41. The Starlight Showdown
Chapter 41
The Starlight Showdown
MEGAN
T he moment I step into the space, I feel it.
The weight of this moment.
The energy of the Starlight Exhibit hums around me—the polished marble floors, the soft murmur of conversations, the clinking of champagne glasses. My piece, the one I nearly let fear keep me from finishing, hangs proudly on the far wall. Illuminated, commanding attention.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like a scholarship student in an art school.
I feel like an artist.
A real one.
Hunter’s hand rests at the small of my back, his touch warm and grounding. He hasn’t left my side all evening, though he’s been content to let me soak it all in.
“This is your night,” he murmurs, his voice filled with quiet pride. “Take it in, baby.”
And I do.
I scan the crowd, taking in the sight of art critics, collectors, and fellow artists, all moving through the gallery with appreciation. Some stop in front of my painting, tilting their heads in quiet study, discussing what the dark, moody strokes mean to them.
I did that.
That’s my work. My vision. Hanging in a gallery, not just confined to a classroom or an unfinished sketchpad.
I belong here.
“Excuse me—are you the artist?”
I turn, startled, to see a middle-aged woman in a sleek black dress and thick-rimmed glasses, a Starlight Foundation badge pinned to her lapel.
“I—yes,” I say, a little breathless. “I’m Megan Taylor.”
The artist.
She beams. “Your piece is one of the most talked-about of the evening.”
My heart pounds. “Really?”
“Absolutely. Your use of color, the emotional depth—it’s phenomenal. I overheard a few collectors asking about your work.” She hands me a sleek card. “If you haven’t already, I strongly suggest you start thinking about representation. You’re going to need it.”
I take the card with trembling fingers. A gallery representative. Offering me advice about my future.
This is real.
This is happening.
I open my mouth to thank her, but before I can, an all-too-familiar mocking laugh cuts through the conversation.
“Oh my God, is that really you, Megan?”
My stomach twists.
I turn toward the voice, already bracing myself.
And there they are—three familiar faces from school.
Ashley and her flunkies, Rachel and Maya.
I exhale slowly, steadying myself as they saunter closer. “It was nice meeting you,” I tell the gallery rep, being sure to shake her hand, then step away, hoping she doesn’t overhear whatever is about to go down.
“Wow,” Ashley says, looking around dramatically. “I guess some people really can just fuck their way into success.”
“Too bad it didn’t work out for you,” I snap back.
Maya smirks, her arms crossed. “It must be nice to have a rich fiancé who can buy you a spot in an exhibit like this.”
“And a half-decent outfit for once,” Rachel adds her two cents.
There it is.
I should have known this was coming.
I glance at Hunter out of the corner of my eye, knowing his first instinct is to step in. To shut them up with one sharp look.
But I don’t need that.
Not tonight.
This is my night.
I lift my chin, facing them head-on.
“Funny,” I say smoothly, swirling the champagne in my glass. “I don’t recall any of you being invited to show here.”
Ashley snorts. “Oh, please. We all know how this works, Megan. Some of us will spend years refining our technique, networking, grinding to make a name for ourselves?—”
“And some of us just have actual talent,” I cut in, voice razor-sharp. “Which is why my work is hanging in this exhibit, and yours isn’t.”
Ashley visibly stiffens, her face twisting into an ugly sneer.
Rachel nudges her, whispering something under her breath, but I catch the tail end of it—something about me being ‘hood trash’ who got lucky.
“You know what’s really sad?” I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “I actually used to think you all had something I didn’t—some secret advantage. But now I see it.”
I step closer, pointing my finger at them but lowering my voice just enough to make sure they hang onto every word.
“You’re all just bitter as hell that I made it here before you.”
The tension crackles between us, thick and hot.
Ashley opens her mouth to respond but suddenly hesitates.
Her gaze flickers —to my hand.
To my engagement ring.
A flawless diamond, catching the soft gallery light.
Rachel’s eyes widen slightly, too. “Shit,” she murmurs under her breath. “That’s actually stunning.”
Before I can respond, Ashley whips her head toward Rachel, eyes blazing.
“Are you serious right now?” she snaps. “Are you actually complimenting her ?”
Rachel shrinks slightly, caught between her own admiration and Ashley’s disapproval. “I mean… I’m just saying. It’s a gorgeous ring.”
Ashley glares daggers at her, her lips twisting with fury. “Yeah, it’s stunning—because it cost a damn fortune, and she probably worked super hard on her hands and knees for it.”
A few months ago, a sexual dig like that would have gutted me, but instead, I simply tilt my head with a smirk and watch the bitch unravel.
Ashley hates this.
She hates that I’m not intimidated.
She hates that I made it here first.
But most of all, she hates that she’s losing control of the narrative.
She spent so long pretending she was better than me. And now?
Now, she has to face the truth.
I give her a slow, satisfied smile. “Jealousy isn’t a great look on you, Ashley. In fact, you’ve never looked uglier.”
Ashley clenches her jaw, her nostrils flaring, but she has nothing left to say.
Rachel shifts uncomfortably. Maya mutters something under her breath, and just like that, they retreat, their heels clicking sharply against the marble floor as they disappear into the crowd.
I watch them go, my pulse still pounding, but it’s not from fear.
It’s from victory.
A slow smirk tugs at my lips.
Hunter suddenly steps beside me, slipping an arm around my waist. “I could’ve handled that for you, you know.”
I tilt my head, looking up at him. “I know.”
His lips brush against my temple, his pride in me as clear as the stars in his steel-gray eyes.
“But I didn’t need you to.”
I did this.
I fought for this.
I deserve this.
And for the first time, I truly believe it.
He grins, nodding. “No, you didn’t, and it was sexy as hell. If you weren’t the star of this show tonight, I’d take you to the bathroom and fuck you properly.”
“Later, Mr. Middleton.” I wink.
I turn back toward my painting, taking it in—every brushstroke, every choice, every piece of me embedded into the canvas.
It’s not just a painting.
It’s proof.
Proof that I belong.
That I’m not just a student.
I am an artist.
And this?
This is just the beginning.