Page 165 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Monroe refused to take the bait. “Thanks, we like it.”

Sylvia glanced toward a shelf that had framed photos of Maisie on it. “Your niece, I presume?”

“Sharp-eyed as ever, Sylvia.”

Sylvia leveled her with a look. “There’s no need to be immature, Monroe. Taking after your niece in that respect?”

Monroe had never noticed how much the tsk sound that Sylvia made had annoyed her.

But, oh boy, was she aware of it now.

“The paintings are in here,” Monroe said, already walking toward the hallway.

She put herself in between the rest of the hallway and Sylvia so that she had no choice except to walk into Monroe’s studio space.

Which Sylvia clearly found lacking, looking around the small area before making that goddamn sound again.

Monroe leaned against the wall, waiting for Sylvia to complete her inspection. Honestly, she was more frustrated with herself than anything that she hadn’t anticipated that Sylvia would show up.

There were hundreds of thousands of dollars on the line, along with the prestige that Sylvia so desperately sought.

At least Maisie was still at school, so that was something.

God knows what offhandedly offensive thing Sylvia would say about Maisie’s existence in front of her.

“I was concerned from the initial photos that you’d fallen flat on the composition.”

Monroe folded her arms over her chest. She tried her best not to tap her foot, waiting for this torture to be over.

Sylvia had made her feel like she was living life under a microscope. Every decision and brushstroke had had to be dissected and discussed, with Monroe constantly defending the decisions that she’d chosen to make.

Monroe would never pretend that Sylvia hadn’t given her the chance to professionally make a go of it as an artist, but it had not been a selfless gift on Sylvia’s part. It had come with her exercising a supreme amount of control over every facet of Monroe’s life. The way that she worked. Who she spent time with. Where she lived.

She wouldn’t change any of the decisions that she’d made because it meant that she could be here now, raising Maisie, but her success—without losing herself—had been hard fought.

And now, it was clearer than ever what the path forward looked like. Or, at the very least, what it didn’t look like.

“I actually have somewhere to be, Sylvia,” she said after another long moment. “Apologies for cutting this visit short, but I hope that you feel confident that the pieces are as they should be.”

Sylvia turned on her heel, appraising Monroe. At one time that look had thrilled her. At another, it had frustrated her.

Now, she just felt . . . detached.

“We need to discuss your next show,” Sylvia sniffed.

Monroe gestured toward the dozen canvases behind her. “We are literally looking at pieces for my next show, Sylvia.”

“No,” Sylvia chided. “Your next show after The Walker Gallery. Some of the pictures you sent along have already been generating buzz. I’m thinking it’s time for you to begin debuting internationally. London. Maybe Paris.”

Monroe pinched the bridge of her nose. Maybe she’d spoken too soon on that feeling of detachment; the hand at her side was curling into a fist, even as she tried to stay relaxed.

Sylvia continued to rattle on, talking about specific galleries and timelines and possible themes. What was attracting attention on the scene right now.

Monroe couldn’t say that she had missed it one bit. The pretentious, exclusive, after-hours dinner parties. Sylvia breathing down her neck at every turn. People waiting in the wings for her to become the next has-been.

She thought of Blake and Maisie. Their nights snuggled up on the sofa. The way that Maisie’s eyes looked when she experienced something new, which was often. How the stars shined brighter here, in a way that was so pretty that it looked fake.

And how safe Monroe felt in Cypress Falls, a feeling she’d never thought she’d experience. But somehow, she’d made this weird little family, and it was more than she ever could have dreamed.