Chapter 3

Four o'clock that afternoon, in the main gallery of the Ashbourne Foundation.

Spotlights washed the marble floor beneath the soaring ceiling. Installation crews moved through the bright aisles.

I stood before the final painting my mother had completed, adjusting the angle of the key light with the lighting director.

"Three thousand Kelvin?" he asked. "That should preserve the depth of the original pigment."

"Yes. Tilt it five degrees lower, but keep the beam off the center of the canvas."

I checked the thick set of exhibition plans in my hands.

Staff moved between displays, hanging labels that listed the date of each work and its conservation record.

My assistant came running from backstage and handed me the final opening-night guest list and seating chart.

"Eira, these are the confirmed guests for the first-night preview. Mr. Vane personally confirmed the name his assistant submitted, so the credential was released."

I took the pages and ran a finger over the front row.

Although Caelan had approved the project, foundation custom reserved the center seat directly below the podium for the curator's family.

Alistair Vane appeared in the second position.

Some of the tension left my shoulders.

Then my finger moved to the notation beneath his name.

[Guest of Alistair Vane: Seraphine Lorne. Seat: Front Row, VIP 02, beside Mr. Vane.]

The system approval mark was stamped clearly on the right.

I stood onstage, looking down over the immaculate, solemn room.

* * *

I arrived home at eight.

Soft light filled the living room. Alistair sat on the sofa reading financial reports. Seraphine occupied an armchair nearby, a cup of hot tea cradled in both hands.

Alistair looked up when he heard me.

"You're back. How did rehearsal go?"

His tone was easy, as though nothing had happened.

I crossed the room and placed the stamped guest list on the coffee table.

Then I pointed to Seraphine's name.

"Your assistant sent this confirmation to the foundation this afternoon."

Alistair glanced at it. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face, then vanished.

"That. Yes. I told my assistant to add her."

"Why?"

"Seraphine just got back to the city, and the divorce took a lot out of her."

The explanation came smoothly.

"She hasn't attended anything in months. Staying shut up in this house won't help her. The Ashbourne opening is an important event. I thought the evening might do her good, and I can introduce her to a few people in the art world."

"Eira," he continued in a soothing tone, "you're the focus of the evening. You'll be onstage. Who sits beside me in the audience has nothing to do with your performance."

Seraphine set down her cup, looking uneasy.

"Alistair, maybe I shouldn't go. It's an exhibition of Eira's mother's work. My being there might attract the wrong kind of attention."

"Don't overthink it."

He cut her off with a raised hand.

"The invitation is in my name. I decide who comes with me. Eira is a professional. She knows better than to let a small personal matter interfere with her work."

Then he looked at me, waiting for my maturity and cooperation.

He assumed I would understand.

He assumed that professionalism and appearances would force me to swallow the humiliation.

I did not fight Seraphine for the chair.

I did not ask why he could not bring a colleague instead.

I simply looked down at him.

"Alistair, I have one question."

"What?"

"The night after tomorrow, will you stay in that seat until I finish my opening address?"

He blinked, caught off guard. Then he gave a short laugh, as though the answer were obvious.

"Of course."

He stood and came toward me, resting a solid hand on my shoulder.

"I promised I would be there. This is the final exhibition of your mother's work. Why would I leave halfway through? Seraphine and I will both stay to the end."

"Even if Seraphine needs you?"

His expression tightened.

"Nothing is going to happen."

"That wasn't my question."

He held my gaze.

"I will stay."

"Remember you said that."

I removed his hand and stepped back.

Upstairs in the study, tomorrow's speech lay beneath the desk lamp.

I removed the VIP seating note from the top of the pages and uncapped my pen.

At the beginning of the speech, I crossed out Thank you to my family for being here tonight.

In its place, I wrote:

Thank you to everyone who came tonight for love and for art.

Then I opened the foundation's appointment letter.

The position came with independent curatorial authority, final conservation approval, and professional credit under my own name.

At the bottom of the page, one button remained.

ACCEPT.

I clicked it.

Then I opened a new email to a family-law attorney.

I did not ask her to file anything.

I asked what documents I would need if Alistair broke his promise again.

For the first time in seven years, I was not waiting without an exit.