Mary’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Reality, my dear. Something artists struggle with.”
She taps a document showing Cillian’s signature beside a substantial investment in the Klein Gallery’s expansion. “Did you think your little exhibition was secured based solely on talent?” Her eyebrows lift with practiced sympathy. “Oh, you did. How sweet.”
The implication lands like a physical blow. I struggle to keep my expression neutral as my mind races through implications. Cillian mentioned supporting the gallery, but never suggested his investment was connected to my show.
“Cillian didn’t—” I begin.
“Of course not,” Mary interrupts smoothly. “My son believes in maintaining the illusion of independence. Both for himself and those he cares for.” She gestures toward the documents. “But as you can see, the reality is more complex.”
She reaches for another page, sliding it atop the others with deliberate slowness. “He thinks he is independent,” she says, her thin smile never wavering, “but I hold the strings to the very net that catches him.”
The document she’s highlighted shows a family trust structure. A complex web of financial control with Mary as the primary trustee. Nestled within the legal language is the devastating truth: Cillian’s apparent financial independence exists only at Mary’s discretion.
“Most of these investments require my signature to continue,” Mary explains. “The gallery expansion. The building where your studio is located.” Her finger moves to another line. “Even that charming artist residency program you’ve applied to for next summer.”
My blood turns cold. I haven’t told anyone about that application except Cillian. The invasion of privacy makes me nauseous.
“How did you find all this?”
“Research is a specialty of mine,” Mary says, waving away my question. “Information is power, after all.”
She closes the first folder with finality and reaches for a second one, this time red leather instead of black. The color choice feels deliberate, mocking my dress, my defiance.
“Now this,” she continues, opening the folder and turning it to face me, “I find genuinely admirable.”
I stare down at documents about my art therapy initiatives—the children’s cancer ward project, the community workshop proposals, grant applications still pending. Private correspondence with hospital administrators. Preliminary sketches never shown publicly.
“Such compassionate work,” Mary says, her voice a parody of warmth. “Using art to help sick children process their trauma. Truly touching.”
My hands tremble. I clench them in my lap, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing how deeply this violation cuts. The cancer ward project is personal, and one inspired by my cousin’s battle with leukemia as a child. It’s the work I’m most proud of.
“The Governor is a dear friend, you know,” Mary continues, retrieving a specific document from the pile. A funding approval requiring his signature sits on top, waiting for final authorization. “We serve on three boards together. Play bridge and bingo every other Wednesday.” Her finger traces his name on the paper. “His signature is needed for the project to continue, I see.”
She looks up, meeting my eyes directly for the first time. The blue is colder than winter, calculating and empty of compassion. “One phone call from me, expressing concerns about thesuitability of the artist involved…” Her statement hangs, saying everything.
My face burns, then drains of color as the full implications settle into my bones. She’s not just threatening my career or my relationship with Cillian. She’s threatening the work that helps vulnerable children, work that has nothing to do with her or her son.
“You wouldn’t,” I whisper, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re untrue. She would. She absolutely would.
“I prefer not to,” Mary agrees, closing the red folder with the same precise movements. “But I will if necessary.” She places both folders side by side on the desk, aligning their edges with obsessive care. “You see, Star, I’ve built my life around protecting what matters to me. Cillian matters. His future matters. The Brown legacy matters.”
She stands, circling the desk with slow, deliberate steps until she’s beside me. I don’t turn to face her, keeping my eyes fixed ahead as she places one hand on the back of my chair, her presence looming over me.
“You, however, do not matter,” she continues, her voice softer now, almost intimate in its cruelty. “Except as an obstacle to be removed.”
“What do you want?”
“It’s very simple. You will leave tonight. Tell Cillian you don’t fit in. Tell him you never loved him. Tell him whatever you like, as long as it ends with you walking away.”
She pauses, allowing the words to sink in like poison. “Do that, and your gallery show proceeds as planned. Your funding continues. Your little art therapy project helps all those poor, sick children. Refuse, and I will systematically dismantle everything you’ve built, piece by piece, starting tonight.”
The room spins as I process her words. The casual cruelty is beyond what I imagined even Mary capable of.
“He’ll figure it out,” I say, grasping for any counter to her ultimatum. “Cillian will know you’re behind it.”
“Perhaps. But by then, it will be too late. And eventually, he’ll forgive me. He always does. Family is forever, Star. You’re just temporary.”
She stands again, smoothing her perfectly tailored slacks. “I’ll give you some time to consider your decision. Though I wouldn’t take too long. Cillian and Arthur will finish their discussion soon.” She moves toward the door. “The smart choice is obvious, I think. For everyone involved.”
