The irony’s not lost on me.
I just wish my heart had a different ending. One where it didn't know the pain of being broken.
chapter forty one
pay no attention to the tears behind the mask
I’d been in ballrooms before. Plenty of them. Although none of them were actually for a ball. All the priceless paintings and brilliant gold details were covered by trending tack, to the point where I’m sure the ghosts that haunted them were rolling their eyes and trying to die.
Again.
But for once, there was no tack. There was no self-obsessed DJ in the corner of the room. There was no soul-sucking networking, or fake smiles, or pretending that being there was the highlight of my life.
Because five months ago I painted again for the first time, and I remembered what it felt like to create something that was mine. Not a performance, not a mask, not another excuse to keep people happy. Just colour and canvas and the quiet kind of honesty that didn’t need an audience. And tonight, in this ballroom, stripped of all its tack and noise, it felt like the room and I were both allowed to be ourselves again.
Almost.
This was a gala, not a ball. Big difference.
Nothing crazy, but it was easier to think about that than try and calm myself enough to face reality.
I hadn’t slept a wink last night. Couldn’t. I was too busy overthinking my paints, wondering if I’d done too much, then not enough, convincing myself I’d submitted the wrong ones, and truly believing that the canvases would be blank when I got here.
It was silly things, probably just to overpower the nerves that were surging in my stomach every time I thought about entering the ballroom. Which I could see from where I was standing, waiting in line to give my name to whoever was at the front.
The line moved quickly, which I both loved and hated.
Loved because this was the Nouvelle Muse Gala.
Hated because… this was theNouvelle Muse Gala.
I felt like a tadpole in an ocean full of whale sharks. Tiny, insignificant, would be eaten and not even missed. And then came the ridiculousness. Mainly from the gown I was wearing.
I hadn’t planned on wearing something like this. But the invite specified a formal masquerade ball dress code, and there wasn’t a chance in hell I was disobeying what I’d been waiting so long for.
The dress felt like a memory from a life I never got to live, soft lavender silk, layers of tulle blooming around my legs like smoke and stardust. Tiny white flowers dotted the skirt like someone had scattered them by hand, some trailing up the sheer sleeves that stretched to my wrists. The basque waist hugged my ribs just enough to remind me I still had a heart beatingunder there, and the slight plunge in the neckline left me exposed in a way that felt… terrifying. And a little powerful.
I caught sight of myself in the compact mirror as I adjusted the mask Marcus had given me, that somehow matched the dress like it had always been meant to. Like he'd known what dress I was going to choose.
We’re not thinking him, Cora.I reminded myself. I also tried not to remember that it was probably the 87th time I’d reminded myself of that today.
I flashed a tiny smile to the woman by the door before I walked in, through the nearly empty foyer, and past two men guarding the doors who opened them for me as I walked in.
If I had to describe the room in one word, I’d go with dazzling. Every surface sparkled, every champagne glass glittered, and every face lit up with the awe of looking at a painting for the very first time. I found it wild how some of them were mine.
The way the gala worked was simple enough—on paper, at least. The committee would vote on which of the six selected artists would win the scholarship, but their decision wasn’t solely theirs. They factored in public opinion too. It was more or less a cashless auction, where the currency was attention, praise, and whispers in the right ears.
There were still dances and things to come before decision time, so until then, I kept my ears pricked up.
I stepped into the gallery, plucking a champagne flute from a passing server dressed head-to-toe in masquerade elegance,catching eyes with Patrick for a quick second, exchanging a wink through our masks, then began to wander.
I was oddly thankful for the masquerade theme. The anonymity. The chance to slip behind silk and glitter and hope no one recognised me—or the name beside my painting. I didn’t want whispers about my platform. Or—God help me—my past. I just wanted the work to speak. For them to judge me based on nothing else but that.
I wandered further into the ballroom, my dress falling behind me, when I came across a painting that I knew in a heartbeat. And it sounded silly admitting that I was surprised to see it there, but I was.
This was the painting that I painted the night Marcus and I had sex.
I had to squeeze my eyes shut to avoid the memory, but all that did was give it a blank canvas to project onto. So instead I spun around, and, low and behold, my second painting was staring right back at me.
