I could feel my whole demeanor shifting into a much warmer and animated version of myself as I spoke with Sadie. I even caught Julian eyeing me with something that looked like fondness as I came alive.
"Julian, I'd like you to meet Sadie Chen. She was one of my students, what was it, four years ago now? Sadie, this is Julian Thorne."
Sadie's eyes widened with recognition. "The Julian Thorne? Ms. Ellis, you didn't tell me you knew—" She stopped herself, grinning. "Of course you did. You always had the most amazing insights about fashion and cultural movements. I still remember your unit on how clothing reflected social rebellion throughout history."
"You always were one of my brightest students," I said warmly. "And look at you now, working at the Meridian!"
"Because of you," Sadie said earnestly. "You're the one who encouraged me to pursue art history, remember? When I was convinced I had to be pre-med to make my parents happy?"
I felt a swell of pride that came from seeing a former student thriving. "You did all the hard work. I just pointed you in the right direction."
"Speaking of which," Sadie said, her voice dropping slightly, "I should warn you—Scarlett Voss has been making some pretty catty comments about you tonight. Something about Julian slumming it with civilians." Her expression darkened. "She's been particularly vicious, even for her."
I felt my stomach tighten, but before I could respond, Julian's jaw clenched visibly.
"Has she?" he said, his voice carrying a dangerous edge.
"Oh yes," Sadie continued, warming to the topic. "But Margaret Hartwell just shut her down completely. It was beautiful to watch."
"What happened?" I asked, curiosity overriding my discomfort.
Sadie's grin turned wicked. "Scarlett was holding court near the main installation, making snide comments about 'amateurs' and 'charity cases' when Margaret walked up. Apparently, she'd overheard Scarlett's little performance and was having none of it."
"Margaret's protective of people she respects," Julian murmured.
"She told Scarlett that she'd just had the most intellectually stimulating conversation about contemporary art theory she'd had all evening, with you, Ms. Ellis. Then she made some pointed comments about how refreshing it was to meet someone who understood art rather than just wore it."
My eyes widened. "She didn't."
"Oh, she did. And then, this was the best part, she mentioned how she was planning on inviting you to help showcase their upcoming exhibition about fashion as social commentary. Right in front of everyone."
Julian looked at me with surprise and something that might have been pride. "Margaret mentioned that to you?"
"No, not at all," I said, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. "You don't think she was serious, do you?"
"Margaret never says anything she doesn't mean," Julian said quietly.
"Anyway," Sadie continued, "Scarlett went pale and made some excuse about needing to refresh her drink. The whole group just dispersed after that. It was like watching a masterclass in social assassination."
I felt a rush of satisfaction at the image of Scarlett being taken down by someone who actually mattered in this world. Margaret's validation meant more than any of Julian's reassurances—it was professional recognition from someone who had no reason to humor me.
"I should get back to work," Sadie said, "but it was so wonderful to see you, Ms. Ellis. You look absolutely radiant tonight, by the way. That dress is incredible."
After Sadie left, Julian and I continued through the gallery, my confidence now fully restored. I found myself engaging more naturally with the other guests, discussing art and history with the same passion I brought to my classroom.
"You're in your element again," Julian observed as we moved toward the center of the gallery.
"I feel like myself again," I admitted. "Thank you for everything tonight. The dress, bringing me here, standing up for me with Melissa and Rafael."
"You don't need to thank me," Julian said. "You probably understand more about these pieces than ninety percent of the people here."
We were standing near the gallery's main installation when a photographer approached. Unlike the aggressive photographer from my incident with Rafael, this one wore an official gallery badge.
"Excuse me," he said politely, "I'm documenting tonight's opening for the gallery's archives. Would you mind if I got a photo?"
I glanced at Julian, who nodded. "Of course."
We posed naturally in front of the artwork, Julian's hand resting lightly on my back, the black leather of his gloves a soft pressure between us—still a barrier, maybe, but one that didn’t feel like a wall. Both of us wore genuine smiles as the photographer took several shots, thanking us before moving on to other guests.
