Chapter 12
Opening night.
The gallery was packed. Critics, collectors, journalists. People I'd only ever seen in magazines.
I was in a midnight-blue dress Kade had insisted on buying — "You're not wearing paint-splattered jeans to your own show, Elena" — and my hands were shaking.
Kade stood beside me at the entrance, hand on my lower back.
"Breathe."
"I'm breathing."
"You're turning blue. Breathe more."
I laughed, some of the tension breaking.
The show was called *After the Storm*. Twenty-one paintings. Every one of them a piece of the worst and best year of my life.
Within the first hour, six pieces had red dots. Sold.
By the end of the night, fourteen were gone. The gallery owner was practically vibrating.
"Elena. This is extraordinary. We need to talk about a second show. A bigger one. Museum-level."
I was riding a high I hadn't felt in years — the validation of my work being seen. Being valued. Not as Marcus's wife. Not as Kade's girlfriend. As me.
Then I saw her.
Naomi. At the far end of the gallery. Looking at one of the paintings.
It was the one I'd done the night she threatened me — the violent reds and blacks. I'd titled it *Sister*.
She was thinner. Harder-looking. Her eyes were red-rimmed.
I walked over.
"You weren't invited."
She didn't turn.
"It's a public event. I looked it up."
We stood side by side in silence, both staring at the painting.
"Is this how you see me?" she asked finally.
"That's how you made me feel."
She was quiet a long time.
"Marcus is going to prison. His lawyer says two to five years."
"I know."
"I'm alone. Mom won't talk to me either, now that the money's gone."
I felt it then — the very edge of pity. Just the edge.
"Naomi. I don't know what you want from me."
She turned. Her eyes were wet.
"I want to say I'm sorry. And I know it doesn't fix anything. And I know you have no reason to believe me."
"But I am sorry. For all of it."
I looked at her — really looked — for the first time in months.
She was my sister. She'd been cruel and selfish and manipulative. She'd destroyed my marriage and tried to destroy my reputation.
But she was standing here, alone, with nothing left to gain from apologizing.
"I hear you," I said. "I'm not ready to forgive you. I don't know if I ever will be. But I hear you."
She nodded. Wiped her eyes. Turned and left.
I watched her go and felt — not closure, exactly. But something adjacent to it. The opening of a door I could choose to walk through later. Or not.
Kade appeared at my elbow.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes. I am."
He looked at the painting titled *Sister*.
"That one's not for sale."
"No. That one's mine."
He nodded. Understood.
The last guests filtered out. The gallery owner shook my hand, beaming.
And Kade led me to the one remaining covered piece in the back room — a canvas he'd asked me not to unveil until the end of the night.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Open it."
The gallery was packed. Critics, collectors, journalists. People I'd only ever seen in magazines.
I was in a midnight-blue dress Kade had insisted on buying — "You're not wearing paint-splattered jeans to your own show, Elena" — and my hands were shaking.
Kade stood beside me at the entrance, hand on my lower back.
"Breathe."
"I'm breathing."
"You're turning blue. Breathe more."
I laughed, some of the tension breaking.
The show was called *After the Storm*. Twenty-one paintings. Every one of them a piece of the worst and best year of my life.
Within the first hour, six pieces had red dots. Sold.
By the end of the night, fourteen were gone. The gallery owner was practically vibrating.
"Elena. This is extraordinary. We need to talk about a second show. A bigger one. Museum-level."
I was riding a high I hadn't felt in years — the validation of my work being seen. Being valued. Not as Marcus's wife. Not as Kade's girlfriend. As me.
Then I saw her.
Naomi. At the far end of the gallery. Looking at one of the paintings.
It was the one I'd done the night she threatened me — the violent reds and blacks. I'd titled it *Sister*.
She was thinner. Harder-looking. Her eyes were red-rimmed.
I walked over.
"You weren't invited."
She didn't turn.
"It's a public event. I looked it up."
We stood side by side in silence, both staring at the painting.
"Is this how you see me?" she asked finally.
"That's how you made me feel."
She was quiet a long time.
"Marcus is going to prison. His lawyer says two to five years."
"I know."
"I'm alone. Mom won't talk to me either, now that the money's gone."
I felt it then — the very edge of pity. Just the edge.
"Naomi. I don't know what you want from me."
She turned. Her eyes were wet.
"I want to say I'm sorry. And I know it doesn't fix anything. And I know you have no reason to believe me."
"But I am sorry. For all of it."
I looked at her — really looked — for the first time in months.
She was my sister. She'd been cruel and selfish and manipulative. She'd destroyed my marriage and tried to destroy my reputation.
But she was standing here, alone, with nothing left to gain from apologizing.
"I hear you," I said. "I'm not ready to forgive you. I don't know if I ever will be. But I hear you."
She nodded. Wiped her eyes. Turned and left.
I watched her go and felt — not closure, exactly. But something adjacent to it. The opening of a door I could choose to walk through later. Or not.
Kade appeared at my elbow.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes. I am."
He looked at the painting titled *Sister*.
"That one's not for sale."
"No. That one's mine."
He nodded. Understood.
The last guests filtered out. The gallery owner shook my hand, beaming.
And Kade led me to the one remaining covered piece in the back room — a canvas he'd asked me not to unveil until the end of the night.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Open it."