50. Ava
50
Ava
T he smell of fresh paint and dust fills my nostrils as I adjust the track lighting for the umpteenth time. My new gallery space in Chelsea is simultaneously perfect and a complete disaster. Kind of like my life right now. Well no, that’s being too kind to my life. It’s definitely a disaster.
Beside me, two painters on ladders are debating color temperatures by the main wall. “This white has too much yellow undertone for the lighting,” one complains, while dabbing a test patch. The other rolls her eyes. “White is white. Nobody notices these things.” I want to tell her that everyone notices, especially art critics, but I’ve already had this argument three times today.
“A little to the left,” Lucy calls from in front of me, where she’s arranging a cluster of small abstract pieces from my Brooklyn series.
I twist the light fixture, which is currently powered by a generator like all the other lights, as the electrical work isn’t quite done. “Here?”
“Perfect!” She claps her hands together, then immediately returns to her notepad. “The Morettis just confirmed they’ll loan us the three mixed-media pieces we asked for. Another collector to cross of the list.”
“You’re a miracle worker.” I climb down from the stepladder, wiping my hands on my already paint-splattered jeans. I’ve been working non-stop for four days, sleeping on a mattress I dragged from my Brooklyn studio to the back room of the gallery.
Four days since you found those documents. Four days since you walked out.
A crash from the back room makes us both jump. “Sorry!” calls Marco, the lead carpenter. “Just some scrap drywall.” I hear muffled cursing in Italian as his crew continues dismantling the wall that formerly separated the storage area from the exhibition space. The sledgehammers have been pounding all morning, sending fine dust floating through shafts of sunlight.
An electrician with a tool belt that weighs more than I do taps me on the shoulder. “Ms. Redwood? We need to talk about these gallery corners. The junction boxes won’t support the lighting load you want.” He shows me a diagram on his tablet that might as well be hieroglyphics. I nod like I understand, which seems to satisfy him. “We’ll need to rewire and install a dedicated circuit.” More costs, but what’s another few thousand at this point?
“Do it.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t need to look to know it’s Gideon. Again. That makes call number twenty-seven since I left. Not that I’m counting.
“Are you going to answer that?” Lucy asks, her eyebrows raised. She doesn’t know the full story yet. Just that Gideon and I had a “fight.” The understatement of the century.
“Nope.” I silence it without looking at the screen.
“He knows where I am,” I say out loud.
Lucy nods. “Your security detail is standing watch outside the gallery. Of course he knows. He can come here whenever he wants.”
That’s the problem, isn’t it? He hasn’t. For a split second I remember how I’ve been secretly expecting Gideon to just show up here. To fight for me. To explain everything.
And then what? He’d sweep you into his arms and you’d forgive him for planning to publicly humiliate you? Get real, Ava.
“The lighting crew will be here at three,” I say, changing the subject. “Can you supervise them?”
“No problem. I’ll have them coordinate with the electrician. I also need to check on the flooring crew. They’re almost done with the south section.” Lucy gestures toward where two workers are carefully installing the specialized gallery flooring that won’t damage fallen artwork. “And the air conditioning guys are finally fixing that temperature fluctuation issue. The head technician promised it would be gallery-ready by tomorrow.”
I nod. “Looks like everything is in good hands. I need to sort through the rest of my pieces from my Brooklyn studio.”
She smiles, and then lets me go.
The remaining Brooklyn paintings. The ones I created during my time with Gideon. The ones that now feel like evidence of my own stupidity. I don’t really want to sort through them.
But I have to. I don’t have enough abstracts and collector loans to fill up the space without them.
I weave through the chaos, stepping over extension cords, dodging a carpenter carrying a beam, and narrowly avoiding a paint tray. Why did I ever pick such a rushed opening date? It looms like a literal guillotine blade over my neck.
Let’s be real, there’s a solid chance I won’t make it. Part of me thinks that might be a blessing in disguise. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Miss the date, reschedule, avoid Gideon and Blackwell’s character assassination plot. Simple. Logical. But my worry is, if I don’t open on that exact date, I might never open at all. I’d find reasons. Excuses. My stomach twists. No. I’d rather face whatever humiliation Gideon has planned than spend another day hiding my art, and myself, from the world.
We’re going to open whether we’re ready or not.
In the back room, I unwrap the first canvas carefully. It’s the Manhattan skyline piece I painted the night after our first intimate encounter in his work office. The city glows with an almost otherworldly warmth, buildings stretching toward a night sky streaked with silver and gold. One of the clouds in the sky is vaguely shaped like a heart.
Was I really this transparent? Might as well have titled it ‘I’m Falling For You, You Manipulative Jerk.’
I set it against the wall and unwrap the next one. And the next. Each painting a chronicle of my feelings for Gideon, laid bare in brushstrokes and color.
By the time I reach the last canvas, the dark piece with masculine hands holding both a gift and a knife, my cheeks are wet. I didn’t even realize I was crying.
At least I don’t have any of my penthouse studio pieces.
I left those packed up in my room when I stormed out. Those would be too much for me to handle in my current state. Especially the one with the silver- white horizon line I painted after the final lawyer meeting, the line that represented Gideon.
I shake my head, the thought raw and painful.
Pull yourself together. You have a gallery to open.
The sound of Lucy’s heels clicking across the concrete floor gives me just enough warning to wipe my face before she appears in the doorway.
“The lighting crew just texted, they’ll be here early and—” She stops, seeing my red eyes. “Oh, honey.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, turning away to fuss with the corner of a canvas.
“Clearly.” She sets down her notepad and approaches slowly, like I’m a wounded animal that might bolt. “You know you can talk to me, right? About whatever happened with Gideon?”
I open my mouth to deflect again, but what comes out instead is: “The emails were dated from before we even made our arrangement, Lucy. He was working with Blackwell from the beginning.”
Her eyes widen. “Wait, what emails?”
So I tell her everything. About finding the folder in his desk. About the “Media Strategy” document targeting me and my gallery. About how the timing matches perfectly with the opening we’re frantically preparing for.
“Wait, how does this even benefit him?” Lucy asks when I finish. “Seems like it would hurt his image and his company more than anything else.”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “His mind works in strategic, devious ways.”
She studies me cautiously. “Everything you’ve said... doesn’t really sound like the Gideon I’ve seen with you. You’re sure there isn’t another explanation?”
“What other explanation could there be?” My voice rises. “The dates, Lucy. The specific details. Who else would have access to that information?”
A young assistant pokes her head in. “Ms. Redwood? The PR team needs your approval on the press release draft, and the caterers are on line two about the opening night menu.” Lucy waves her away. “Tell them we’ll call back in ten.” The girl nods and disappears.
My phone buzzes again. Gideon’s face flashes on the screen. Something in me cracks.
“Enough!” I grab the phone and decline the call, then open the settings and block his number entirely. “It’s really over,” I whisper, my voice catching.
Lucy watches me with concern. “Are you sure you want to go through with the opening? We could postpone.”
For a moment, I seriously consider it. Cancel everything. Hide away. Lick my wounds in private.
If you cancel, he wins. And you might never open again.
“No,” I say, forcing strength into my voice. “I’m not letting him or Blackwell take this from me too. The opening stays on schedule.”
“If you’re sure...” Lucy says, clearly unconvinced.
“I am.” I straighten my shoulders. “My stepfather tried to make sure I’d never have this opportunity. I won’t let Gideon finish what my stepfather started.”
The lighting crew’s loud arrival interrupts us. I peer out the door and spot four technicians wheeling equipment cases and specialized fixtures into the main room. Their team leader, a no-nonsense woman in her fifties, immediately starts issuing directives. “Those track heads need to be six inches lower, and we’ll need to reconfigure the accent lighting completely. ”
Lucy squeezes my hand before returning to her coordinator role, rushing out to them to discuss the installation timeline.
I’m left alone with the paintings, these traitorous pieces that reveal feelings I never wanted to acknowledge.
I pull out my phone and stare at the blocked contact. It feels so final. So real.
You actually fell in love with him. After everything you promised yourself. After all your rules and walls. Stupid, stupid girl.
Hours later, after most of the crew has gone, the gallery begins to calm. A few painters remain, touching up spots revealed by the new lighting system. Two electricians are troubleshooting a dimmer switch that’s causing flickering in the east wing. Their voices echo through the now-larger space, bouncing off bare walls that will soon showcase my heart for all to see.
I curl up on my mattress in the back room. The gallery is silent except for the occasional passing car outside and the rhythmic tapping of the night carpenter finishing baseboards. I think about my security detail, Diana and Michael taking turns standing watch outside. In a week, they’ll be gone, and I’ll be left to fend for myself once more. Like I always have. Freed from the fake marriage that has caused me so much pain.
I’m surrounded by paintings of Gideon, unable to destroy them despite what he’s done. Some of them will have to go into the exhibition. I don’t have enough other material ready, and the pieces loaned by the collectors need to be complemented by my own work.
I reach out and trace the line of Gideon’s jaw in one of the portraits. Even in paint, his eyes seem to look right through me.
He knew exactly what would hurt me most. My art, my credibility, everything I’ve fought for.
Anger wells inside me. Then mortification at the thought of what’s coming.
He’s going to somehow embarrass me on the most important day of my life.
The deposit on the gallery is already paid, and the bridge loan is in place. But that doesn’t mean the sale can’t be canceled. I’d have to double check the contract. On a whim, I take out a sheet of paper and begin drafting a sale cancellation letter, then tear it up halfway through. No. I won’t hide. If Gideon and Blackwell want to expose me at the opening, I’ll face it with dignity.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. The worst part isn’t even that he betrayed me. It’s that I still can’t bring myself to hate him.
I pick up my phone, my finger hovering over the “unblock” button for a moment before I toss it aside.
No. He made his choice, and now I’ve made mine. I click the delete button, removing his number from my phone entirely.
I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. Instead, I see paintings in my mind. Canvases I haven’t created yet. Dark, angry slashes of color. A landscape shattered by lightning. A portrait torn in half.
Maybe that’s my way forward. Turn this pain into art, like I’ve always done.
Your heart isn’t the first canvas he’s shattered, and it won’t be the last.
But it will be the last time anyone breaks me .