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I step just beyond her reach, keeping a careful distance. "Have you?"

The question hangs in the air between us, sharp-edged and dangerous. My father's expression shifts from relief to something more calculated.

"Of course we have," he says, voice pitched to carry just far enough that nearby guests can hear his concern. "You disappeared the same night as Christopher. When we heard what happened to him?—"

"You knew exactly what happened to me," I interrupt, my voice quiet but firm. "You knew what he was. What he did to me. And you didn't care."

My mother glances around nervously, aware of the attention we're beginning to attract. "Luna, darling, this isn't the place for such discussions. Why don't we go somewhere private?—"

"No," I say simply. "I'm done with privacy. Done with silence. Done with pretending."

My father's expression hardens, the concerned façade dropping away. "You're making a scene," he hisses, stepping closer. "After everything we've done for you?—"

"What exactly have you done for me?" I ask, not backing away. "Dismissed me when I told you I was assaulted? Arranged my marriage to the man who raped me? Treated me like currency instead of your daughter?"

The words cut through the polite hum of conversationaround us. People are definitely listening now, though pretending not to. I don't care. Six weeks ago, I might have. Six weeks ago, I was still learning to speak my truth. Now, I'm done whispering.

"That's a vicious lie," my father says, voice dropping dangerously. "Christopher was a good man from a good family. He would never?—"

"He did," Genevieve interjects, stepping forward. "I saw what he did to her. The bruises. The trauma. I believed her, even if you didn't."

My mother turns to her, expression tight with anger. "You've always encouraged her dramatics, Genevieve. Always protected her from necessary growth."

"No," I say, drawing their attention back to me. "She protected me from you. From what you were willing to sacrifice for your social climbing."

My father's face flushes with anger. "You ungrateful little?—"

"Careful," a voice warns from behind me, deep and deadly calm. Beckett. He's moved closer, not touching me but present, a solid wall at my back. "Consider your next words very carefully."

My father falters, recognition dawning in his eyes as he takes in Beckett's imposing presence. "Sinclair," he says, recovering quickly, extending a hand. "A pleasure to finally meet you. I've followed your career with great interest."

Beckett ignores the offered hand. "I can't say the same."

The rejection is pointed, deliberate. My father's hand drops, his expression hardening further.

"So that's how it is," he says, glancing between Beckett and me. "You've moved from one powerful man to another. At least Christopher was willing to make an honest woman of you."

Something inside me snaps at his words—not in weakness, but in strength. All the fear, all the doubt, all the lingering sense that maybe they were right about me... it burns away, leaving nothing but clear, cold certainty in its place.

"I don't need a man to make me honest," I say, my voice steady despite the trembling in my limbs. "I've done that myself. With every painting on these walls. With every truth I've stopped hiding."

I gesture to the gallery around us, to my art displayed for all to see. "This is who I am. Not your perfect daughter. Not Christopher's obedient wife. Not anyone's property." I glance back at him briefly, finding encouragement in his steady gaze. "I'm an artist. I'm a survivor. And I'm done letting anyone else define me."

My mother's face crumples slightly, genuine emotion finally breaking through her carefully maintained façade. "Luna, please. You're our daughter. We only wanted what was best?—"

"No," I cut her off gently. "You wanted what was best for yourselves. For your social standing. For your connections. Never for me."

"And you think he's different?" my father demands, jerking his chin toward Beckett. "You think Sinclair sees you as anything more than another acquisition?"

Before I can respond, Beckett speaks, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of something almost tender. "What I see," he says, "is a woman of extraordinary talent and courage. Someone who deserves to be recognized for who she is, not who others want her to be."

The sincerity in his words catches me off guard. I turn slightly, finding his eyes. What I see there isn'tcontrol but something that looks remarkably like pride. Like respect. Like?—

"Well," my father says, interrupting my thoughts. "It seems you've made your choice."

"Yes," I agree, turning back to face them. "I have. I choose my art. I choose my freedom. I choose a life without your manipulation or Christopher's cruelty."

I take a deep breath, letting the next words fall with quiet finality. "And I choose to ask you to leave my gallery."