Chapter 23 Iris
IRIS
Marina Rhodes doesn’t argue for her opinions. In rooms full of curators, dealers, and patrons, hers is the one conversation that draws attention. When she speaks about art, decisions follow.
“The world is waiting for the next chapter of Crimson Reverie, my dear,” she says, her fingers folded neatly atop her desk. “Not this.”
I nod, though the motion feels disconnected from me.
“I see,” I manage.
Marina is already standing. The conversation has reached its natural end. She offers a smile that suggests fondness rather than faith, then excuses herself for another appointment. Another artist, another promise she’s willing to entertain.
I leave her office with my tablet tucked under my arm. The New York art scene has crushed me. The galleries become meaningless details in their white walls, glass fronts, and names that once thrilled me. I walk until the disappointment dulls enough to think.
Then I see Keller.
He’s finishing lunch with a man whom I’d bet is a collector—linen suit, tortoiseshell sunglasses folded beside his plate. I wait. Then I watch Keller head toward his office after the other man leaves.
“Mr. Keller.”
He turns, assessing me in a single glance. “Ivy. What can I do for you?”
“I have something to show you,” I say. “Five minutes.”
“I’m late for a meeting.”
“Two.”
Before he can decline again, I bring up the image on my tablet and hold it between us.
Keller barely looks at it.
“You should try Irvine’s,” he says lightly. “Or The Apollo. Blanche Moretti’s space might indulge you.”
“I’ve tried them all,” I say, pressing the point. “They won’t even speak to me without a recommendation. Please.”
He arches a brow. “Marina Rhodes, perhaps? She’s always been rather enamored with your work.”
The word enamored stings. I swallow it down. “She said I was…too memorable.”
Keller gives a short, pleased sound. He and Marina have a history, professional friction intensified by years of mutual success.
“She wanted another Crimson Reverie,” I add.
“Well,” he says, finally looking at me, “if you asked me, I’d say the same.”
Something in me snaps decisively.
“Crimson Reverie is finished,” I say. “You can’t resurrect it, no matter how hard you try.”
He stills. “You’re disagreeing with me?”
I hesitate for exactly one breath. “No…I mean…yes!”
Keller studies me now, properly.
“You’re fortunate,” he says at last, “that I’ve always had a certain tolerance for you.”
I don’t respond. I simply turn the tablet back toward him.
This time, he looks. Really looks. But his expression gives nothing away. Seconds stretch, and the street noise fades behind us.
“It isn’t Crimson Reverie,” I say. “And it isn’t meant to be.”
“I can see that.”
“The gold and crimson touch, then separate,” I continue, my words finding their footing. “It’s about what almost happens. About relationships that never resolve into something simple.”
He glances at me. “Title?”
“Between Us.”
Something in him clicks, subtle but unmistakable.
“You know,” Keller says slowly, his eyes returning to the screen, “Irvine’s, The Apollo, Blanche Moretti’s…they were never quite right for you. You may find this difficult to believe, Ivy, but I still enjoy being surprised.”
He locks the tablet and hands it back. “Come with me.”
Keller doesn’t head back toward his office.
He veers off instead, down a narrower street where Chelsea sheds its polish.
The noise subsides, and brick replaces glass.
We stop in front of a warehouse that looks unremarkable.
There’s no signage and no windows at street level.
It’s the kind of place you’d walk past without a second glance.
Keller makes a call and says very little.
The door opens.
“Mr. Keller!” a man greets him, already halfway out the door. He wears dark jeans and a fitted shirt. His jacket is probably discarded somewhere inside, and he has paint smudged across his knuckles.
“Mr. Yani,” Keller says, then tilts his head toward me. “Ivy. Ivy, Evan.”
“Oh—hi,” I say, uncertain what I’m being introduced to.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Evan says quickly, as if he’s apologizing for the building itself. Despite Keller insisting on “Mr. Yani,” Evan is decades younger than him. The formality feels inherited, something Keller imposed early on and never fully released.
Keller used to call me Miss Vaughn until he understood the power of a nickname.
Ivy made collectors lean in, like they weren’t buying a piece so much as claiming a connection.
Ivy wasn’t just a name. It was the version of me that the market wanted to believe in. These days, he seems content with Ivy.
Keller moves past him.
Inside, the space opens up. Exposed beams, concrete floors, and light pouring in from skylights that haven’t yet been cleaned. It smells like dust and paint and something newly imagined. The walls are blank, but not empty. They feel expectant.
“Is this…” I lower my voice instinctively. “Is this that new gallery? The one that’s supposed to be just a rumor?”
“Mm,” Keller replies. “Rumors have their uses.”
He stops near a wall marked with charcoal measurements. Evan follows, alert now.
“Mr. Yani,” Keller says, “you mentioned you were looking for a collection that’s bold, but not careless. Restrained, but not timid.”
Evan nods. “Yes, exactly.”
Keller gestures, and suddenly, I understand. My pulse kicks up.
I bring up the image on my tablet and turn it toward Evan.
He doesn’t speak at first. Then his eyes widen, his breath catching just slightly.
“Oh,” he says at last. “Wow. This is…this is extraordinary.”
Relief and panic collide within me.
“How many pieces do you have?” he asks.
“In Between Us?” I clarify.
“That’s the title?”
“Yes. I’m planning five.”
He nods, already imagining the walls. “It would look incredible alongside Christian’s Hearts collection.”
Wait. Luke Christian? I’m going to be featured next to the king of painted heartbreak?
But Keller cuts in smoothly. “Solo.”
Evan freezes.
I do too.
“Solo?” Evan repeats.
“Yes,” Keller says.
A beat passes, then Evan straightens. “All right. But we’d need more work. At least twelve pieces.”
“Done,” I say, the word leaving me before doubt can intervene.
Evan shakes my hand, enthusiasm crackling off him. I can’t tell whether he’s more thrilled or I’m more terrified. Probably both.
“And you’ll issue an artist fee,” Keller adds, already turning toward the door. “Standard production terms.”
Evan blinks. “Of course.”
Keller gives a satisfied nod. “Then that settles it,” he says, already turning away. “I’ll leave you both to coordinate.”
Outside, the alley feels brighter than before.
“Thank you,” I say.
Keller pauses, then looks at me, not in the usual distant way. Just certain.
“You’re welcome,” he says. “Now go home and get some sleep.”
I let myself into my Brooklyn apartment. The Atelier Noir door is open, revealing my bestie mid-ritual, adjusting a scarlet dress on his favorite mannequin.
“Hold still, Astrid,” he murmurs. “You’re not meant to fight the fabric.”
Miss Astrid remains uncooperative, as always.
Then he spots me.
“Oh, you’re alive,” he says.
“Thriving,” I reply, toeing off my shoes. “Occasionally feral, but very much alive.”
I haven’t been home in a week. Lately, this place is more of a pit stop than a sanctuary. A place with a proper bed, a proper shower, and Chinese food from the corner place that knows my order.
My eyes take in the dress. “That is stunning,” I say. “She looks expensive.”
Reggie narrows his eyes. “Are you flirting with my work, or are you hinting?”
“Just admiration. Purely platonic.”
He sets his pin box down, his tape measure still looped around his neck. “You look suspicious. Do you need another dress for that nameless club you refuse to tell me about?”
I sigh. After a month of silence with no messages or invitations, Wolf still lives rent-free in my head. But maybe the quiet is doing me a favor.
“No club,” I say. “I’m busy.”
“You could debut this one,” he says, patting Astrid’s waist. “It’s still a prototype. The final version will have more drama. More sparkle. Longer train.”
“Oscar material,” I say.
“Obviously.”
He studies me then, his head tilted. “You look different.”
I ponder for a moment. “Something happened.”
His face sharpens. “Define something.”
“I’m having a solo exhibition.”
There’s a dangerous pause. Then—
“No!” Reggie shrieks. “Ivy!” He lunges, hugs me, spins me, and kisses both cheeks. “Champagne. Immediately. This is not a drill.”
We toast with whatever bottle he’s been hoarding for a moment exactly like this.
“To Between Us,” he says solemnly.
“I’m going to be scarce,” I warn him. “I need eight, maybe ten, more pieces.”
“My God,” he says. “You’re going to turn into a cave creature.”
“I’ll manage,” I say, grinning now. “With this, I can finally fix the dodgy extension at my parents’ place.” I stop, then start again. “I can clear Dad’s hospital payment plan. Completely.” I cut the word off with my hand. “And buy Mom the mattress she keeps pretending she doesn’t want.”
He draws me into another hug.
“And…” I add, “I can pay you back. All of it.”
He lets go instantly. “Absolutely not. You always try to do this.”
“I’m just saying—”
“You do it when you’re happy,” he says. “Don’t make it a priority. Promise.”
I shrug.
He points at me. “That was not a promise.”
Miss Astrid watches silently as the intercom buzzes.
Reggie glances toward the door, then hits the button. “If this is another mannequin, I’m charging rent.”
A voice crackles back: Delivery.
He swings the door open and leans out, then looks over his shoulder at me. “Eye. For you.”
The UPS guy looks familiar. And so does the box in his hands. I sign without comment.
Reggie squints at it the moment the door closes. “Who’s that from?”
“Probably Keller.”
“Brown paper. No labels,” he says. “Very subtly suspicious.”
I move to take the box to my room.
“Uh-uh! Wait a minute!” Reggie follows.
“Fine!” I peel back the wrapping.
It’s the same mahogany box. The same weight. Inside, there’s the same tablet, and the screen flickers to life.
Another Game Awaits.
Are you in?
A single button pulses beneath it.
YES.
Reggie leans in. “Iris Vaughn? What the hell is—”
The screen goes black.
I sit down hard on the edge of my bed. Reggie drops beside me, his eyes wide.
“Only I can see it,” I say.
He stares at the blank screen. Then at me. “You’re kidding.”
“I’ve been playing a game,” I say. “With a group of men in masks. Kidnapping, role play, you name it.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“It’s not scary,” I say quickly. “It was…it was…magical.”
He swallows. “Now I’m scared.”
“They’re from that nameless club,” I add. “I was playing with the owner. I don’t know his name. But he wears a wolf mask.”
My mouth does something unhelpful.
Reggie notices it instantly. “Oh, say no more,” he says. “Let me guess. Tall. Lean. Broad chest.”
I say nothing.
He squints. “Bronde. Obviously.”
I exhale. “Yes. All of that.”
“How original,” Reggie quips. “But nothing like Bobby Derring, I presume?” he adds almost cheerfully.
I swat his arm. “Stop it.”
He blinks, reassessing. “Wow,” he says. “Somehow, that’s worse…and infinitely better.”
“You can’t tell anyone. He knows you.”
His head snaps toward me. “Who knows me?”
“Wolf. If you say a word, we’re both in trouble. He’s powerful.”
Reggie exhales slowly. “Shit, Eye.”
It is shit, but inside, my heart blooms. I’m going to see Wolf again?
He nods at the tablet. “So, that’s another one.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you playing?”
I look at him. He knows the answer.