I'm wearing black leather pants and a fitted shirt that cost less than what most of these people spend on shoelaces. No tux, no bow tie. Just me, exactly as I am. The event coordinator tried to argue, but Charity shut that down fast. "He's not your trained monkey. He's the best street magician in New York, and you're lucky to have him."
Damn right.
The platform begins to rotate, controlled by cables I rigged myself. Below, Charity's sculpture dominates the center of the gallery—a massive piece of flowing metal that seems to defy physics, titled "Awakening." When the light hits it right, you can see wind patterns frozen in steel. The museum purchased it for six figures.
My woman doesn't mess around.
I catch her eye from across the room. She's wearing a dress the color of deep wine, fitted at the top and flowing at the bottom, her platinum hair swept up to show the curve of her neck. She's learned to stand differently these past six months—shoulders back, chin up. Not the nervous heiress who found me hiding in her cottage. This woman owns her space.
She winks at me. I nearly drop the coin.
"For my next illusion," I continue, recovering smoothly, "I'll need absolute silence."
The crowd obliges. Even the society vultures who initially called us a scandal now hang on every word. Funny how respect works—turns out you just have to stop caring if they give it.
I produce a silk scarf from nothing, letting it float between my hands. The ancient skills I learned from Titus in Rome's slums, refined with years of muscle memory. Below, I spot movement at the gallery entrance. My stomach tightens.
Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke have arrived.
They haven't seen Charity in six months. Not since the interview in People where Charity calmly explained to a national audience that she'd been raised as a replacement for a dead sister and it nearly destroyed her. It got a lot of media attention. Her parents didn't call.
I make the scarf ignite in mid-air—flash paper, perfectly timed—and the crowd gasps. Through the smoke, I watch Charity's parents scan the room. They're dressed as if they're attending a funeral, all black and pearls and disapproval.
Then, they see the sculpture. See the placard: "Awakening" by Charity Pembroke, also known as Anima Venti.
Mrs. Pembroke's hand goes to her throat.
I finish the performance with my signature move—escaping from a locked box while suspended upside down. The crowd erupts in applause. I take my bow from the platform, then rappel down the cables because stairs are boring.
By the time I reach Charity, she's already moving toward her parents. I fall into step beside her, close enough to intervene if needed but letting her lead. This is her fight.
"Mother. Father." Her voice is steady, professional. The way she'd address any gallery patron. "Thank you for coming."
"Charity." Her mother's tone is strained. "We didn't realize you'd be… displaying your work publicly."
"Under my own name?" Charity's smile is sharp. "Yes. Turns out 'Anima Venti' was good for mystery, but Charity Pembroke is better for business. My agent says I'm booked through next year."
"Your agent," Mr. Pembroke repeats flatly. His eyes drift to me, dismissive. Then they catch on my hand resting at the small of Charity's back. Protective, possessive. "Still with the… performer."
"Draco," I supply helpfully. "We've met. Several times, actually."
"Yes." He doesn't elaborate.
An awkward silence stretches. A waiter passes with champagne, and Mrs. Pembroke takes a glass like she needs it to survive. Her gaze lands on Charity's dress, and something flickers in her expression.
"That's a beautiful gown, dear. Is it… new?"
"From a thrift shop in Brooklyn." Charity smooths the fabric, and I feel pride swell in my chest. She looks like a goddess in that dress, and she found it for forty dollars. "This one actually suits me. Better than the clothes you used to dress me up in like a doll."
The words land like stones in still water. Mrs. Pembroke's face pales.
"Charity, we only wanted—"
"What was best for me?" Charity's voice stays level, but there's steel underneath. "Or what was best for you? What looked right to your friends? What helped you pretend Grace never existed?"
I see Mr. Pembroke flinch. The name hits him hard.
"We loved your sister," he says quietly.
