“Shut up.” I rolled my eyes, but my heart gave the tiniest, traitorous flutter. “I’m not the marrying type. Besides, his sister hates me.”
Lily’s eyes widened. “Janine hates you? Why?”
“I opened my big mouth and said something dumb about her job,” I admitted with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter. Come on, I’ve got something to show you.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and smiled at them. “And seriously... thank you for being here.”
I let the girls sweep ahead of me in a wave of perfume and laughter. Sebastian was waiting just inside, and as I slipped myhand into the crook of his arm, the knot in my stomach began to unravel. Together, we walked through the glass doors.
I was stunned by how many guests had already arrived, drifting from piece to piece, their faces lit with admiration. My heart raced—half nerves, half exhilaration—as I took in the sight. The gallery had transformed into a prism of colors and soft light, the perfect stage for my art. This was the moment I had dreamed of for years: my work finally on display, no longer hidden in my cramped studio, but alive in the world.
A jazz trio played in the background, their mellow notes weaving seamlessly into the hum of chatter and laughter. Fairy lights glittered across the walls, throwing a warm glow over each canvas. Every piece felt like a fragment of my soul pinned to the whitewashed walls, a narrative of my journey.
Sebastian squeezed my hand, reading the tears that threatened behind my lashes.
“You did a fantastic job, Jess. I’ve never seen art more beautiful than this.”
He stopped in front of the Seasons collection—four canvases that had drained me and completed me in equal measure. The colors seemed to breathe under the gallery lights: the raw greens and pinks of spring, the searing blues and golds of summer, the burnished flames of autumn, the still, icy glow of winter.
“Thank you,” I whispered, pressing closer to him. I faked a scratch at my nose, dabbing away a rogue tear before it betrayed me.
Around us, guests studied my work with wide eyes, their expressions soft with wonder, or breaking into smiles. Pride rose sharply in my chest. Somehow, with brushes and pencils, I’d built a doorway and they’d walked through into my world.
Across the room, theNew York Citycollection commanded a corner of the gallery. Skyscrapers stretched into stormy skies, reflections rippled in puddles, the energy of the streets capturedin quick strokes. Each canvas pulsed with the life of the city that had shaped me. My love letter to New York.
Near the back wall, I spotted my girlfriends frozen in front of theManhattan Womensketches, their champagne flutes dangling forgotten in their hands. I pressed Sebastian’s arm and murmured, “Go grab a drink. I’ll be right back.”
He kissed my temple before stepping toward the bar, and I slipped away to join the girls.
They hadn’t moved. They stood transfixed, gazes fastened to the series that meant the most to me. Bold, fashionable women in quick, stylized lines—the women of my city, women who inspired me daily with their grit and grace. Each sketch was a tribute, a celebration of strength wrapped in stilettos and subway swipes, of individuality and poise carved out in charcoal.
This was the collection closest to my heart. And seeing my friends—my muses—standing there, awestruck and silent, felt like the truest victory of all.
“You like?” I asked, grinning.
The girls turned toward me in unison, faces lit with delight.
“These are fantastic!” Ange said, practically bouncing. “I want to buy all of them—if only I could afford it.”
“Not that they aren’t worth every penny,” Lily added firmly. Her hand shot out to point at one of the sketches. “This one’s mine. Definitely my style.”
I followed her finger and smiled smugly. She was pointing at the sketch of herself—yellow blouse, black slacks, jacket slung casually from one hand.
“Thatisyou,” I said. “I made a sketch of each of you.”
Gasps, giggles, and a few suspiciously shiny eyes followed as I guided them from portrait to portrait. One by one, recognition dawned, and with it came laughter, a few sniffles, and lots of teasing.
When I confessed that I’d planned to gift them the sketches, they all protested at once, voices overlapping.
“No way.”
“Absolutely not.”
“We’re paying for ours!”
I threw up my hands, conceding. “Fine, fine. Then you’ll have to go through Malcom. He handles all the transactions.”
“Did I hear my name?”
I turned to see Malcom appear behind me, cheeks flushed, grin as bright as the fairy lights.
