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“I have everything I could ever wish for.”

My heart squeezes. I look down at our joined hands, unable to stop the smile spreading across my face.

“You’re such a romantic now.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

I throw my head back laughing.

❦ ❦ ❦

After picking up my iced matcha, we finally make our way to the gallery.

The moment I step inside, I stop in my tracks. Everything is already in place. The walls are finished. The lighting is exactly how I envisioned it. My paintings are arranged throughout the space.

The displays, the little details, even the seating area, it all looks exactly like the picture I’ve carried in my head for years.

I slowly turn in place. I can’t believe this is real. My gallery. My dream. It’s finally happening. I look across the room at Roman. He’s speaking to one of the workers, his expression serious as he points toward one of the displays.

“Move that slightly to the left.”

The worker immediately obeys. Roman looks around again, inspecting everything.

When I told him a few weeks ago that this was what I wanted, he didn’t hesitate. “Consider it done,” were his exact words.

After that, he never let me lift a finger. All I had to do was point or describe what I saw in my mind, and he turned the vision into this.

I look around again, my chest filling with emotion. This is the life I once thought I’d never have.

My art. My gallery. My husband standing across the room, making sure every tiny detail is perfect. And suddenly, I realize something.

I didn’t just get my dream. I got someone who believed in it as much as I did.

❦ ❦ ❦

Tonight is my first exhibition.

The gallery is full of people. Friends, collectors, and Chicago’s elite. Conversations drift through the room beneath the soft hum of music. Glasses clink, and everywhere I look, I see my work hanging on walls I once only dreamed of having.

I stand near the entrance, taking it all in, and for a moment, I almost can’t believe I’m here.

I’ve spent hours pouring pieces of myself into these paintings. Grief. Survival. Healing. Hope.

When it’s time for my speech, I step forward. My gaze finds Roman immediately. He’s standing among the crowd, perfectly composed in his suit, but his eyes are fixed solely on me. They don’t leave me once.

My eyes drift to The Drowning King, hanging among the other paintings. The same painting Roman bought in secret years ago, before he ever spoke a word to me.

Back then, I painted it from a place of isolation. It was about feeling trapped beneath the surface, watching the world move on without me while I struggled simply to breathe.

But standing here now, I realize how much has changed. My life is no longer defined by drowning. It’s defined by survival. By healing. By hope.

By the man standing across the room who, somehow, taught me how to break through the surface and breathe again.

My eyes sting as I finish my speech. My family isn’t here tonight. Audrey couldn’t come because Papa wouldn’t allow her to. Dante is away as well, handling something Father sent him to take care of.

I wish they were here. More than anything. But this morning, we had a group video call. I showed them the gallery, walked them through every painting, and watched their faces light up as they told me how proud they were.

It isn’t the same as having them here. But it’s enough to tide me over.