I grab my clutch—ID, phone, lipstick, nothing else—and head downstairs.
The driver opens the rear door without speaking. I slide into leather seats that smell like money and close my eyes as we pull away from the curb. The drive to The Dominion takes seventeen minutes. I count them the way I count everything now. Eighteen minutes to decide if I'm making a mistake. Eighteen minutes to prepare for being seen.
The car stops in front of The Dominion at exactly 8 PM. The driver opens my door. I step out onto pavement that's been swept clean of every leaf and cigarette butt. The building looms above me—dark brick, art deco details, windows that reveal nothing. It looks expensive and exclusive and slightly menacing. Exactly what it is.
The same host from last week—Marcus, I think his name was—greets me at the entrance. "Ms. Pope. Welcome back. Mr. Armitage is expecting you."
I place my thumb on the biometric pad, lean forward for the retinal scan. The system recognizes me instantly. The door unlocks with a soft click.
Inside, The Dominion has been transformed. Last week it was all dark wood and dim lighting, intimate and closed. Tonight, the main floor is flooded with light. White wallshave been erected throughout the space, creating a gallery. Art hangs in careful arrangements: photographs, paintings, mixed media pieces. Members circulate with champagne, their voices a collective murmur of appreciation and critique.
And in the center of it all, Lucien Armitage.
He sees me the moment I enter. Crosses the floor with the kind of purpose that makes people step aside. He's wearing a navy suit that probably costs a fortune, silver hair swept back, those calculating blue eyes already assessing.
"Lana." He takes my hand, brings it to his lips in a gesture that would be absurd from anyone else but somehow works for him. "I'm delighted you came. The exhibition is quite provocative. I think you'll find it... resonant."
"Themes of confinement and liberation," I say, echoing his invitation.
"Exactly." He gestures toward the nearest wall. "The artist is Vera Molina. She spent a decade in an abusive marriage before leaving. This is her first major exhibition since her divorce."
I look at the photograph in front of us. It shows a woman's hands bound with ribbon—not rope, not chain, but delicate silk ribbon that looks decorative until you realize it's tied so tightly her fingers are turning purple. The title card reads:Gift Wrapped.
"What do you think?" Lucien asks.
I think it's the most honest thing I've seen in months. I think Vera Molina understands exactly what I'm only beginning to articulate. I think looking at this photograph makes my chest hurt in ways that feel necessary.
"It's perfect," I say.
Lucien smiles. "I thought you might appreciate her work. Come. Let me introduce you."
He guides me through the gallery, one hand at my lower back—not possessive like Gabriel's touch, but steering. The difference is subtle but significant. We pass other members who look at me with varying degrees of interest: curiosity, assessment, speculation. I keep my face neutral. Give nothing away.
Vera Molina is standing near the back wall, surrounded by admirers. She's older than I expected—late fifties, her gray hair worn natural, dressed in flowing black that looks chosen for comfort rather than convention. When Lucien introduces us, her eyes go sharp.
"Lana Pope," she says. "Gabriel Pope's widow."
"Yes." I wait for judgment. For the questions everyone wants to ask but rarely voices.
Instead, she says, "I'm sorry for your loss," in a tone that suggests she knows exactly what kind of loss it was.
"Thank you." The words feel inadequate but necessary.
"Have you walked through the exhibition yet?" she asks.
"Just arrived."
"Then walk. Take your time. Let the work speak to you." She hands me a glass of champagne from a passing server. "And if it says something you don't want to hear, that's when you know it's working."
Lucien excuses himself—other patrons to greet, other introductions to facilitate—leaving me alone with Vera's art and a glass of champagne I don't want but accept anyway.
I walk the gallery systematically, spending time with each piece. There's a sculpture made entirely of wedding rings weldedinto a cage. A video installation showing the same woman's face repeating "I'm fine" in progressively emptier tones. A painting of a beautiful house with every window barred.
And there, in the far corner, a photograph that stops me completely.
It shows a terrace at night. Rain-slicked stone. A railing barely visible in the darkness. And beyond the railing, nothing but void.
The title card reads:The Drop.
