Page 36

TWENTY-FOUR

DERRICK

T he air is crisp, tinged with the cool, fresh scent of a Seattle evening as we step from our cars and gather near the back entrance of the gallery.

Downtown hums with muted excitement, the setting sun painting everything in gold and shadow, casting long, dramatic silhouettes across the sleek buildings.

The distant sound of traffic mingles with the murmur of anticipation from the crowd gathered at the front entrance.

It feels surreal to be here tonight, surrounded by our friends dressed up, looking elegant in their evening wear instead of the usual hockey gear and casual clothes.

I adjust my midnight blue blazer nervously, feeling slightly out of place despite Bast's reassurances that I look perfect.

"I'm so excited," Brea says, practically bouncing beside Ridley as we approach the gallery, her silver cocktail dress catching the last rays of sunlight.

"I saw B. Ardent's exhibit in New York last spring, and it was incredible.

The way he captures light and emotion. Simply perfect.

I've been dying to see more ever since. His waiting list for commissions is years long. "

Ridley smirks, sliding an arm around her waist, looking surprisingly sophisticated in his charcoal suit.

"Whoever this guy is, he's either a genius or a coward.

I mean, who hides behind a pseudonym when they're this talented?

I'm betting on genius, though. The mystery probably doubles the value of his work. "

Sebastian shifts beside me, the line of his jaw tense, his hand briefly tightening around mine.

A muscle twitches near his temple, and there is a slight sheen of sweat at his hairline despite the cool evening air.

No one notices the small gesture except me, and I squeeze back gently, trying to convey reassurance through that simple touch.

"How exactly did we get invited to this preview before anyone else?

" Alexis asks, turning to Tor. She looks unusually awake despite weeks of sleep deprivation from caring for baby Kodah.

Her hair is elegantly swept up, making her look like she just stepped off a magazine cover rather than someone who's been surviving on two-hour sleep intervals.

"No clue," Tor says, shaking his head, the bags under his eyes somewhat concealed by his obvious excitement.

"Brea mentioned she got tickets weeks ago, then an additional invitation just showed up at our door.

But I'm not complaining. It's nice to get out.

First time in weeks I've worn anything but spit-up covered sweats. Well, besides my game day suits."

Devan is quiet beside Lia, their interactions stiff and awkward.

There's a noticeable tension between them that wasn't there before, a careful distance maintained even when they stand close.

I catch Lia stealing cautious glances at him, her eyes wary, fingers fidgeting with her clutch purse.

Something's going on there, but now's not the time to pry.

Whatever storm is brewing between them seems serious enough that even this glamorous distraction can't fully mask it.

We enter through a side entrance, bypassing the long, winding line of eager art patrons out front.

Critics, collectors, and Seattle's cultural elite all waiting for their first glimpse of B.

Ardent's newest collection. The gallery is modern, expansive, with polished concrete floors and soaring ceilings, the lighting carefully orchestrated to spotlight each painting perfectly.

Crystal chandeliers cast delicate patterns across the walls, complementing rather than competing with the art.

The theme: Variations of a Muse is prominently displayed in elegant, minimalist typography as we step into the main hall.

The initial paintings are abstractions of Lake Washington, landscapes rich with blues, greens, and subtle hints of gold.

They're beautiful, evocative, capturing the way morning mist rises from the water's surface, how sunset transforms the lake into liquid fire.

Yet they're impersonal enough not to give away the artist's true identity, though I recognize Sebastian's technique immediately now that I've had the chance to really study his work.

The bold brushstrokes, the layering of color that creates almost impossible depth.

I never considered myself a connoisseur of art in any way, but what Bast loves, I'm finding I love because of him.

It's strange how that happens, how someone's passion can seep into your soul until you start seeing the world through their eyes.

Before Sebastian, I'd walk past galleries without a second glance, dismissing paintings as just pretty pictures on walls.

Now I find myself lingering over brushstrokes, noticing how light plays across a canvas, appreciating the emotion captured in color and form.

It's like he's rewired something in my brain, given me access to a frequency I couldn't tune into before.

When he talks about composition or explains the difference between chiaroscuro and tenebrism, his face lights up with this quiet intensity that makes me want to understand, to see what he sees.

I'm not pretending to be an expert, far from it, but I'm learning to appreciate beauty in places I never thought to look before. I know that is all because of him.

"I love these," Alexis murmurs, eyes wide in admiration, leaning closer to examine the texture of one canvas. "They feel. . .so familiar. Like places I've seen a thousand times but never really noticed until now."

As we move deeper into the gallery, the pieces shift to studies of hands, sketches of profiles, abstract interpretations of eyes and lips.

I recognize these studies, have watched Sebastian create some of them in the quiet sanctuary of his studio.

Then, unmistakably, me. My face, captured in countless variations.

Eyes, hands, a half-smile frozen in paint.

My profile silhouetted against Seattle's skyline.

My sleeping form, sheets draped low across my hips.

My heart stutters, breath catching painfully in my chest as I realize just how much of our private world Sebastian has revealed.

I thought it was just my face or me from the shoulders up.

How and when did he get a chance to capture me in this way?

Then it hits me, the last-minute pieces Christian asked him for. Well, hell.

"Holy shit," Ridley whispers, staring at a large, vivid portrait of me gazing directly at the viewer, vulnerability and strength intertwined in my expression. "Derrick, do you know this guy? Like, personally know him? Because this is intimate. Intense."

"Um—" My throat goes dry, panic rising. Everyone is staring at me.

Brea's mouth hangs open, her gaze darting between me and the paintings with dawning comprehension.

Alexis turns sharply toward me, her eyes bright and demanding, her writers instinct clearly firing.

Devan even momentarily forgets his tension with Lia, openly gaping at the images, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.

"I don't—" I begin, but the words choke off, trapped in my constricting throat.

Helplessly, I look toward Sebastian, silently begging.

He's standing slightly apart, watching the reactions unfold.

He's paled but calm, his eyes meeting mine across the short distance.

I silently plead with him for help, and he nods once, a sharp, decisive gesture that somehow conveys both determination and absolute certainty.

Sebastian steps forward, taking my hand firmly, intertwining our fingers openly. The gesture draws everyone's attention instantly, the statement unmistakable. The gallery seems to grow quieter, as if everyone is collectively holding their breath.

“You want to know how he knows the artist? He lives with him. I painted him. He’s my muse. He’s the reason this entire series exists. I’m B. Ardent.”

Silence crashes over us like a tidal wave, absolute and deafening.

Shock, disbelief, awe, every emotion flashes vividly across the faces of our friends.

Brea's eyes nearly pop from her head, her hand flying to cover her mouth.

Alexis's mouth forms a perfect "O", as she nods her head like she gets it and saw this a mile away.

Ridley is blinking rapidly, like he's rebooting his brain, looking between Sebastian and the paintings as if seeing both for the first time.

Sebastian continues, his voice lower now but resolute, his thumb absently stroking the back of my hand. "He's been my inspiration since the moment we met. I began sketches of him last summer."

Brea finally breaks the silence, stepping closer, eyes wide with amazement, hands gesturing excitedly.

"You're B. Ardent? Oh my God. You're brilliant.

Your use of light, the way you capture emotion.

My gosh! Why didn't you ever say anything?

I've talked your ears off about my music.

Alexis has beat you over the head with her romance books. We would have understood!"

Ridley whistles low, eyes darting from Sebastian to the paintings, mental calculations practically visible on his face.

"Dude, you're practically a billionaire.

Your last piece sold for what, three million?

Why the hell are you still playing hockey when you could be lounging on a private island somewhere? "

Sebastian shrugs, the faintest smile tugging at his lips, despite the tension still evident in his posture. "Because hockey is who I am. It's in my blood. Painting was never an option in my father's eyes, so it became more of hobby, an escape when hockey became too much. It still is."