54. Epilogue
Ava
T he exclusive preview night of “Transitions” is in full swing, my Chelsea gallery transformed into Manhattan’s hottest art destination.
At least for tonight.
Look at me, pretending I’m not still freaking out that all these important people showed up to see MY art. Keep it cool, Ava. You’re a professional now. A pregnant professional.
I absently rest my hand on the slight swell of my stomach, still hardly visible beneath my flowing navy dress. Five months along and our little secret is woven subtly into every piece in this collection. Curves and cycles, protection and growth, fear and hope. No one would notice unless they knew what to look for, but it’s there in every brushstroke.
The gallery smells of fresh paint and expensive perfume and people , a sheer heaping mass of them. The white wine I can’t drink looks painfully refreshing in everyone else’s glasses as it catches the gallery lights.
Across the room, Gideon commands attention without even trying. He’s discussing one of my largest pieces with the curator from MoMA. The actual freaking Museum of Modern Art. His hands move with uncharacteristic animation as he points out details in the composition. I catch fragments of his passionate explanation about my use of negative space and have to bite my lip to stop from grinning like an idiot, remembering my own explanation of negative space to Gideon the first time we met.
“I ran out of blue paint.” Classic.
Still, seeing that man talking about my art like it’s a masterpiece is almost sexier than when he’s naked. Almost.
“You’re glowing,” Lucy says, appearing beside me with two flutes of sparkling water. “And not just because you’re finally getting the recognition you deserve.”
“Please,” I accept the drink, grateful for the cold glass against my suddenly warm hand. “It’s probably just sweat. Do you know how many people have asked me about my ‘creative process’ tonight? I’m running out of fancy ways to say ‘I slap paint around until it feels right.’”
Lucy laughs, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the slight furrow between her perfectly shaped brows. Her phone chimes, and her expression darkens as she checks it.
“It’s the office again,” she sighs, tapping out a quick response. “I should have known dad would need me to put out another fire before I could enjoy one full evening off.”
“You’re working too hard,” I tell her, concern replacing my moment of triumph. “Hammond & Co. isn’t your entire responsibility, no matter what your father implies.”
Lucy’s perfectly glossed lips press into a thin line. “ The company’s in trouble, Ava. Serious trouble. Dad’s made some questionable decisions, and now Mark Blackwell is circling like a shark.”
“Blackwell?” Gideon’s voice makes me jump as he slides an arm around my waist. The comforting scent of his cologne, the bright citrus notes over something deeper, more primal, envelops me. “If Mark Blackwell is involved, you need to be careful.”
His arm tightens protectively, and I lean into him, our bodies remembering our own battle with the ruthless businessman. Six months ago feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago.
“The son, actually,” Lucy clarifies, her voice hardening. “Christopher Blackwell. Apparently, he’s as ruthless as his father, just with better tech skills and a more dangerous smile.”
Great. Blackwell 2.0. Because one sociopathic businessman per friend group wasn’t enough.
Gideon exchanges a meaningful look with me, his gray eyes communicating volumes. “If you need any help dealing with the Blackwells...”
Lucy’s phone chimes again, more insistently this time. “I appreciate it, but I need to handle this myself. Hammond & Co. is my responsibility.” She leans in to kiss my cheek, the familiar scent of her perfume momentarily overpowering everything else. “I’ve got a meeting at Javits Center tomorrow morning. Apparently Christopher Blackwell will be there. Time to face the enemy.”
As Lucy hurries toward the exit, her designer heels clicking purposefully across the hardwood floors, Gideon pulls me closer. “Should we help her anyway?”
I watch my friend disappear through the door, determination in every step. “I think Christopher Blackwell is the one who needs helping. Lucy’s tougher than she looks.”
Still, first thing tomorrow I’m calling her. Nobody messes with my best friend.
“By the way,” Gideon says, his voice dropping to that intimate register that still makes my stomach flip, “the trust documents are ready for your signature. I had Jonas email them your way.”
The words take a moment to process through the noise of the gallery and the fatigue of standing for hours in these stupid but gorgeous shoes. “The foundation papers?”
He nods, a rare soft smile transforming his usually serious face. “The Ava King Foundation is officially ready to launch. Once established, no one, not even your stepfather, could ever interfere with a scholarship recipient’s future again.”
Tears spring to my eyes unbidden, and I blink rapidly, conscious of my carefully applied makeup.
Not now, hormones. I refuse to become a sobbing mess in front of all these art critics.
“We’re really doing this,” I whisper, squeezing his hand.
“ You’re doing this,” he corrects, his voice gentle. “I’m just the money man.” His hand moves to rest on my barely-there bump, warm and steady through the fabric of my dress. “And this little artist-in-training is helping, too.”
The simple gesture makes my throat tighten. Six months ago, we were playing roles in an elaborate charade. Now, standing in my own gallery, with Gideon’s ring on my finger (the new one, not the business arrangement diamond) and our child growing inside me, the reality of how much has changed hits me full force .
“Maybe we should name the baby after a famous artist,” I suggest, blinking back another wave of emotion. “How about Picasso King? Or Frida King?”
Gideon chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Let’s rain check that discussion for now. What about Rembrandt for a middle name?”
“Hey says ‘let’s rain check the discussion’ then throws out a middle name!” I laugh, tension releasing from my shoulders. “You’re awful. But seriously, thank you. For everything. Not just the foundation.”
“Stop thanking me,” he murmurs against my hair. “This is what partners do.”
A well-dressed couple approaches, and I recognize the woman as a major collector who’s been eying my largest piece all evening. Gideon’s hand gives mine a supportive squeeze before he steps slightly back, allowing me to take center stage.
Six months ago, when he gave me the new ring, I was worried he’d somehow overshadow me. Now I’m grateful for how he instinctively knows when to support me and when to step aside.
“Mrs. Rothstein! I’m so glad you could make it,” I say, extending my hand. “What do you think of ‘Threshold’? I noticed you’ve been returning to it.”
As I slip into gallery owner mode, answering questions and discussing my process, I catch Gideon watching me with undisguised pride. The look in his eyes makes my cheeks warm despite my professional composure.
The Rothsteins move on to examine another piece, and Gideon returns to my side.
“You’re a natural at this,” he says, his voice low enough for only me to hear. “They’re eating out of your hand.”
“I’m faking it spectacularly,” I admit. “ Inside I’m still that girl who used the wrong fork and started eating before you at your own charity gala.”
“You never needed to fake anything,” he says, suddenly serious. “That’s what I love most about you.”
A server passes with a tray of champagne and water, and Gideon smoothly exchanges my empty water glass for a fresh one. The brief moment gives me time to compose myself before I’m pulled into another conversation about my inspiration and technique.
The night continues in a whirlwind of introductions, explanations, and sales that Dean Wess, who I’ve hired as an extra hand tonight, handles with theatrical flair while I do the creative talking. Through it all, I feel Gideon’s presence like an anchor, steady and sure.
Six months have passed. Exactly the same amount of time as our original arrangement.
But how different these months have been. Six months of truth instead of pretense. Six months of building something real. Six months of learning each other’s habits, fears, and dreams without the protection of a contract that promised it would all end.
And now, as I glance around at the gallery filled with my work, literal pieces of my soul splashed across canvas for strangers to judge, and feel the tiny flutter of my future growing inside me, something clicks. The noise of clinking glasses and pretentious art chatter fades away, and I finally, truly understand what my grandmother meant when she said true art comes from living fully.
This is it. This exact moment. The terrifying, exhilarating free-fall of being completely, messily alive and in love.
This, the gallery with my name on the door, the baby doing somersaults in my belly, the reformed billionaire who looks at me like I hung the moon instead of just some paintings, all of this is what it means to live fully.
And it’s just the beginning.
God, that sounds so cheesy. But also... true?
It’s funny. Me and beginnings, we don’t usually get along very well. Historically, they’ve been right up there with visits to the dentist and small talk with gallery patrons who want to tell me what my art “really means.” Something to endure while silently plotting escape routes.
But with Gideon at my side, and I mean truly at my side, not hovering protectively or watching from a distance, with him at my side, for the first time in my life, beginnings don’t terrify me.
They feel like fresh canvas. Full of possibility. Mine to fill.