And strangers had looked at it and said: Yes. This. I want this in my life.
Sophie pulled me into a hug.
"You did it," she whispered against my hair.
I held on.
And let myself believe, just for a moment, that maybe I had.
Theapartmentwasquietafter the chaos of the gallery.
That particular silence of coming home after hours of noise—the way the stillness felt deliberate, like the world was giving my ears permission to rest. I stood in the doorway, my heels already dangling from one hand, letting the peace wash over me.
Ghost emerged from his bed with theatrical sighs.
His long grey body stretched, then stretched again, conveying the particular exhaustion of a dog who had been admired all evening and was now completely drained by the effort. Maks had insisted on bringing him to the opening—said the inspiration for one of the paintings deserved to attend. Ghost had spent three hours accepting compliments and treats from strangers, and now he pressed his head against my thigh with the air of someone who had performed great labors.
"I know," I told him, scratching behind his ears. "Being famous is hard work."
He sighed again, then flopped onto his bed. Instant unconsciousness.
I kicked off my remaining heel.
Maks caught me.
His hands found my waist, pulled me close, and suddenly we were swaying. No music, no rhythm except whatever played in his head, just the two of us moving in the dim light of the apartment we'd made ours.
"You did it," he murmured against my hair.
The words were simple. The weight behind them wasn't.
"My brilliant girl." He turned us slowly, a dance that went nowhere. "My artist."
The title landed somewhere deep—deeper than proud of you, deeper than I love you, though he said those things too. My artist claimed something beyond this single night. Made me into someone who created, who showed, who belonged in the galleries and exhibitions of the world.
I pressed my face into his shoulder.
Breathed him in. The particular scent that meant safety and home and all the things I'd been afraid to want before he taught me wanting was allowed.
"I'm exhausted," I admitted. "And wired. And overwhelmed. And—"
"I know." His hand found the back of my neck, warm and grounding. "I know, little bird."
We swayed a moment longer. The city glittered beyond his windows—our windows now, after six months of slowly merging our lives into something shared. My easel in the corner. His surveillance screens in the office. Ghost's bed migrating from room to room depending on where the sunlight fell.
"Come to bed," he said quietly.
Not a command. An invitation.
I followed.
The bedroom was shadows and city glow, the particular half-light that made everything soft. He undressed me slowly—not the deliberate ritual of our morning routines, but something gentler. Simpler. The zipper of my dress sliding down, the fabric pooling at my feet. My bra next, his fingers unhooking it with the particular competence he brought to everything.
I stood bare before him.
Except for the collar.
Always except for the collar.
