Chapter 31 Elliot
ELLIOT
The buzzer jolts me from my daze. I’ve been staring at my phone for God knows how long, scrolling through photos of my gallery—what used to be my gallery. Julian left hours ago.
I hesitate at the intercom. “Hello?”
“Elliot? It’s Bianca. I heard about the gallery.”
Bianca? I blink in confusion. How did she know I’d be at Julian’s? Of course. I shake my head. The Hunt. She was there.
“The doorman said you were here,” she continues. “I brought coffee and pastries. Seemed like you could use both.”
I press the button to let her up, frantically running a hand through my hair. I’m wearing Julian’s sweatpants and T-shirt, hardly presentable, but there’s no time to change.
When I open the door, Bianca stands there balancing a cardboard tray of coffees in one hand and a pink bakery box in the other. Her dark brown hair falls in waves around her face, and her hazel eyes soften with sympathy when she sees me.
“You look like hell,” she says, a glaring example of her no-bullshit personality. It’s one thing I envy about her, her ability to say what she thinks without filter.
“I feel like it, too.” I step back. “How did you find out?”
She sets everything on Julian’s sleek kitchen counter. “It’s all over the news. I’m so sorry, Elliot.”
The simple kindness in her voice nearly breaks me all over again. Bianca and I have known each other for only months. We’re friendly, but not close enough for house calls and comfort food.
“Julian mentioned you were staying here,” she adds, pulling off her coat. “I hope it’s okay I came by.”
“Of course,” I say, gesturing toward the dining table. “I appreciate it, truly.”
She opens the box, revealing an assortment of pastries. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got options.”
“Right now, I’d eat cardboard if it came with enough sugar.” I manage a weak smile.
We settle at Julian’s massive glass dining table, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. It feels surreal—sitting in Julian Frost’s penthouse, eating croissants with Bianca Hayes while my gallery sits in ashes across town.
“Cream? Sugar?” she asks, sliding a coffee toward me.
"Black is fine," I say, wrapping my hands around the warm cup. The heat seeps into my palms, grounding me in this moment of kindness.
“I had new work in your gallery,” Bianca says quietly, staring into her coffee. “Three pieces from my Urban Decay series.”
Reality crashes over me again. It wasn’t just my gallery that burned—it was the work of dozens of artists who trusted me with their creations. Their livelihoods.
“God, Bianca. I’m so sorry.” The weight of responsibility settles more heavily on my shoulders. “Three months of work, gone.”
She shrugs, but I can see the loss in her eyes. “I still have the digital files, preliminary sketches. It’s not the same, but...” Her voice trails off. She reaches across the table, her hand covering mine. “That’s not why I’m here, Elliot. I’m worried about you.”
“Me?” I try to laugh, but it comes out strangled. “I’ll be fine. Julian’s helping with the insurance, and—”
“I don’t mean the gallery. I mean you.” Her gaze is steady. “This isn’t just about a building burning down, is it? Something else happened.”
I stare at my half-eaten croissant. “My mother happened.”
Understanding dawns on her face. “You told her.” Bianca tears a piece from her pastry but doesn’t eat it. “Remember that conversation we had when we went for a drink? About our parents?” She glances up at me. “The way you talked about your mother—how she has rigid beliefs.”
I remember that night. Bianca had been talking about her mom’s death and her father’s drinking. I had told her about my mother’s values and religious beliefs.
“I suspected then,” she continues gently. “But it wasn’t my place to say anything.”
My throat tightens. “Was I that obvious?”
“Not to most people.” Bianca smiles. “But I grew up with a gay uncle. You develop a sense for these things.” She squeezes my hand. “For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. Coming out couldn’t have been easy, especially to a mother like yours.”
Tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them.
“She burned down my gallery, Bianca. Her own son’s life’s work.”
Bianca’s eyes widen, her coffee cup freezing halfway to her lips. “Wait—your mother? Your mother burned down your gallery?”
“She texted me right after. Said it was retribution for my sins.”
“That’s—” Bianca sets her cup down with too much force, coffee sloshing over the rim. “That’s not divine anything. That’s arson. That’s a felony.” Her voice shakes with shock and anger. “Elliot, you know this isn’t your fault, right? Not any of it.”
I laugh bitterly. “Isn’t it? If I hadn’t told her, if I’d just kept pretending—”
“No.” Bianca cuts me off sharply. “Don’t you dare take responsibility for her actions. You finally dared to live your truth, and she committed a crime in response. That’s on her, not you.”
My shoulders slump forward. “But all those artists trusted me with their work—with their careers. Your paintings, Sam’s sculptures, Leila’s installation that took her months...” My voice breaks. “I failed all of you. I’m so sorry, Bianca. God, I’m so sorry.”
The tears come again, hot and relentless. I push away from the table, unable to look at her. But before I can escape, Bianca circles the table and takes my hands in hers, her grip strong as she pulls me to face her.
“Listen to me, Elliot Chambers. Art can be recreated. Paintings can be repainted. But you?” She squeezes my hands firmly. “You can’t be replaced. I’d rather have my friend alive and whole and finally being himself than any painting I’ve ever made or will ever make.”
She reaches up, wiping a tear from my cheek with her thumb. “The work matters. But you matter more.”
I stare at Bianca, overwhelmed by her kindness. “Thank you,” I manage, my voice rough. “That means more than you know.”
She gives my hand another squeeze before releasing it. “Besides,” she says, taking her seat again and a sip of her coffee, “I have some good news, actually.”
“Good news?” The concept feels foreign.
Bianca nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I’m grateful it was only the Fifth Avenue gallery that burned, not the new space where Lia is.”
I blink, momentarily confused. “What do you mean?”
“Lia didn’t tell you?” Bianca’s eyebrows rise. “She moved some of my work to the Harrison Street location the day before the fire. She called me last-minute saying she wanted to try a different arrangement for the opening.”
My mind struggles to process this information. “Which pieces?”
“My Midnight Garden series.” Her eyes light up. “The large triptych and those four smaller companion pieces. Some of my favorite work. She has them safely installed already.”
A tiny spark of hope flickers in my chest for the first time since seeing the gallery in flames. “I didn’t know.”
“With everything that happened, I’m not surprised she hasn’t had a chance to update you.
” Bianca leans forward, her expression earnest. “See? Not all is lost, Elliot. Your mother took something precious from you, but she couldn’t take everything.
We’ll rebuild. All of us. The artists, the community—we’re with you. ”
The simple solidarity in her words touches something buried deep inside me. For so long, I’ve carried the weight of my secret alone, convinced that my real self would drive people away. Instead, here sits Bianca, offering friendship without condition.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” She stands, opening her arms. “Come here.”
I step into her embrace. It’s warm, genuine—the kind of hug that communicates more than words ever could. I close my eyes, allowing myself to be comforted.
“We’ll get through this,” she murmurs. “One day at a time.”