“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, but there’s a faint tremor in her voice.
“Are you okay?” I ask, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You look?—”
“Overwhelmed,” she cuts in, her smile flickering. “In a good way. But I think—” She hesitates, pulling back slightly. “I think I need to sit down. I’ve been feeling off all day. Maybe coming down with something.”
Concern flares in my chest, but she waves it off, standing and brushing imaginary dust from her dress. “It’s nothing serious. Just... a lot of champagne and not enough food.”
“We can leave,” I offer, rising to my feet. “Head back to the hotel.”
“No,” she says quickly, her hand on my arm. “Not yet. You should go back down, celebrate. This is your night, Calum. Your moment.”
“It’s our moment,” I insist, but she shakes her head, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.
“Don’t argue with me. Go be brilliant and adored. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”
Her words should reassure me, but there’s a shadow behind her smile, something I can’t quite place. I hesitate, but she leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek.
“Go,” she whispers. “I’ll be fine.”
When I return to the gallery, the room feels different. The warmth, the energy—it’s all dulled somehow, like someone’s turned down the brightness. The patrons are still here, still talking, drinking, admiring the art. But without Annabel, it all feels hollow.
Jonathan is by the bar, watching me with that same knowing smirk. He raises his glass in a mock toast as I approach, his eyes gleaming with something cruel.
“Back so soon?” he drawls. “I figured you’d be busy celebrating with your... fiancée.”
The word drips with disdain, and my jaw tightens. “She wasn’t feeling well. She went back to the hotel.”
“Ah.” He swirls the whiskey in his glass, his gaze cutting through me. “And youbelieved her.”
“Of course I did.” My voice is sharp, defensive, but Jonathan only chuckles.
“She’s a good actress,” he says, leaning in slightly. “Always has been. But you should know that by now, Calum.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. His words dig into my chest, unearthing fears I’ve buried too deep for even myself to acknowledge.
Jonathan smirks, finishing his drink in one long swallow. “Good luck, old friend. You’re going to need it.”
I spend the next few hours speaking with art patrons and donors, all introduced to me by the owner of the gallery. The success of the show has opened doors I never dreamed possible, opportunities coming at me so fast and furious a strange exhilaration for the future hums through me.
Later, the drive back to the hotel is a blur. My mind is a storm of thoughts, doubts, hope, memories of Annabel’s smile and the way it sometimes doesn’t quite reach her eyes. By the time I reach our suite, my heart is pounding.
The door is unlocked.
I push it open, the room dark except for the faint glow of the bedside lamp. Annabel is sitting on the edge of the bed, still in her dress, her back to me. She doesn’t move as I step inside, her shoulders rigid, her head bowed.
“Annabel?” I ask, my voice low. “You wouldn’t believe the conversations I had after you left–the board of directors at the New York Public Library is commissioning a mural and they’re considering me for the project.”
She doesn’t respond. The air feels heavy, suffocating, and when I move closer, I see the tear tracks on her cheeks, glinting in the dim light.
“What’s wrong?” I crouch in front of her, taking her hands in mine. “Talk to me.”
She looks at me then, her eyes glassy and distant.
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
“Do what?” My chest tightens, panic rising. “Annabel, what are you talking about?”
She shakes her head, pulling her hands free. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
