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But without Louisa?
Without her quiet authority and museum-world fluency?
We looked like a shell. Worse—a vanity project. A billionaire bored with branding, chasing cultural clout.
And if there was one thing I couldn’t afford right now, it was for the wrong people to start whispering that I was out of my depth. I knew how fast that sort of rumor caught fire in rooms full of crystal and curated smiles.
I stood and picked up the letter, scanning the graceful, formal phrasing. She was thanking me. For the opportunity, the trust, the vision.
She should’ve been the one getting thanked.
“You helped me close Milan,” I said, lifting my eyes. “They wouldn’t have taken us seriously without you in the room.”
“You did the talking,” she said, almost amused.
“Maybe. But they listened because you were nodding.”
A beat passed between us.
“I’ll miss this,” she said softly. “What we’re building. But Rome...” She exhaled, her eyes lighting with something unspoken. “I couldn’t say no.”
I reached out and shook her hand. “You shouldn’t have. This is incredible. I’m proud of you.”
Her fingers squeezed mine gently. “You’ll find someone. You always do.”
She let go and turned, pausing at the door. “I’ll stay on for a few more weeks, of course. And anything you need after that—references, remote calls—I’m happy to help.”
Then she was gone.
The door clicked shut behind her with an elegance that somehow made it worse.
I dropped back into my chair and stared at the letter.
Six weeks to replace the only person who made us look like more than a cocktail hour pitch.
Six weeks to convince Judge Valencia—chairman of the Miami Art Association and a man whose only greater passion than lost art was low-stakes golf—that we weren’t built on glass.
Six weeks to keep the press from sniffing too closely at the foundation’s filings. Six weeks to make every invite, every handshake, every champagne toast look like we were thriving.
And now I’d have to do it without the one person who knew how to play the long game.
Without the one person who made this place feel like more than just a beautiful idea, barely held together with charm, strategy, and borrowed time.
My phone buzzed just as I shut the door to the conference room.
Morris Wextner.
Seeing my attorney’s name alone triggered a dull ache behind my right eye.
I answered without ceremony. “Tell me you’re calling with good news.”
“No news is ever that good at two fifteen on a Wednesday,” Morris said, dry as sandpaper. “You sitting down?”
I stayed standing. “Try me.”
“It’s official.The Cut of Her Jibis in bankruptcy processing. Papers were filed this morning.”
I exhaled slowly through my nose, gripping the edge of the sleek glass table like it might hold me steady. “And?”