"Totally ridiculous," he agrees. "Almost as ridiculous as the way you've been watching them for the past five minutes like you're contemplating the most efficient way to remove her claws from his arm."
I shoot him a withering look. "Don't you have security things to do?"
"This is a security thing," he counters, still grinning. "I'm protecting Ethan from the dangerous waves of jealousy radiating from this corner of the room."
"I am not jealous," I insist, though the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
"If you say so, sunshine." Mateo winks, clearly not believing me for a second. "But if it helps, he hasn't stopped monitoring your location once since we arrived. Even while resisting that woman's best impression of a koala with expensive perfume."
Before I can respond, a hush falls over the gallery as the lights dim slightly. Richard, the gallery owner, steps onto a small platform at the center of the main room.
"Thank you all for coming tonight," he begins, his voice carrying in the expectant silence. "We're honored to present the first major exhibition by an artist who has, thus far, chosen to remain anonymous. The choice of the artist is to let the images have all your focus and not who the author is."
My heart pounds as Richard continues with the introduction to the work that means so much to me. I selected all these photos because they are representations of women who have overcome hardships. Women who are doing what are considered to be traditionally male jobs, or who are simply pure symbols of strength and resilience. Soon, all the people in this room will see Horeima, a Yanomami woman who fights everyday against the devastation of Amazonia; Helen, a miner in Australia; and Judy, once a teenage mother who now, at forty, runs a real estate empire. And there are many more. Each portrait is an inspiring story of grit.
I find my gaze drifting to Ethan, curious about his reaction to work he doesn't know is mine.
To my surprise, he's already looking at me, his expression unreadable across the room. Vanessa still hovers at his side, but his attention has shifted entirely, focused on me with an intensity that makes my skin warm despite the gallery's aggressive air conditioning.
Richard signals to an assistant, who begins pulling black curtains from the previously covered walls, revealing my photographs for the first time. Gasps and murmurs ripple through the crowd as the images are unveiled. Stark, powerful photographs capturing moments of vulnerability transformed into strength.
"Wow," Mateo whispers beside me. "Whoever this artist is, they've got serious talent."
Pride swells in my chest at his unconscious compliment. These photographs represent years of work, thousandsof hours perfecting my craft in secret, developing a style and perspective entirely my own. Not dictated by managers or clients or the expectations of the fashion industry.
For years, these images were my secret rebellion. Proof that I saw the world in more than angles and symmetry, more than beauty. They were the only thing I created without someone else's agenda attached. And now they were out in the world, exposed, evaluated, vulnerable. Like me.
Leaving Mateo supervising a tray of hors d'oeuvres, I move through the exhibition, pretending to see the photographs for the first time, listening to the reactions of the crowd. For once, the admiration has nothing to do with my face or my body. Just my vision, my talent, my voice.
When I reach the far corner, a small motion catches my eye. Ethan, now free of Vanessa, examining one of my photographs with unusual intensity. It's one of my favorites. A woman, Joanne, nursing her baby among the devastation left by Hurricane Helene. A moment of tenderness amid the chaos.
"What do you think?" I ask, moving to stand beside him.
He doesn't look at me immediately, still studying the image. "It's powerful," he says finally. "The subject appears vulnerable at first glance. There is destruction everywhere. But you can see hope. That life, no matter what, continues, even with all the chaos."
His insight into my intention is so precise it momentarily steals my breath. "You see all that in a single photograph?"
Now he does turn to me, his earlier professional distance softened by something resembling our old connection. "It's there if you know what to look for." His gaze returns to the photograph. "You can see that whoever took this has known the worst that life can throw at you and still manages to find beauty among the remains of life."
"Yes," I say quietly. "I imagine they do."
A comfortable silence falls between us as we stand before the image, our earlier argument temporarily set aside. At this moment, I have an inexplicable urge to tell him the truth. That these are my photographs, my vision, that they represent the only part of my life that's truly mine, my most private form of expression now on public display.
"There's something personal for you here, isn't there? Something beyond professional interest."
"Why do you ask that?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing," he says, though his expression suggests otherwise. "You just... look different when you're here. More yourself, somehow."
The observation hits uncomfortably close to home. I am more myself here, surrounded by my own work, even if no one knows it's mine.
"Maybe art brings out the best in me," I offer with a slight smile.
"Maybe," he agrees. Then, unexpectedly, he adds, "I'm sorry about earlier. The argument. I was... concerned."
"I know." And I do know. Whatever tension exists between us, I never doubt his commitment to keeping me safe. "I wasn't exactly at my diplomatic best either."
Something in his expression softens, and for a moment, I glimpse the Ethan from before, the man who made me cinnamon milk at 2 AM, who listened without judgment, who saw me as more than just a client to be protected. And, because of that... I deflect, "You know, if you're not careful you will be Vanessa's husband number five."
