Page 59 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Fifty-Five

LUNA

The gallery glows in the evening light, each wall illuminated to showcase the art hanging in perfect alignment. My art. My truth. My journey from darkness into something resembling light.

"Breathe," Avery murmurs beside me, squeezing my hand gently. "You've got this."

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the flutter of nerves in my stomach. It's been six weeks since the incident with Christopher. Six weeks of healing, of painting, of rebuilding myself piece by jagged piece. And now—the gallery reopening. My official debut as an artist in my own right.

"They love it," Genevieve says, appearing at my other side with two glasses of champagne. She hands one to me, keeping the other for herself. "The critics are practically salivating. And three pieces already have offers."

I glance around the room, now filled with art lovers, critics, collectors, and curious observers drawn by the buzz surrounding the exhibition.

My gaze finds Beckett across the room, deep in conversation with a museum curator.

He looks perfectly at ease in his tailored black suit, commanding respect without effort.

As if sensing my attention, he looks up, our eyes meeting across the crowded space. Something passes between us—an acknowledgment, a reassurance. He doesn't move toward me, doesn't try to take over or insert himself. He simply nods once, the gesture small but weighted with meaning.

Your night. Your triumph. I'm here if you need me.

The dynamic between us has shifted so gradually I barely noticed it happening. What began as control evolved into protection, then partnership, and now something I still don't have a name for. Something both stronger and more fragile than what came before.

"Earth to Luna," Avery says, nudging me with her elbow. "That couple over there wants to talk to you about 'Aftermath.'"

I follow her gaze to an elegantly dressed pair studying one of my largest canvases—a stark depiction of broken bonds and severed restraints, painted in the days after my rescue.

The piece is raw, almost violent in its honesty, yet threaded through with a thin line of gold that suggests possibility amid destruction.

"Go," Genevieve urges, taking my champagne glass. "Be brilliant."

I move through the crowd toward the couple, accepting compliments and fielding questions with a confidence that feels new but not unearned. This is my work. My voice. My truth laid bare on canvas for all to see.

The exhibition is titled simply "Liberation"—eighteen pieces chronicling my journey from captivity through trauma to the beginnings of freedom. I didn't hold back, didn't soften the darkness or exaggerate the light. Just painted what I felt, what I lived, what I survived.

And people are responding. Not with pity or discomfort, but with recognition. With understanding. With appreciation for the honesty in every brushstroke.

"The layering in your strokes—it's deliberate without feeling restrained," the woman says, stepping closer to the canvas. "There's a quiet violence in it. Beautiful and brutal all at once."

I explain my process, my intentions, sharing just enough of myself to connect without reopening wounds that are still healing. This is the balance I'm learning—honesty without exploitation, vulnerability without victimhood.

The conversation flows easily, and I find myself genuinely enjoying the discussion about technique and inspiration. When the couple moves on to view other pieces, I take a moment to survey the room, pride warming my chest at the sight of my work displayed so beautifully.

That's when I see them.

My parents.

Standing near the entrance, looking polished and perfect as always. My father in an expensive suit, my mother in a designer dress that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. They're scanning the crowd, searching for something.

Searching for me.

My heart slams against my ribs, panic rising like a tide threatening to drown me. I haven't seen them since before Christopher. Haven't spoken to them since they dismissed my assault as a misunderstanding, as something I must have invited or deserved .

"Luna?" Genevieve appears at my side, following my gaze to the entrance. "Oh, shit."

"How did they know?" I whisper, unable to look away from the threat their presence represents.

"The exhibition was announced publicly," she replies, voice tight with anger. "They must have seen it in the press."

"I can't—" I begin, but Genevieve cuts me off with a gentle squeeze of my arm.

"Yes, you can," she says firmly. "This is your night. Your space. Your power. And Beckett's already noticed them."

I glance across the room to where Beckett stands, his posture unchanged but his attention now laser-focused on my parents. The look in his eyes is cold, calculating, dangerous—but he doesn't move toward them. Instead, his gaze shifts to me, questioning. Waiting.

Letting me decide how to handle this.

"Do you want me to get security?" Genevieve asks. "They can be removed."

I consider it for a moment—how easy it would be to have them escorted out, to avoid the confrontation entirely. But something inside me rebels against the idea. I've spent too long running, too long hiding, too long letting others speak for me.

"No," I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "I need to face them."

Genevieve studies me for a moment, then nods. "I'm right beside you."

We move through the crowd together, my sister a comforting presence at my side.

As we approach, I notice Avery has positioned herself strategically nearby, ready to intervene if needed.

And Beckett—Beckett has moved to a spot where he can observe without interfering, giving me space but remaining close enough to step in if I need him .

My parents spot me before I reach them, relief washing over their faces with such convincing sincerity that for a second, I almost believe it's genuine.

"Luna," my mother exclaims, stepping forward with arms outstretched. "Thank God you're alright. We've been so worried."

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 facade 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 conversation around 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 facade. "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't control 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."

My mother starts to protest, but my father places a restraining hand on her arm. His eyes meet mine, cold with a fury I've never seen before—or perhaps never recognized.

"You'll regret this," he says softly.

"No," I reply with absolute certainty. "I won't."

For a moment, I think he might argue further, might make a scene. Then his gaze shifts to Beckett, standing silent and watchful behind me, and something like defeat crosses his face.

"Come, Helen," he says to my mother. "Our daughter has made her position clear."

They leave without another word, my mother casting one last, lingering look over her shoulder before they disappear through the entrance. I watch them go, feeling something heavy and oppressive lift from my chest with each step they take away from me.

"Are you alright?" Genevieve asks quietly.

"Yes," I say, surprising myself with how true it feels. "I think I am."

The gallery has fallen silent around us, guests pretending not to have witnessed the confrontation but clearly processing what they've heard. I should feel exposed, vulnerable. Instead, I feel... light. As if speaking my truth aloud has finally set me free from its weight .

Beckett steps forward, offering me a glass of champagne without touching me. "Your night," he reminds me softly. "Your triumph."

I take the glass, our fingers brushing briefly. "Our triumph," I correct him, just as quietly.

Something passes between us in that moment—an understanding, a connection deeper than words can express. Then Avery appears at my side, looping her arm through mine.

"Come on, superstar," she says, grinning. "That curator from MoMA is practically begging for an introduction, and Genevieve is already negotiating price points with the couple from earlier."

I allow myself to be guided back into the crowd, into the buzz of appreciation and interest surrounding my work. But I'm acutely aware of Beckett's presence, always nearby, always watching, always letting me shine on my own.

As the evening continues, I move from conversation to conversation, discussing technique and inspiration, accepting congratulations and fielding offers. The confrontation with my parents has left me not drained but somehow energized, each word I speak feeling more authentic than the last.

This is my life now. My choice. My path.

And for the first time, I'm not afraid to walk it.

Hours later, as the last guests depart and the gallery falls quiet, I find myself standing before my final piece—the newest, completed just days ago.

Unlike the others, this canvas isn't dominated by darkness or trauma.

Instead, it shows two figures emerging from shadow into light, neither fully defined yet both unmistakably connected.

One stands tall, protective, strength evident in every line. The other, smaller but no less powerful, reaches toward the light with determined grace. Between them runs a thread of gold—not a leash, not a collar, but a connection freely chosen by both.

"This one isn't for sale," Beckett says, coming to stand beside me.

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No. This one's ours."

He doesn't touch me, doesn't need to. The space between us hums with possibility, with potential, with a future neither of us could have imagined when this strange journey began.

"Ready to go home?" he asks after a moment.

I look around at the gallery—my gallery—at the evidence of my healing displayed on every wall. At the space I've claimed as my own through talent and determination and brutal honesty.

"Yes," I reply, meaning it completely. "I'm ready."