I stand in front of it for so long that other patrons start to notice. They give me space as they whisper to each other. The widow staring at the void. How symbolic. How tragic.
But they're wrong. I'm not staring at the void. I'm staring at the terrace, the rain, the railing. I'm remembering the weight of Gabriel's hands on my shoulders. The way his foot slipped. The moment when everything changed and I still don't know if I caused it or just failed to prevent it.
"Powerful, isn't it?"
The voice comes from beside me. I turn. A man stands there—tall, dark hair, sharp eyes that miss nothing. He's not looking at the photograph. He's looking at me.
"Yes," I manage.
"Vera says this one is about the moment before choice becomes consequence. The instant where everything hinges." He pauses. "Do you think we choose? Or do we just react?"
It's not a casual question. There's weight behind it. Purpose.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "I think sometimes we react so fast we can't separate choice from reflex."
He nods like I've confirmed something. "I'm Elias Voss."
The name feels significant, though I don't know why. "Lana Pope."
"I know." He gestures toward the photograph. "What do you see when you look at this?"
I should deflect. Should say something vague about artistic composition or emotional resonance. But something about Elias Voss makes honesty feel less dangerous than performance.
"I see the last moment before everything changed," I say. "When you still think you might survive intact."
"And after?" he asks. "After the change?"
"After, you learn to live with gaps. In your memory. In your certainty. In yourself."
He studies me for a long moment. Then: "You're more interesting than I expected."
Before I can respond, Lucien reappears. Sees me talking to Elias. His expression does something complicated—surprise? Concern? —before smoothing into his usual calculated warmth.
"Elias. I didn't know you'd be joining us tonight."
"Last-minute decision." Elias smiles, but there's an edge to it. "Compelling exhibition. I can see why you invited Ms. Pope specifically."
"Can you?" Lucien's tone is pleasant and completely opaque.
The tension between them is palpable. I'm missing context, standing in the middle of something that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with me simultaneously.
"I should keep walking," I say, even though I don't want to look at any more art that knows me better than I know myself.
"Of course." Lucien touches my arm. "Enjoy the exhibition. We'll speak later."
I move away from them both, weaving through the gallery, hyperaware that I'm being watched. Not just by Lucien and Elias. By everyone. By cameras I can't see but know are there.
And somewhere, in a control room beneath this building, someone is watching all of it.
I finish my champagne. Set the empty glass on a passing server's tray. Walk to the nearest exit and slip into the hallway beyond.
The hallway is dimmer, quieter. A bathroom at the end, emergency exit to the left. I head for the bathroom just to have somewhere to go that isn't surrounded by art that sees through me.
Inside, I lean against the marble counter and look at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back is flushed from champagne and attention. Her eyes are too bright. Her hands are shaking.
I came here to be seen. But being seen means being known, and being known means someone might ask questions I don't have answers to.
Did I push him?
