Chapter 27 Iris
IRIS
I drive upstate with the radio turned up, singing along without caring how I sound, my smile already there before the driveway comes into view.
The site buzzes with movement. Deliveries roll in, workers cross paths, and voices call out.
It’s busy and alive, nothing like the stalled building site I left behind last time.
Dad looks up the moment I step inside. “Hey, Pumpkin.”
“Dad.” I’m in his arms before he can say anything else.
After his last round of chemo, he looks good. The color’s back in his face, and his shoulders are squared, as if they belong to him again. He smells faintly of sawdust and antiseptic soap, the strange mix that has always meant home to me.
“By the way,” he says, clearly waiting for this moment, “the mattress arrived the other day.” His eyes light up. “I swear, it’s like sleeping on a cloud. Your mother didn’t get up until eight. Eight.”
I chuckle. “A miracle.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “She snored.”
We both lose it, and the laugh leaves me lighter than when I arrived.
“Good,” I say, meaning more than the mattress.
Dad studies me for a second. “You did this,” he says simply. “All of it.”
I shrug, but I don’t deny it.
“When the universe decides to give,” he continues, “it gives properly.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Come on. Your mother’s inside, organizing her…books.”
Ah, the books.
The eternal negotiation of her life.
I step inside with Dad’s arm draped around my shoulders. Then I notice the man with the tablet moving briskly through the space, issuing instructions and checking measurements.
Mom abandons a neat stack of novels to hug me. “Iris!”
I return the hug, then nod at the pile. “Those look new.”
She winces theatrically. “Don’t tell your father.”
Dad just sighs and kisses her temple.
I angle my shoulder toward where the tablet guy disappeared. “Since when do we have a project manager?” I ask.
She beams. “Oh! Since last week. The company you hired brought in new management.”
“Hmm, that sounds…ominous.”
“It’s a good thing,” she says quickly. “Really. He handles all the running around. You don’t have to worry about a thing. You can focus on your exhibition.”
I squint. That also sounds expensive. But I keep it to myself.
She pats my arm, clearly reading my expression. “Let’s find out before you panic.”
“I’ll leave you two to it,” Dad says, already drifting off, pausing only to admire the fresh paint in the kitchen.
The project manager, pleasant, confident, and annoyingly calm, walks me through the numbers. I brace myself.
They’re…reasonable.
Still, habit kicks in.
“I like the scope,” I say, smiling. “But if we tighten the timeline and streamline the remaining deliveries, I think there’s room to bring the cost down.”
He raises an eyebrow and pushes back politely.
We volley. I counter, he gives in on the schedule, and I adjust on the materials. While he’s recalculating, I gesture toward the reading room.
“And while we’re at it,” I add casually, “my mom’s been dreaming about a built-in bookshelf here. Nothing extravagant. If we use the same carpenter and keep it clean, I think we can fold it into what we’ve just freed up.”
He pauses, considers, and smiles, like he sees exactly what I’ve done.
“All right,” he says. “If we keep it simple.”
“Simple is my specialty,” I reply.
We shake hands, both of us satisfied and pretending we didn’t enjoy it.
“Iris!” Mom calls, appearing with a tray of lemonade and cake as though it’s the most important part of the operation. “Take this to the crew, will you?”
And I do, earning grateful smiles and an immediate improvement in morale.
When I return, Mom checks the clock. “Don’t you have an exhibition to get to?”
“I do,” I say brightly. “And so do you two.”
Dad looks up from inspecting a cabinet. “We’ll be there. Don’t worry.”
“Okay,” I say, already backing toward the door. “I’ll sort out the payments. Don’t transfer anything, don’t pay anything. I can’t handle double-ups today.”
“Go!” Mom laughs.
“See you tonight,” I say, kissing them both.
The warehouse has transformed, with the concrete polished to a low sheen, light shaped, and the ceiling left open to steel trusses and conduit. Its white walls now hold my work with confidence.
Between Us breathes here. Gold threads through crimson in a way that draws the eye, then refuses to give it back. Each element feels close without pleading. Intimate without indulgence.
My mother cries within five minutes while Dad stands there with an arm around her, quiet and proud.
Meanwhile, Reggie soaks up the atmosphere like a man basking in secondhand glory.
“Do you hear that?” he whispers as a couple walks past. “That’s the sound of people pretending they’re very calm about being aroused.”
“Behave,” I murmur.
Jonas Keller is everywhere, introducing, gesturing, and claiming my work with unapologetic authority. Evan Yani floats through the room, charming collectors who buy on relationship instead of price. It’s loud. It’s flattering. It’s surreal.
And then—
“Oh my,” Reggie gasps.
I follow his gaze.
Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. A billionaire like him belongs in New York’s art circles. It comes standard now, or since forever. Especially with a beautiful woman on his arm.
“Your muse,” I jab quietly.
“Sshh,” Reggie hisses. “He just buried his father. Be nice.”
“Do you know who she is?” I ask.
“No idea,” he says. Then, with a grin, he teases, “Jealous?”
“No,” I blurt. “She’s just…”
Familiarity brushes my awareness before I can place it. The fall of her hair, the way she moves…
And him?
I’ve seen him before in a white coat. He was reserved, almost severe. But in black tie, he’s something else entirely. The tuxedo fits him with ruthless dominance, all clean lines and broad shoulders. He doesn’t try to command a room. He simply does.
He crosses the space at his leisure and stops while the woman at his side murmurs an excuse and slips away, leaving him alone, apparently deciding where to go next. Beside me, my best friend goes rigid.
I whisper, grabbing his sleeve. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
He stares at the infamous guest. “Eye, should I remind you? That’s Marcus Lockwood.”
“I know. That’s why you’re staying.”
Marcus catches my eye and smiles as he starts toward me. My stomach dips, wayward.
“I’m begging you,” I hiss to Reggie. “Be my buffer.”
Reggie gently pries my fingers loose. “I cannot cockblock destiny. Or Dr. Lockwood.”
“Reg—”
He pats my hand. “You’ll be fine. Try not to offend him. Or do. I’ll pretend I didn’t see.”
Then he abandons me completely, throwing Marcus a look that’s half worship, half aspiration.
I exhale and take refuge in a too-quick sip of champagne.
“Miss Vaughn.”
“Good evening, Dr. Lockwood,” I say. “Enjoying the collection?”
And just like that, there’s nowhere left to hide.
He smells good. Expensive.
Nice try.
But my attention drifts, unbidden and restless, toward someone who isn’t here. Someone masked. Someone who occupies far too much space in my head to make room for anyone else.
“Very much so,” Marcus says. “How are you?”
The proximity does strange things to me. My pulse skews, and my focus draws inward. I don’t remember feeling this way about him before.
“Good. Tired, but good,” I answer.
“How’s your dad?”
“He’s better, thanks. He’s here, actually,” I say, glancing around. I can’t decide if it’s worse to let Marcus talk to Ross Vaughn or to feel myself lose grip. But the two seemed to get on, so maybe it evens out.
Though my dad is nowhere in sight. Must be a conveniently timed bathroom break.
“I’m glad,” Marcus says. “I’ll check in with him later.”
He looks at me like there’s something else he might say. But I don’t meet his gaze.
A moment passes.
He glances down, then back up. “And…how’s that canine friend of yours?”
I almost laugh. It’s his safe question, and somehow, that makes it charming. Those faint lines at the corners of his eyes unravel something in my chest. In another life, one where my thoughts weren’t already claimed, I might have let myself wonder what it would be like to undress this man.
“Oh, Blanket?” I smile. “I still haven’t seen him around. But then again, I haven’t been to his domain in a while.”
“His domain?”
“Hudson River Park. I’m sure he’s still somewhere out there, clinging to that expensive cushion of yours.”
He laughs, then hesitates. “Iris—”
“Ivy,” I say lightly. “If you want to blend in.”
“Iris. I realized we’ve met twice now, and both times were…unusual. I thought I should correct that.”
“Ah.” I smile. “I really appreciate you coming tonight.”
He takes a breath. “I’d like to take you to dinner sometime. If you’re willing.”
The words land wrong. They’re not thoughtless. Just…poorly timed.
“Oh,” I say. “Is that why you’re here? For me? Not for the art?”
He stiffens. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Keller appears at his shoulder, greeting Marcus. They exchange a few words, mutual respect evident between them. Keller praises my work with a flourish while Marcus congratulates him and keeps pulling me back into the exchange.
And me, the artist on the receiving end? My attention keeps going to him whether I want it to or not. The fact that I’m even weighing Dr. Perfect’s invitation irritates me more than it should.
It feels like a betrayal, which is ridiculous. But after the last game? After what Wolf gave me and the closeness he allowed, wanting anyone else almost feels like I’m cheating on him.
And I, God help me, I open my mouth again.
“I’m flattered, Dr. Lockwood,” I say, “but I don’t think what you just offered is appropriate. You’re…well. You’re not what I’m interested in.”
The silence that follows is brief.
But it’s loud.
Keller is with someone else now, but he’s still standing close enough to hear, and the confidence of the seasoned critic gives way to visible confusion.
Marcus’s expression doesn’t shatter, though that would be easier. Instead, something in his dignified eyes admits he’s wounded.
“I see,” he says, almost under his breath. By the time he continues, the damage is hidden. “Congratulations on your success, Miss Vaughn.”
And then he’s gone.
“Ah shit,” I mutter.
I don’t even think. I just move. I move out the door and into the alley, my heart pounding with the realization that I’ve done something small and ugly and irreversible.
I spot him near the far wall.
Marcus is kneeling, one of his hands gentle against Blanket’s scruffy neck. The cushion lies beside them, dulled and torn, with grime ground into its seams. Marcus speaks softly, his forehead nearly touching the dog’s.
I stop behind a pillar.
Bless him.
Blanket notices me first. He looks and considers. And stays right where he is.
I step forward.
“Dr. Lockwood,” I say. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He stands, composed once more. Blanket wags his tail, but doesn’t move.
“Hey, Blanky,” I coax, crouching down. “You’re choosing him over me now?”
Marcus smiles faintly. “He knows who needs the affection more.”
I nod and swallow. “I’m really sorry,” I say. “It’s just that…I already have someone.”
“I understand,” he says. “Have a good night, Miss Vaughn. And congratulations.”
Then he walks away, and Blanket looks back at me before following.
I stand there, my heart heavy, knowing I didn’t mean to hurt him—
And yet, knowing I did.