The rest of the afternoon is a blur. At some point, a curator from another gallery asks if I’m “taking commissions,” and when I say yes, he gives me his card and asks for two pieces for a show in the spring. People buy nearly everything on the wall before four p.m. Bastion works the floor like a pro, somehow turning every passing compliment into a sale. Wyatt manages to swipe my phone and take photos of the event to be posted to my art account later on.
There are Council people here, too, some with clipboards, some just there to gawk. One woman in a red blazer corners me by the snack table and says, “You know, if you ever want to use your platform for policy, you could have a future in the advocacy sector.” I try not to laugh, but she’s serious, and so I just say “I’ll think about it” and flee before she can ask for more. At this stage, I want nothing to do with the Council who tried to push me out of my own fairytale.
The hours pass fast. I lose track of time and just float, arms linked with Eloise or hands occupied with tiny plastic cups of champagne. Eventually, the crowd thins. The staff starts stacking chairs, and Eloise rounds up the stragglers for afterparty plans. I slip outside with the pack, the four of us forming a tight little unit on the icy steps.
The city is quiet, the air soft and electric. Streetlights flicker, and I can see my breath in the cold.
I huddle in amongst my alphas. “Best day ever.”
Bastion drapes an arm around my shoulder and pulls me in closer to his body heat. “Told you. You’re a fucking star.”
Wyatt grins, then leans against the railing, spinning my phone in his hand. “We trended. Top ten in the city. You’re officially famous, Emery.”
Ranier gives me a sidelong glance, then reaches for my hand. His grip is steady, warm. “Are you okay?”
“Perfect.” I couldn’t be more perfect if we all tried.
We stand like that for a long time, not talking, just being. Then Eloise bursts out of the gallery, arms full of coats and leftover wine, and yells, “Photo time! Get over here before you’re all too drunk to stand up straight.”
We crowd together on the steps. Eloise sets her phone on a timer and joins us, grinning wide. The flash goes off, and for a split second, I see the future. Not just for me, but for all of us. It’s bright and, most importantly, real.
After the picture, Bastion pulls me into a kiss, hard and hot, tasting like sugar and possibility. Then Wyatt and Ranier follow with a careful, devastating brush of lips that makes my toes curl even in two layers of tights.
“Right, I’m out of here,” Eloise declares with a giggle. “Give you all some space.” She heads back inside and we pile into the back of Ranier’s car, limbs tangled and love blooming.
The perfect end to the most perfect day.
“Thank you,” I tell them. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER 36
Ranier
The sittingroom is painted with afternoon sunlight and the leftover sting of every argument I’ve ever had with my father. Emery chose the loveseat by the window, perched on its edge as if ready to take flight at the slightest noise. She’s in one of her blue-and-white dresses, the same shade as the clouds outside, with her hair pulled back so tight it makes her look like a smaller, more dangerous version of herself.
I sit on the couch across from her with my hands folded, pretending to read the printout of her exhibition’s write-up in the city’s largest paper. It’s a fantastic review. The word “transcendent” appears more than once, which is better than anyone in this house has managed for a generation. But I can’t focus on the words. I’m waiting for the door to open, for my father to cross the threshold and enact whatever ceremonial violence he’s rehearsed on the drive over.
Emery picks at the seam of a throw pillow, which is shaped like a wolf’s head. She doesn’t look up when she speaks. “Are you sure you want me here for this?”
I should lie. Instead, I tell the truth. “I don’t know.”
She makes a face—eyebrows up, eyes narrowed, the classic Emery skepticism. “Because if you want, I can be sick. Or dead.I have a range of excuses.” She chuckles after but I can tell it’s because she’s unsure about this situation, not because she actually finds any of this funny.
“You’re not going anywhere.” And that’s why I need her here.Wanther here. My father needs to see our united front .
For a second the tension in the room drops. “Is it always this—” she gestures, as if to encompass the marble fireplace, the wall of books no one reads, and the single photograph of my father shaking hands with a Councilman, “—much?”
I glance at the clock. My father is ten minutes late. Very unusual for him. I have half a mind to think he’s doing it on purpose to torture me.That’d be on brand.I wish I had something to offer Emery, but I don’t.
We both want this over with as soon as possible.
Before I can finally reply, the front door slams with the kind of force that’s supposed to mean “I’m in charge.” Except Everhart Manor isn’t his anymore. Footsteps cross the hall—sharp, deliberate—and my father appears in the doorway, not even bothering to knock.
He’s in a suit, of course. Always is. He surveys the room, takes us in, and then does the thing where he smiles but only with the lower half of his face.
“Ranier,” he says. Then, after a pause, “Miss Grey.”
Emery stands. She doesn’t curtsey or bow or do any of the things that would make him comfortable. Instead, she holds out her hand. A brazen break in protocol.
