“What?” I stare at her, confused.
Delphine’s expression is smug, and it’s irritating me. “Oh. Oh?Oh!Now, this is an interesting development.”
“Fucking enlighten me before I lose the single ounce of patience I have available.” I keep my voice low.
“The subway series.” Delphine crosses her arms. “Addison painted that collection.”
My mouth parts as I put all the pieces of that night together. I think about the woman asleep on the subway in her scrubs and work badge, the teenager with a torn paperback, the old man holding a birthday balloon, someone reflected in his eyes. Then I recall watching Addison stare at that subway painting. I want to know what it means to her, why she was so deep in thought, looking at it. That night, I felt something I’d been missing in my life for a very long time, and it was all because of her.
“She didn’t tell you at the gallery?” Delphine asks, and she’s being genuine. “I thought you were chatting about her paintings.”
“We were, but she conveniently withheld that she was the creator.”
“It’s like how you didn’t explain you were a royal. I wonder why that is.”
I don’t have an answer. Most artists I’ve met can’t wait to talk about themselves. They drop their credentials into conversation like breadcrumbs, desperate for recognition. Addison let me ramble about her work without taking credit for any of it. She wanted to blend in that night like everyone else. We gave each other our raw forms, without titles and expectations. That rarely happens for me.
I glance toward the windows and see her smiling at something one of the women said. Addison’s head is thrown back, and she’s completely at ease, enjoying herself. To see her here is a mindfuck because she’s been living rent-free in my head since the night we spoke.
“How long has she been here?” I ask.
“Four days. She’s staying at the cottages with the other painters.” Delphine acts casual. “I believe you were in Paris when she arrived, and our parents apologized for your absence.”
“What the fuck, Delphi? You should’ve told me immediately.”
Addison’s been here, and I had no idea.
“Probably.” She doesn’t sound remotely sorry. “But getting this reaction is totally worth it. You’ve confirmed somethings for me.”
“Thrilled to be your entertainment.”
She pats my cheek. “You’ll thank me later.”
“Send her home,” I say between clenched teeth.
“You know I don’t have the power to do that. Neither do you. Mom and Dad will choose if she stays or not.” She grins. “But I have a feeling she’s going to win it all.”
She walks away to rejoin Addison. The two of them click like they’ve been friends for years. Addison catches my eye and holds it for a beat too long before lifting her glass.
I drain my champagne in one go as this revelation dances in my mind.
“You should be careful,” Marcelo says to me, and I didn’t even notice he was standing there. “She’s a fuckboy slayer.”
The thought makes me chuckle. “I’m aware.”
Addison continues to watch me across the room, and I can’t get over the fact that she’s here. If she wins this competition, she’ll be required to paint the woman I choose as my wife. She’ll have a front-row seat to the engagement, the wedding, and eventually the baby.
I need her gone.
7
ADDISON
The green sundress lands on top of the pile already covering my bed. It’s too casual. The white button-down follows it a second later because it makes me look like I’m interviewing for a job instead of meeting someone to play chess. I stand in front of my small closet in my bra and jeans, wondering when I became the kind of person who cares.
My opponent could be a seventy-year-old groundskeeper. It could be anyone, really. And first impressions are important. The handwriting on the notes is confident, almost arrogant, but that tells me nothing about who’s holding the pen.
I grab the black silk blouse I rejected twenty minutes ago and slide it back on because I’m overthinking everything. I add small gold earrings and leave my hair down, then turn away from the mirror before I can second-guess myself again.
