1
LOUIS
The gallery is packed, and I’m scanning the crowd for my little sister so I can drag her stubborn ass out of here.
Delphine is twenty-six, ten years younger than me, and has made it her life’s mission to take me to events I don’t want to attend. Tonight, she promised this stop would only take two hours, three tops. My sister is searching for a replacement for Henri Beaumont—our royal portrait artist who passed away three months ago. That was an hour ago, and she’s already exhausted my patience.
I weave through the crowd. Conversations blur around me, the usual art-world chatter about technique and meaning and whose husband is sleeping with whom. The air smells like the typical expensive perfume and old money that fill swanky New York art galleries like this.
Delphine’s probably in some back room, making a new bestie, oblivious to the fact that I’m supposed to be at my friend Dyson’s penthouse, three whiskeys deep, enjoying my last few days of freedom before my life ends.
Sure, it sounds dramatic, but it’s also accurate as fuck.
In two days, I’ll fly home to Montclaire to begin meeting the women my parents believe are wife material. When I was eighteen, I agreed to get married by thirty-five. If I didn’t, I’d be forced into an arranged marriage situation. Back then, I was certain I’d find someone without needing help. Now, at thirty-six, I’ve run out oftime to search.
A wall of large canvases stops me mid-stride, and I forget about finding Delphine, the arrangement, and anything else plaguing me. All that matters is the portrait of the woman asleep on a subway with her head propped against the window. A hospital work badge is still clipped to bright blue scrubs. The exhaustion is so real that I can feel it in my bones, but something else is bubbling under the surface too. Hope, or maybe stubbornness, mixed with a tiredness that only comes from building a life, not giving up on one.
I step closer, studying the brushwork. The artist used hyper-realistic detail in her face, hands, and the worn fabric of the scrubs. But bleeding out from the edges are bursts of abstract color, deep purples with soft golds leaking onto the canvas, almost resembling emotions. Like the artist caught every invisible thing that woman had carried with her onto that train.
I move to the next one. A teenager sprawled across a subway seat, reading a paperback with the front cover torn off. His posture screams indifference, but his eyes are locked on the page, as he’s completely lost in whatever world he’s escaped to. Greens and electric blues bleed from his edges.
Next is an older man, holding a birthday balloon, alone, staring at nothing. But when I look closer, there’s someone reflected in his irises. A figure standing in front of him. The birthday girl maybe. A daughter. A lover. I’ll never know, and that’s what makes it devastating.
“The subway series is sold,” I hear the curator say behind me, and a tag is placed over the collection name.
Whoever purchased this has excellent taste. I wish it had been me.
I’m still in front of the canvas of the old man’s face when I turn and see a beautiful, dark-haired woman standing two paintings down.
She’s completely absorbed in a portrait of an empty subway car at night. The overhead gallery light catches the gold in her brown hair, and I find myself staring longer than I should. She’s wearing a simple black dress that fits her like she didn’t try too hard, but in a gorgeous way. Her posture is straight but relaxed, like she belongs here and doesn’t need anyone’s permission. It’s a confidence that’s earned, not faked.
She hasn’t noticed me, which is unusual. Pretty ladies always find me in a crowd.
I watch her tilt her head at the painting, and her lips part slightly,like she’s about to say something to herself. But she doesn’t. Somehow, she’s completely unaware that I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
I should find my sister and get the fuck out of here right now. But I selfishly take my time moving through the paintings before they disappear into someone’s private vault, maybe never to be seen again. I stop when I’m standing beside her, close enough to smell her sweet perfume.
“You look like you’re concentrating,” I say, unable to help myself.
She turns, and when our eyes meet, I lose my train of thought for a second. Her blue-green eyes study me like she’s deciding whether I’m worth her time.
Plump red lips curve into a small smirk. “Maybe I am.”
“Really? What’s on your mind?” I take a glass of champagne from a passing server.
“World peace,” she says without missing a beat.
“Hilarious.” I take a sip, already hooked. “What’s your favorite collection here?”
“You ask that like you already have an answer.”
“I do.” I nod toward the paintings in front of us. “The subway series has captured me, and I’ve not been able to walk away from it.”
She sips her champagne and keeps her expression perfectly bored. “Really? There are plenty of incredible artists in the gallery tonight.”
“Sure, but this has me mesmerized.” I turn toward the artwork, toward the empty car with its worn seats and harsh fluorescent light, toward the shadow on the floor that might be someone standing just outside the frame. “Whoever painted these captured people who had no idea anyone was watching.”
“Nice assessment.”
