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“This is your night,” he murmurs, his voice filled with quiet pride. “Take it in, baby.”
And I do.
I scan the crowd, taking in the sight of art critics, collectors, and fellow artists, all moving through the gallery with appreciation. Some stop in front of my painting, tilting their heads in quiet study, discussing what the dark, moody strokes mean to them.
I did that.
That’s my work. My vision. Hanging in a gallery, not just confined to a classroom or an unfinished sketchpad.
I belong here.
“Excuse me—are you the artist?”
I turn, startled, to see a middle-aged woman in a sleek black dress and thick-rimmed glasses, a Starlight Foundation badge pinned to her lapel.
“I—yes,” I say, a little breathless. “I’m Megan Taylor.”
Theartist.
She beams. “Your piece is one of the most talked-about of the evening.”
My heart pounds. “Really?”
“Absolutely. Your use of color, the emotional depth—it’s phenomenal. I overheard a few collectors asking about your work.” She hands me a sleek card. “If you haven’t already, I strongly suggest you start thinking about representation. You’re going to need it.”
I take the card with trembling fingers. A gallery representative. Offering me advice about my future.
This is real.
This is happening.
I open my mouth to thank her, but before I can, an all-too-familiar mocking laugh cuts through the conversation.
“Oh my God, is that really you, Megan?”
My stomach twists.
I turn toward the voice, already bracing myself.
And there they are—three familiar faces from school.
Ashley and her flunkies, Rachel and Maya.
I exhale slowly, steadying myself as they saunter closer. “It was nice meeting you,” I tell the gallery rep, being sure to shake her hand, then step away, hoping she doesn’t overhear whatever is about to go down.
“Wow,” Ashley says, looking around dramatically. “I guess some people really can just fuck their way into success.”
“Too bad it didn’t work out for you,” I snap back.
Maya smirks, her arms crossed. “It must be nice to have a rich fiancé who can buy you a spot in an exhibit like this.”
“And a half-decent outfit for once,” Rachel adds her two cents.
There it is.
I should have known this was coming.
I glance at Hunter out of the corner of my eye, knowing his first instinct is to step in. To shut them up with one sharp look.