When we finally leave the conference room and step into the hallway, the heavy oak door clicks shut behind us. The noise of the building rushes back in—phones ringing, footsteps on tile.
We stand there for a second in the quiet corridor, the adrenaline still thrumming wildly under my skin.
Tom turns to me. "We did it."
I nod, catching my breath. "We did."
He's grinning now. "You were incredible in there."
"So were you."
I mean it. My hands are still shaking slightly, but it's the aftermath of something that went perfectly right.
Tom steps closer. The professional boundary we just spent an hour maintaining is suddenly paper-thin. His eyes drop to my mouth. He shifts his weight, the movement pulling him a fraction of an inch closer.
I stop breathing.
Then, the elevator down the hall pings loudly.
The spell shatters. Tom exhales, a slightly ragged sound, and steps back, running a hand quickly through his hair.
"I, uh... I have that site shoot in Brooklyn." He gestures vaguely toward the hall, his voice rougher than it was a second ago. "I should go."
"Yeah. Go." I try to sound casual, fighting to regulate my own pulse. "Thank you. For showing up today. At The Donut, and in there."
Tom's expression softens, the raw want dialing back into something gentler. "That's what partners do, right?"
A pulse jumps in my throat. "Right."
He holds my gaze for one long beat, then nods once and heads toward the elevator.
I watch him go. My heartbeat is still elevated. I replay the way he stepped forward when Castellano challenged me. The way he defended my work like it was his own.
I think about Margit's parting words at The Donut:You come back and put something on the wall.
I might.
Chapter twenty-three
Tom
My phone buzzes violently against the desk. I reach for it before the second vibration, the ingrained habit of a freelancer waiting for the next job.
Sam
Hey—someone from Chelsea Arts Collective reached out.
I stop. I sit up straighter in my chair, the cold coffee beside my laptop entirely forgotten.
They saw the Harbor District images online and want to see more of your portfolio. Would it be okay if I passed along your contact info?
I stare at the glowing screen.
Gallery interest. Real, legitimate professional validation. It is the thing I've been working toward for years in secret—being seen as an artist, not just a hired gun who shows up,delivers clean files, and disappears before anyone asks follow-up questions.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Yeah, absolutely. Thanks for connecting us.
