51. Gideon
51
Gideon
I stand in my penthouse living room, surrounded by her artwork that still hangs on the walls. I couldn’t bring myself to take them down, despite her instructions when she stormed out.
Yes, I left them exactly where they were, as if removing them would somehow make her absence more permanent. The paintings watch me like sentinels, each brushstroke a reminder of what I’ve lost. Her packed bags still sit in her room, untouched. She’ll have to come back for them eventually. If she calls movers, I won’t let them in, not unless she comes herself. It’s pathetic, I know, but it’s at least one guarantee that I’ll see her again.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Diana, part of Ava’s security detail.
She’s still at the gallery working on final preparations. Hasn’t left in 72 hours.
I feel a pang in my chest. Knowing where she is doesn’t make it any easier. Diana and Michael have continued reporting to me, of course. I’ve considered stopping by a dozen times.
But I’ve held back.
Not because I don’t have the words. I have plenty. I have evidence and explanations and the fucking truth on my side. But would any of it matter? Would she even listen?
No. Not now. Not while she’s still raw and working against the clock. Not while she believes I’m planning to destroy her at her own opening.
She needs to see that nothing happens. That her gallery opens without the public humiliation she’s expecting. Only then might she be willing to hear me out.
And I won’t disrupt her focus now. This gallery opening means everything to her. She’s worked her entire life for this moment. The last thing she needs is me showing up, sending her into an emotional tailspin days before her debut.
So I wait. And it’s fucking killing me.
Tomorrow, I’ll attend her gallery opening. Not to confront her, not with crowds around, but to witness her triumph.
To ensure our counter-strategy worked.
To see her.
The Chelsea gallery space is transformed. When I arrive, it’s already crowded with New York’s art elite. I adjust my tie and keep to the periphery, watching. Ray and James, my primary security detail, flank me discreetly, maintaining distance while keeping watchful eyes on the room.
I admit I’m a little surprised she finished in time, considering the tight timeline.
Then again, it’s Ava. So what did I expect?
And then I see her.
My stomach tightens.
She stands near the center of the main gallery, wearing a sleek black dress, her dark curls pulled back in an elegant twist. She’s smiling at a collector, but I can see the strain beneath it. Her eyes scan the room constantly, shoulders tense, as if waiting for disaster to strike at any moment.
“She thinks you’re going to humiliate her tonight,” Ray murmurs beside me.
“I know.” The irony isn’t lost on me. The counter-strategy I implemented to protect her has become the very thing she fears.
As is usual at events like these, people give me space. And not just because of my security team, but my presence . It’s my blessing and my curse. Which means I’ll have to stay well away from Ava if I don’t want her to spot me.
Keeping my distance, I move through the space, viewing her new collection. Each piece tells our story through abstract emotional landscapes. Trust, passion, contentment, and then the shattering. The betrayal. One painting in particular catches my eye: a masculine figure extending what appears to be a gentle hand, but hidden within the brushstrokes is a knife. The other arm holds a gift... another painting. The title reads simply: “What I Should Have Seen.”
Seeing our relationship through her eyes is like being gutted. The depth of her feelings for me, and the depth of her pain, is laid bare on these canvases for anyone to see.
A few art world socialites notice me lurking on the periphery. They approach with practiced smiles and empty flattery. But I always cut them off with curt nods and clipped responses. In another setting, I might tolerate the networking, the subtle probing of information. Not today. My usual mask of polite indifference has been replaced by something sharper, a clear message: stay the fuck away. Eventually, people get the hint.
And then:
“She loved you,” a familiar voice says beside me.
I turn to find Lucy standing there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
“Loves,” I correct. “Present tense.”
“That’s pretty fucking presumptuous after what you did.” Her voice is cool, but there’s a question in her eyes.
I hold her gaze. “I didn’t do what she thinks I did.”
“Then what did you do?”
I hand her a portfolio. “Read this. Then decide if I’m worth helping.”
Lucy takes it, hesitation visible on her face.
“I’m not asking you to convince her,” I say. “Just give me a chance to explain directly. That’s all I want.”
She tucks the portfolio under her arm. “I’ll read it. For her sake, not yours.”
“Thank you.” I return my attention to the gallery, looking for Ava again.
She’s surrounded by admirers, art critics, potential buyers. The soft lighting catches the gold flecks in her eyes as she gestures toward one of her pieces, explaining her technique. This should be her moment of triumph, but I can see how she braces herself with each new person who approaches, waiting for the public humiliation she believes is coming .
For an instant I consider approaching her. But no, this isn’t the right moment. Confronting her here, surrounded by the art world elite, would only push her further away. She deserves better than that.
I wait another hour, watching her from a distance. She’s constantly surrounded. This is her night, after all. The culmination of her dreams. And despite everything, I’m proud of her.
Lucy finds me and returns the portfolio. “I read it. You should show it to her.”
“I will. When will this place empty out?”
“After nine,” Lucy says.
I nod. “I’ll be back then.”
“Should I tell her to expect you?” Lucy asks.
I consider for a moment. “No. Let her have her moment without distractions. Just make sure she’s still here.”
“She’ll be here. I’ll tell her... that if you show up again, she should give you a chance to talk.”
“Thank you,” I reply.
As I exit with my security team, I take one last look at Ava. She’s smiling at something someone said, but her eyes are scanning the room again. Looking for me? Looking for trouble? I can’t tell.
What I do know is that I’m not giving up.
The brisk air hits my face as we step outside.
Diana and Michael, Ava’s security detail, nod when they see me.
I get into the waiting car. I close my eyes briefly, picturing her face, her paintings, the story of us told through her brushstrokes.
Tonight, I’ll tell her my side of the story. Tonight, I’ll fight for us.
But today belongs to her.