Page 93 of Breaking

Five of the exhibits at the newly opened gallery bore her name. Jenna Morgan: Mixed Mediums, Urban Memory. Her work, raw and aching and beautiful, had already caught the attention of two major collectors. She wasn’t just someone’s wife, someone’s mother-she was the artist of the night.

They had come to celebrate.

Troy sat beside her, his hand resting lightly on her thigh beneath the table. Across from them, Grace was mid-sip of a martini, sizing up the room with her usual mischief.

“This place,” Grace said, looking around, “is full of people who probably use the word bespoke as a verb.”

Jenna laughed, warmth rising in her cheeks.

Grace continued. “But your art’s worth it. Besides, the waiter looks like he was sculpted by the Renaissance.”

Jenna was about to respond when Troy stiffened beside her. She turned-and saw her.

Lila.

The years had been… formative. Her once-perfect posture had a slight stoop of tension, her expression pinched in a way botox couldn’t quite smooth. Gone were the days of understated elegance. Her dress-head-to-toe gold sequins-clashed violently with the subtle opulence of the restaurant. She looked like a disco ball that had lost its will to spin.

She was alone. And heading for their table.

“Brace yourself,” Troy muttered, staring at his fork like it was an interesting relic from another time.

Lila arrived with the confidence of someone who had ignored every red flag in her life and called it character development.

“Jenna,” she purred. “I thought that was your work at the gallery. Imagine my surprise.”

Jenna smiled pleasantly. “Lila. It’s been a long time.” She gestured to her friend. “This is Grace. Grace, this is Lila-an old acquaintance from Troy’s workplace.”

Grace gave a tight-lipped smile, then tilted her head toward Jenna and said in a stage whisper, “Is this the woman who thought HR meant ‘Homewrecker Resources’?”

Lila’s eye twitched, but she recovered quickly, laughing as if the joke didn’t land squarely on her. “You have a sharp-tongued friend, Jenna.”

“I try,” Grace said, sipping her drink.

Troy nodded coolly. “How have you been, Lila?”

“Oh, you know. Married. Divorced. Married again.” She gave a brittle smile. “. He’s in logistics. Anyway, he’s very… structured.”

Grace leaned forward. “That sounds like code for ‘he tracks her screen time.’”

Jenna bit back a laugh. “And your son? Sebastian, wasn’t it?”

Lila blinked, clearly startled they remembered. “He’s with his tutor. I’ve enrolled him in something called mindfulness fencing. It’s very exclusive.”

“I imagine it is,” Troy said dryly.

Lila’s smile was tightening at the edges now. “Well, this place is... quaint. I would’ve thought your opening would be somewhere more avant-garde.”

Jenna leaned back, relaxed. “This is my night, Lila. Not a stage. And it’s not quaint-it’s curated. Like the art.”

Lila opened her mouth, probably to offer a backhanded compliment, but Grace cut in with a glint in her eye.

“So, how’s married life treating you? You know, now that you’ve gone through it twice. Third time’s the charm, or are we aiming for syndication?”

Lila blinked.

Jenna, fully amused now, added, “She’s teasing.”

“I’m not,” Grace said, deadpan.