winked. “I saidsparingly.”
Sage angled the monitor so Lauren could see the last photo she’d taken. The one just for them.
“Oh…” Lauren whispered, taking it in. She didn’t just look proud in the photo. She lookedpowerful.
“Sage—” Her voice broke. She tried again. “Thanks.”
She glanced at the monitor one more time—at the glow, at the dent her fingertip had left in a letter last night, at the heart that wasn’t neat but was unmistakably hers.
She lifted her glitter-dusted hands and wiggled them, just to see them sparkle.
“Come on, artist,” Sage called without looking up. “Help me pick the hero shot.”
CHAPTER 40
Tom
Tom sat at his desk,the house plans open on his monitor. Their house. The one he'd designed for Lauren five years ago.
But now, looking at the floor plan with clear eyes, all he could see were his mistakes.
The craft room. Tucked under the eaves where the ceiling sloped low.
He'd put Lauren in the attic.
Like something shameful. Like her joy was something to hide.
Tom's hands stilled on the mouse. His chest felt like someone had cracked it open with a crowbar.
Jesus Christ. He'd built her a beautiful house and then stuffed her in the smallest, darkest corner of it. Had designed their entire life around the assumption that what she loved—what made her who she was—should be kept out of sight.
He zoomed in on that section of the plan. She'd spent five years creating in that space anyway. Had made that quilt—hadstitched their entire relationship together—under sloped ceilings in the worst light in the house.
While he'd given himself a ground-floor office with wall-to-wall windows.
The shame of it sat in his stomach like lead.
"Thomas."
