Tonight is ours.
My gaze drifts to the most prominent painting in the exhibition, mounted alone on the far wall where the light is kindest. A life-sized portrait of me, seated on the balcony of our apartment. My hair is caught mid-motion by the wind, eyes luminous, mouth curved in a half-smile that feels private—like I’m keeping a secret only he knows.
It steals my breath every time.
Sebastian has been obsessed with painting me these past two years. Our house is filled with versions of me—some raw and intimate, never meant for anyone else’s eyes, others like this one, curated and controlled, offered carefully to the world. This painting is different, though. This one feels like a declaration.
From somewhere just behind me, I hear a hushed whisper, meant to be discreet and failing beautifully.
“I heard she was his muse before they ever met officially.”
Another voice follows, breathless with intrigue. “He painted her for years. It’s the love story of the century.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. I lean back instinctively, fitting into Sebastian’s chest like muscle memory, like home. His arm tightens around my waist, solid and sure.
“One day,” I murmur, half-laughing, half-mortified, “they’ll exaggerate it so much even we won’t recognize it.”
He smirks, lips brushing my temple. “Let them.”
I tilt my head to look up at him. “Only we need to know the truth, right?”
His gaze softens, the teasing giving way to something deeper. He bends slightly, mouth grazing my ear as he answers in a voice meant only for me.
“That we nearly ruined each other,” he murmurs, “and then we saved each other.”
Roman catches Sebastian’s attention and motions him over. Sebastian leans in, brushing his lips against my ear. “I’ll be back.”
I nod, smiling. “Go.”
He leaves me there, and I step closer to the painting, studying it the way strangers are—critically, reverently. As of today, works like this will be exclusive to my gallery. Nowhere else. The decision feels deliciously powerful. His art, my vision. His name, my space.
Exclusivity will make his work even more coveted. It will make my gallery undeniable.
I smile to myself, pride blooming warm in my chest.
This—this life, this partnership, this quiet certainty—is everything we fought for.
And it’s only just beginning.
I hear soft footsteps and turn to see Raelyn approaching, tablet tucked under her arm, eyes sharp as ever as they sweep the room. I smile automatically. Raelyn Hart—my junior researcher, brilliant to a fault, devastatingly sarcastic, and already indispensable to the gallery.
She stops beside me, tilting her head toward the painting of me on the balcony.
“So,” she says dryly, lips twitching, “this is what professional intimidation looks like.”
I laugh. “That bad?”
“Worse,” she replies. “How exactly am I supposed to critique acquisitions with a straight face when the founder is also the most painted woman in Europe?”
I arch a brow. “You seem to be coping.”
“Oh, I am,” she says calmly. “I’ve decided to lean into it. If anyone questions the gallery’s curatorial vision, I’ll just gesture vaguely at you and say, clearly we have taste.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
Her expression softens, just a fraction, losing its edge. “In all seriousness,” she adds, quieter now, “this place? It’s…special. You built something rare. And tonight proves it.”
My chest warms at that. “Thank you, Raelyn. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
