I shrug. “Somebody’s got to get the word out.”
She glances at the info card I handed to a guy down the bar. “That’s a bold move, considering the press cycle.”
I snort. “Nobody ever accused me of subtlety.”
She toys with the rim of her glass. “Why do it? Everyone’s saying you want her gone. The Council, your own family, even the blogs. Why stand up for an omega who’s not even yours?”
There it is. The old, sharp-edged question. Why bother?
Emery is ours.Plain and simple. So why can’t it justbethat simple? I don’t ask the reporter that, though.
I wave a hand at the room. “Look, it’s not a secret. We were supposed to be the pack that did it without an omega. Legacy, tradition, all that. We thought it would be easier. It wasn’t. It wasshit. Emery came in and made it better. She made us better. And we were too proud to say thank you, so we made it worse. But we’ve moved past that. Emery is Everhart’s omega, and that is never going to change.”
She’s scribbling in a little notebook now, fast. When she finally looks up it’s with a smile. “You’re not what I expected.”
I finish my beer. “That’s the story of my life.”
She hesitates. “Is it true what they’re saying? About the exhibition being a joke? About her not being good enough?”
Now it’s my turn to be serious. “You’ve seen her stuff?”
She shakes her head.
“Then you don’t know shit.” No malice, just fact. “She’s the only thing in this city that’s not pretending. If you don’t show up, you’re missing out.”
The bartender slides another beer down the bar, and I catch it one-handed, then turn back to the journalist. “What’s your name?”
She grins. “You know I can’t tell you that. But I’ll be there. You have my word.”
“Bring friends,” I call after her, and she raises a hand as she pushes out into the gray afternoon.
I keep visiting bars and other high-traffic areas where my face is familiar. I even reach out to my racing peers to extend an invite. I’m not sure that’s necessarily the crowd Emery wants at her art exhibition, but I do know that I want as many people there as possible. I want her art and her story, herrealstory of hard work and determination, on display for the entire city.
For the entire world.
The world will get to see what she’s made of. And if anyone tries to start shit, they’ll have to go through me first.
CHAPTER 35
Emery
The gallery doesn’t openfor another hour, but I’m already there, triple-checking every wall and surface for errors only I can see. The building is a converted textile factory downtown full of exposed brick and concrete floors. It’s a far cry from the baroque dens I’m used to from college and finishing school days. I like the honesty of the place. Even the ceiling is raw, crisscrossed with steel beams and half-strangled with string lights, as if the owner gave up on the concept of “atmosphere” and let the space do what it wanted.
The first time I saw it, the space was empty except for a sad, feral cat skulking under the risers. Now it’s filled with my work, canvases stacked three rows high on some walls, with smaller pieces clustered together like gossiping birds. There’s a literal blue ribbon on the front door—a joke from Eloise, who’s currently in the bathroom gluing fake gemstones to her eyelids and probably also to the fixtures.
I check the catalogue as my heart does irregular gymnastics. The pages are crisp, my name printed in a font that would make my high school art teacher pass out. It’s a real art show.
My art show.
The thought makes me want to puke or maybe dance. Maybe both at the same time. I opt for the latter, spinning a slow, stupid circle on the gallery floor while the echoes of my own footsteps chase me in circles.
Eloise emerges, trailed by a comet of coconut-scented body spray. Her hair is slicked into a high ponytail with a streak of metallic gold running through it. Her lips are the same neon blue as the paint stains on my hands. She looks at me like she’s about to stage an intervention.
“You’re going to hyperventilate before anyone even gets here.” She picks an invisible piece of lint from my dress.
“I’m fine,” I lie, which is a tradition at this point.
She smirks, then surveys the room with a critical eye. “Is it weird seeing your art up on every wall? It’s intimidating formeand it’s not even mine.”
