Page 38 of Promise Me Never

“I invested in the gallery.”

“Oh. Well, that’s, um, that’s great, I—”

I wanted to wipe that self-satisfied smile off his face.

“He surprised me. I didn’t want him to do it, but he insisted that my art would stand on its own. I guess we’ll see what happens at the show.”

Bennett stood up and walked over to the table next to me, then picked up my wine glass, draining it. Get your own fucking wine, I wanted to say.

“Poppy would probably have scored her own show eventually, but I just wanted to help it along. Her studio was getting crowded with all those pieces and no one to buy them.”

Isabel’s face mirrored the embarrassment I felt. “And then you wouldn’t get to feel like big man on campus, right?” she said.

He laughed it off, seemingly oblivious to the cut. “Iz, you know me so well. Can’t help it if I like to share the wealth. What’s money for if you can’t use it to help those you love?”

Or control them, I thought. I was beginning to wonder if that was why his last fiancée never made it to the altar.

| Thirty-Four |

Bennett

Bennett took a sip from his mug of coffee as he waited for his computer to start up. This morning had been nice. Savannah had initiated their lovemaking and he was grateful that she wasn’t one of those women who waited for the man to make the first move. She was good in bed, but it was still hard not to compare her to Poppy, who had been much more adventurous. Their desire for each other had never abated. Every single time was like an explosion. With Savannah it was different. He didn’t feel that same soul connection he had with Poppy. Savannah made him feel safe and cared for. Something that he’d been missing for a while now. That was better, he told himself. He didn’t want to be consumed by another woman the way he had with his first wife. Even though he tried to deny it, even to himself, his attraction to Savannah had been because her red hair and coloring had reminded him of Poppy. Maybe on some subconscious level, he was pretending to himself that she wasn’t gone.

He thought about the other two women he had intended to marry. Almost on their own, his fingers clicked the folder, input the passwords, and the screen filled with them again. His eyes rested on the first picture. Angela. She’d been a brunette with warm brown eyes and a voluptuous body he loved to lose himself in. He thought about the last time they were together, remembering what it had felt like to caress her, the way she had sounded when reaching satisfaction. He had thought they would last. And then Devon. Blond and blue-eyed, killer body, and a face the camera loved. They had almost made it to the altar, but then she’d betrayed him too. Savannah was different from all of them. She was loyal. She worshipped him. He wouldn’t have to worry about her ending up like the others. He closed the folder. Time to get to work.

Opening a new browser, he began to type. He had finally settled on the plot and was satisfied it would be well received. He’d spent weeks on research, looking at past and current trends, taking the temperature of the market. He never used to worry about such things. But publishing had changed. You couldn’t simply write what you wanted and hope to stay on top. No, it took more than talent and grit. It took smart positioning. He wasn’t taking any chances. There were two words for an author whose book sales continued to decline book after book. Washed up. And he was too young to be irrelevant. He continued typing, nodding as the ideas flowed. This was going to be good. His method was not as artistic as he would have liked, but he was doing what was necessary to succeed. The end result would be a book his fans would eat up and his publisher and he would profit from. Win. Win. Win.

| Thirty-Five |

Before—Poppy

The doors were going to open any minute, and I felt like I was going to be sick. Bennett and Isabel wanted to come and wait with me, but I needed the time alone to gather my thoughts. I took another walk around the gallery, stopping to look at each piece, telling myself that everything was going to be fine, trying to silence the voice that asked What if. What if everyone hates it? What if no one buys anything? What if I’m the laughingstock of the art world, a poser, at a vanity exhibit bought by my famous husband? My soul was exposed, laid bare, between these four walls, and I suddenly had the urge to turn off the lights and turn everyone away.

The artist liaison, Elena, came up to me and put her hands on my shoulders. “Breathe,” she said in her lovely Greek-accented voice, and I looked into her eyes, the warmth in them a balm to my shattered nerves.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I said, my voice cracking with emotion.

She nodded, then smiled. “Everyone feels the same way before their first show. It will be fine. I promise. Deep breath in, then out. Copy me.”

I mimicked her and inhaled deeply through my nose, then exhaled through my mouth. A few more times, and I felt myself centering.

“I’m going to open the doors. Okay?”

I nodded and took another deep breath.

Bennett and Isabel were the first in the door, and they headed toward me. Isabel pulled me into a hug and whispered in my ear, “You’re brilliant. It’s going to be great.”

I gave her a weak smile. Bennett grabbed my hands.

“Congrats! We did it!”

I swallowed a retort and pulled my hands from his. “I need to find Elena,” I said, and moved away from him and into the crowd. Just when I was feeling ready, he had to remind me that this was his doing. I wiped the perspiration from my forehead, fighting a wave of nausea, and retreated to the back of the gallery. I grabbed a bottle of cold water from the fridge and downed half of it in a long swallow. I didn’t want to do this. I couldn’t.

“Poppy?” Elena came over to me. “Sweetheart, I’m going to introduce you. Are you all right?”

I nodded, even though I was far from all right.

She took my hand and led me into the crowd.