Chapter 25
MAE
“For you.”
Allyson sits beside me on the viewers’ chaise in the Augustine gallery and hands me a wax paper-wrapped sandwich.
“It’s from the new deli on the corner. Mediterranean salad with homemade pesto.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Cautiously, she adds, “It looks like you haven’t eaten in a month.”
Only when Marco visited did I eat because he knew I wouldn’t get around to it otherwise. Even when not hungry, I forced the food down because it made him happy seeing me look after myself. On the nights he didn’t come around, stress and anxiety took the reins, and simple camomile tea was sufficient.
“I’m worried about you, Mae,” she presses.
“I’m okay. I promise.” Am I? With Damon still gone, I feel a great loss. Like a part of me—the part I love—is missing somewhere with no hope of finding it. There’s been no contact at all from him, and the lack of closure is eating away at me.
In companionable silence, we watch the art installers carefully hang my last piece.
“I have to say, Mae, after the shit you’ve been through, I’m beyond impressed you were able to pull this over the line.”
“It was more a shove than a pull.”
Two nights ago, when I flew into New York, Allyson walked straight past me in the hotel lobby. She hadn’t recognized her best friend until I approached her at the counter. Her eyes growing wide as she looked me up and down said it all. I’m a mere figment of my former self. Having only just finished the last piece, carefully packing it for delivery, there was no time to cast a glance in the mirror. Skin so pale, I look sick. Lips have lost their natural color that he loved so much, and the dark circles under my eyes reveal what little sleep I’ve had over the last two and a half months. My blonde hair, through lack of care, has lost all health, and my clothes hang loose on my body. But it’s my eyes, Allyson later said, that now seem permanently haunted.
Taking my hand in hers, we traveled up in silence to her fifteenth-floor apartment overlooking Manhattan, and wine was poured. It was then Allyson spied the flesh-toned bandage on my neck and really studied my gaunt face.
We had a show in less than forty-eight hours, and I was far from being the presentable artist everyone was coming to see.
So, I told her.
From beginning to end, she learned of the atrocities committed by the Cooper brothers, and the introduction of Damon into my life. I omitted being in Dubai, and the only untruth was Peter’s cause of death. I stuck to the script I’d told his family and friends because Damon performed the ultimate sacrifice for me and deserved my utmost loyalty. I, like the rest of us in the Dubai hotel room who witnessed the aftermath, will take the secret to our graves.
That night, after two glasses of wine on an empty stomach, I’d slept for fourteen hours straight. There were no dreams or familiar faces that usually form my nightmares—just pure, uninterrupted sleep. After I’d showered, I walked out to find the mahogany dining table loaded with breakfast food and a beauty team waiting on standby to make me human again.
Now, here we find ourselves, marveling at my artwork adorning the gallery walls. The exhibition that almost never happened. I could never have forgiven myself if I allowed Peter’s prophecy to come true.
Allyson points at the large painting hanging directly in front of us. “ That! That right there is your pièce de résistance .”
My final piece. The one that needed to be painted. My life in monochromic oil.
“It’s different to the others,” she adds, lost in all its intricacies.
I fight the lump of emotion lodged in my throat. Time away from Damon doesn’t get any easier, and his palpable presence in this artwork reminds me of all we had and all that was lost.
“I always knew he wasn’t your person.”
“Who?”
“The one you married.” Allyson refuses to speak his name, and I don’t blame her.
“How did you know?”
“The first night I met him was at the Geoffery Stein opening night, do you remember?”
I nod. It had been a memorable night quite early on in our relationship, where Allyson was the first of those close to me to meet the man who had charmed his way into my life.
“He had this obnoxious way of being far more comfortable in a foreign environment than he should have been. Arrogance, most likely. He’d said, ‘Art is for the perpetual sufferers. Societies inept who contribute nothing.’ God, he was such a dickhead.” She shakes her head at the memory. “I mean, dating an artist and knowing full well I’m your agent, he still let that shit spew from his mouth. So, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that two months later, he sent me an email asking that I step back from representing Mae Ellison . He said the ‘dumping’ might be the push you need to leave the industry.”
“None of that at all surprises me.” I’d heard it before in all its various ways of tactless delivery. “What did you respond?”
“I told him I’d continue being your number one cheerleader, and if he was intimidated by your success, then he should perhaps focus on pivoting his own career.”
That never happened because he was too obsessed with destroying every facet of my life.
“All that aside…” Allyson sighs. “I never imagined he would be capable of such evil. And you survived not one but two of the bastards.”
Barely.
“I’m alive and here today because of Damon.”
She presses her lips into a thin line, her knowing gaze meeting mine. “He definitely sounds more like your person .”
The knot in my throat expands, forcing a whisper. “I know.”
“Especially if he’s the reason behind this masterpiece.”
It’s every bit him.
The twenty hours a day I spent working on it was simply a way to be close to him again. Like he wasn’t still a world away and so out of reach.
“Come on,” Allyson says, patting my hand. “Let’s close up and get some rest before tonight.” She’s already standing when I look up at her.
“Do you mind if I stay? Just for a little longer.”
Uncertain, she hesitates. She thinks I’m too fragile to be left alone. Truth is, other than missing Damon, I’m feeling rather optimistic about the future.
“I just want a moment on my own to see everything hanging. I’ll be right behind you. Promise.”
“Okay.” Her smile is forced, but she’s doing her best to understand. “I’ll see you at home.”
Allyson kisses my cheek and follows the exiting installers. Stopping at the threshold, she turns back. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask, have you seen David Rossi’s Instagram recently?” She smiles when I shake my head. “You should check it out. He’s one of many excited to meet you tomorrow. Starting with a private viewing tonight. Seven sharp.”
This is my dream coming to fruition. To have David Rossi’s publicity and social connection before he’s even seen my artwork on the walls is something I never imagined happening to someone like me.
As the gallery door closes, leaving me alone with my imaginings, my cell buzzes with an incoming text.
Marco: For your light reading
I click on the news article link and suck in a sharp breath when I read the headline.
PROMINENT LA DOCTOR REFUSED BAIL AFTER HEINOUS RAPE ALLEGATIONS
“Holy shit!”
Every night since Carlson’s arrest, I’ve woken in a cold sweat, panicked that somehow, he’s used his charm and trusted occupation to evade criminal charges. I know better—the evidence stacked against him is too great, but it doesn’t stop fear from creeping its way into one’s subconscious. I go on to read the article, each line bringing me closer to justice being served…
The California State Board of Medical Examiners reports it has terminated Dr. Carlson Cooper’s medical license after disturbing rape allegations have come to light. LA Chief of Police, Frank Brunello, states Cooper has a complete video history proving his involvement in the drugging and multiple rapes of a woman known to Cooper, which span the course of almost three years.
He’s expected to face an array of charges, including those for drug offenses, false imprisonment, first and second-degree rape, and grievous bodily harm. Due to the nature of his alleged crimes, bail has been refused.
I smile, tasting victory for the first time as I imagine Carlson Cooper rotting in a jail cell. I take comfort in knowing his boyish good looks will work against him in a place like that.
The predator turned prey.
And I have Damon Shaw to thank for it.
When he promised war, he damn well meant it.
~
This is YOUR moment.
Take it all in.
x
Allyson’s note sits propped between a bottle of chilled Mo?t and a gourmet cheese platter. In the relative darkness of the gallery, with only the artworks illuminated to capture their intimate emotions, the table sits within the welcoming shadows.
The time on my watch reads 7:05 p.m., and butterflies swarm in my stomach. If my private viewing is a no-show, my waning confidence will nosedive. Moving toward the main piece, the sound of my heels on the polished concrete floor echo around me, highlighting my isolation.
Through layers of oil paint, the profile shot of my face perfectly embodies a vulnerability I held for only one person. My blonde hair cascades over my shoulders the way he always adored. His thumb grazes my bottom lip just like he did the first and last night of intimacy—something he does to see me come undone. A violent storm rages above, and lightning bolts splinter the night, synonymous with our intricacies. The watery overlay dissolves the image, alluding to it as a mere memory. A moment in time so consuming, yet so dangerously infinite.
“Unguarded.”
The smooth, baritone voice warms my skin like the first glorious day of summer.
It’s him.
Breathing new life into the empty void I’ve become, it has me too terrified to move. So, I remain still, except for the trembles coursing through my body. Before me, the painting wavers as tears well.
“Beautifully exposed.” He steps behind me, powerful hands resting on my small shoulders. “And yet, incredibly fierce.”
There’s been endless imaginings of me falling into his protective arms when I saw him next, breathing him in as he held me close, but all that’s felt now is the dreaded riptide tearing us further apart. There’s so much that was said in Dubai, revelations both welcomed and punishing. And so much that came to light before everything fell apart.
Then, we were out of time.
Tentative words form a whisper, “You’re really here.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Somehow, I knew he wouldn’t. Then he takes an ice pick and unwittingly cracks my composure. “I’m proud of you, Mae. I admire the woman you were then and even more so now.”
It’s in his voice, and I hear it so acutely it wounds me beyond belief. The one word he can’t bring himself to say.
Interlacing his fingers with mine, Damon wraps our arms below my breasts. It pulls me closer to him, my body molding perfectly with his, as it always has. My eyes flutter closed when his lips trail down my neck, and for a brief moment in time, everything feels the way it should before the final act concludes on us.
“What’s it called?” he murmurs between each kiss.
The single letter floats on my exhale. “D.”
For you.
“Read it out loud.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
The words on the didactic shimmer like an out-of-reach horizon. “ Please don’t… don’t make me.”
I won’t survive this… you… us.
“Let me hear the words from here.” He presses our interlaced hands to my heart.
I blink, freeing the heavy tears, mourning for each as they cascade down my cheeks.
“Things I Have No Words For.” The painful lump in my throat expands, trapping each word on a breath. “For you , I have all the words. But you are of such great magnitude I’m afraid they won’t do justice. Like the galaxy you created in an Arabian desert, you showed me just how God-like you truly are. How easily I could get lost in your flashlight, transfixed by particles of sand and dust like they were our whispers, privately shared, now orbiting through space.”
Sorrow, so deep it hurts, has me faltering.
Lips graze my ear, the sensual touch taking me back to the very first time he needed me to unravel before him. “The rest, sweetheart.”
This is it.
The final tether.
The war we both lose.
“You saved me from myself, only to have me drown in you. I believed it safer to fight against the tide than it was succumbing to the raging torrent. But I let the warmth of your water and the roars of your crash lull me to sleep. As I drifted to the bottom, the light fading above, I didn’t feel a thing. Until I did. You were the storm I couldn’t and didn’t want to outrun. You were always destined to be my ruin.”
The words, so thick and suffocating, surround us, the gallery an echo chamber of a tumultuous two months that tried time and time again to kill us. But it’s the feel of his heart breaking in two, and my sob that seals our fate.
My eyes close, desperate for the world around us to fade away. “ Please stay.”
I’m not ready to lose you again.
A kiss so tender in its grief graces my temple, lips unable to form his goodbye . “I don’t ever want to see you drown, Mae.”
Like a ghost from the past, Damon’s fingers slip through mine, leaving me to mourn the sudden loss of him. For the memory he’s just become. I mourn for the man who breathed life into destruction. Who taught me that war can be about love. A man who pushed me over a cliff’s edge, only to catch me every time I fell. When I open my eyes again, he’s gone, his absence one I’ll never recover from.
My quiet sobs explode into something deep and guttural, like I’m witnessing my last breath, my soul slipping beyond reach. Alone in the dark gallery, I sink into the viewer’s seat, the shadows once my sanctuary, now harboring life without the man I love.
Damon’s goodbye was the ultimate sacrifice because he knows I would give my life to drown in him just one last time.
~
“Mae Ellison.”
As my conversation with two Washington art commissioners comes to an end, I turn on my heel and face the man I’ve only ever seen in online photographs. Dark hair complements his three-piece suit and monochromatic floral pocket square. Laugh lines frame lively eyes, and his smile is both warm and discerning.
David Rossi, the Gallery of National Art director, stands before me, hand extended in greeting. His grip is politely light but firm, and when we meet in the middle, our cheeks touching, it’s like reuniting with an old friend.
“It’s an honor to finally meet you, sir.”
“Please! Call me David, and the pleasure is all mine.”
“Truly mine also. I’ve only ever heard glowing praise for you, so it’s lovely to finally put a face to the name.”
Through the gathered crowd of revered art critics and collectors, a server passes with a tray of champagne. David takes two and hands me one.
“Likewise,” he says, offering a cheers before we sip. “But if I may inquire, who is behind this ‘glowing praise?’ ”
The room—white noise and the ebb and flow of movement—it all comes to a crashing halt in my head.
Silence.
Except for him .
Damon’s goodbye was never said, but his voice is all I hear.
My swollen eyes prickle with tears I thought I’d run dry of and the painful thrumming of my heart makes answering all the more difficult. “I believe we have a mutual friend in Damon Shaw.”
The arch of David’s brow assures me this interaction is truly organic, just as I was assured it would be. Then, unexpectedly, a sad smile turns his lips. “Ah yes. We go way back,” he confirms. “In fact, his mother, Vivian, was a very dear friend of mine for many years until her passing.”
Setting my own grief aside, it’s with a heavy heart I realize why Damon never elaborated on how he knew David or why there was always an aura of melancholy surrounding his name. How they were once connected, I can’t be sure of, but I am certain this man still grieves for the woman that was Vivian Shaw.
“David, I apologize. I didn’t know—”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m certainly not. It’s better to have known Vivian and mourn her loss than not to have been graced with her company at all. A love lost due to circumstance.”
A love lost?
They were intimately connected?
I stare at the man before me, and my heart beats a little faster the more detail I notice. The sky-blue eyes on a dry summer’s day. The richly tanned skin. The shock of thick dark hair and perfect lips. Art appreciation coursing through their veins.
All, a stark comparison to Jason Shaw, but a perfect match for his brother.
Rossi.
Damon Rossi!
Oh my God.
David, noticing the penny has dropped, nods. “Some things are simply out of our control, my dear.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Damon and I have made up for lost time, although those years wasted are often a hard pill to swallow.”
It makes perfect sense and I could grieve for all involved. For both Damon and David, a father and son kept apart, and for Vivian who was trapped in an abusive marriage with no way out, only to find fleeting peace and stolen moments with a gentleman who would have cherished her. She might still be alive had they had found a way to be together.
Visibly affected, David clears his throat and turns to the wall lined with vignettes of my life. “Let’s talk business, shall we? Tonight should be a night of celebrating you . So, in saying that, I have my eye set on three pieces for my private collection that will sit amongst my Andy Warhol and Cindy Sherman.”
Say what?
It’s proving a challenge to go from one shock to another. Fearing this to be a dream, I shake my head. “I’m sorry, you’d put me among Andy Warhol?”
“His Jackie, to be precise. I much prefer her over the Marilyns.”
This is absurd. I think of Damon and what he’d say, but then…
Fighting the urge to cry, I beg his memory—the one when our eyes first met from across the room, his smile so deplorably charming—to give me a moment’s peace. Just for now.
“Thank you!” I breathe a sigh of gratitude. “I never ever imagined hearing something like that and, I… I don’t have the words to fully express how happy that makes me.”
“Well, that’s rather apt, considering the title of this exhibit.” Something catches his attention over my shoulder. “I’m certainly not the only one who wants your work on my walls.”
Turning, I find Allyson placing red sticker dots on three different didactics to mark as sold before moving to the main piece on its own wall and securing a sold sticker on D .
“And that was one of them,” David says, noticeably disappointed.
“Oh, I’m sorry!”
“My darling, the genius of aphorisms, Austin O’Malley, once said, ‘Delay is a bitter tonic, but it increases appetite.’ And he’s quite right. Don’t ever apologize for being in demand. Now, I hate to end my time with you so abruptly, but I must reevaluate my third purchase before that, too, becomes a missed opportunity.” With a squeeze of my hand, David steps away but turns back before his voice gets lost to the noise. “Oh, and perhaps we can make some time before you head back to LA to discuss a collection exclusive to the Gallery of National Art?”
He must be joking.
“Um… yes … absolutely!”
With a final smile, he disappears into the crowd seconds before Allyson resurfaces.
Spotting me, she dodges the last few obstacles standing in her way while I note her stress and how she appears unlike her typically composed self. “Girl… do I have news for you!”
“Ditto, but you go first.” Catching a server before he’s lost forever, I take a glass of champagne and hand it to Ally. She drinks half in a single swallow and rolls her shoulders to ease the tension. Perhaps the planning and execution of the exhibition have taken a toll, especially with such a hectic turnout. “Are you stressed with how many people are here because catering seems to be holding up—”
With a shake of the head, she sends her sleek red bob swishing. “It’s not that.”
“Okay, should I be worried?”
“No, God, no. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s just…”
“ Just? ”
“Well, things are a little crazy.”
“I can see.” Taking a second, I adjust her dress’ lopsided neckline, another uncharacteristic hint that she’s out of sorts. “Ally, I haven’t seen you this panicked since your laptop shutdown when purchasing Post Malone tickets.”
The brutal memory resurfaces, and she gasps. “ Years I waited for those damn tickets and almost missed them because of a stupid Windows update. Can you imagine?”
“No imagining required. I witnessed it.” Biting my bottom lip, I stifle a laugh. “Meltdown and all.”
“Well, I’m going to honest… all that pales compared to the last hour. I don’t even know where to start.”
“At the beginning.”
She inhales sharply in preparation. “Okay. Well, I just got off the phone with a princess. As in a real-life princess.”
“Okay?”
Allyson jerks her head as if I’ve suddenly grown three. “ Okay? It’s not like talking to a princess is an everyday occurrence for us commoners. Does it not ring any bells?”
“Not particularly. Why?”
“Because I just had Princess Amira from Dubai on a freaking video call!”
From neighboring with Andy Warhol and being offered an exhibit in the Gallery of National Art to now potentially selling to an art-collecting princess, had he been buried, Peter would be rolling in his grave right now.
My reaction finally rewards Allyson with the response she seeks. “This feels a little insane.”
“ Exactly. You never told me you were friends with the princess of Dubai.”
“To be fair, we didn’t make introductions. I’m more of an acquaintance of the prince.”
“Oh, right .” She studies me like we’ve only just met. “Well, we shall dive into the origins of that story a little later because Princess Amira has purchased four of your artworks to be shipped immediately after the exhibition concludes. She insists you call her to discuss a commission for one of her husband’s projects. Apparently, it’s to be quite the feature. I’d say she alone has set you up financially for life, but it seems the next purchase wins that award.”
This is all too much. “What could possibly top that scenario?”
Allyson takes my hand and leads me through the crowd and into the gallery’s office, dimly lit by a warm lamp in the corner. “What I’m about to say is actually insane.” Judging by the look on her face, I have no doubt she’s about to drop a bomb. “One of your artworks has been purchased for well over the asking price.”
“What are you saying? How well over ?”
Her hesitation fuels my anxiety, and she speaks the words as if still trying to convince herself of them. “Like, five point eight million dollars over.”
Holy shit.
Clutching my chest, the rapid pounding of my heart has it set to implode at any given moment, and for a second time in less than half an hour, the world around me falls deathly silent, all except for his voice.
‘The contract, should you complete it, is worth five-point-eight million.’
The money that would have been owed to Peter, Damon is now giving to me.
“I’d be crying, too,” Ally’s voice lulls me back as I feel a single tear trickle down my cheek. “But, that’s not all. The buyer has paid the additional gallery fees and commission on top of that price to ensure you receive the full five-point-eight specified.”
The whisper that falls from my lips is barely audible. “For… D ?”
The significance of the piece is not lost of her, and she bites her bottom lip with some apprehension before nodding. No one, but him and I will ever fully understand the complexities of such an artwork. It could have been sold to another buyer, David Rossi perhaps, a well-versed man who lives and breathes fine art, new and old, but even he would never comprehend the magnitude of its intricacies.
Despite his goodbye, Damon has claimed the painting to adorn his private walls—placing mine between his Lichtenstein and Degas—because perhaps he, too, would rather drown again than not truly live at all.
“Lord Henry Wotton.”
“Who?” I startle at the name while holding onto the memory of Damon’s touch before he slipped through my fingers. “What did you say?”
Ally’s frown deepens at my undoing, and erring on the side of caution, she’s reluctant to reply. “Um… the buyer’s name is listed as Lord Henry Wotton.” She awaits a response, verbal or otherwise, then adds, “That name sounds vaguely familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t place it.”
The words taste of bittersweet regret as they flow helplessly off my tongue. “ The Picture of Dorian Grey .”
“Okay, I’m guessing that might mean something to you?”
Biting hard on my bottom lip, I wish for a moment’s privacy to cry alone.
Struggling to maintain her own composure, she pulls a tissue free from the box on the desk, folds it, and gently dabs under my eyes. “Honey, I’m going to give you some time, and I… I don’t want to upset you further, but there was a note left with the purchase which I’m certain you will understand.” With hesitation, she hands over the iPad and steps back, further doubting her decision to leave.
“I’ll be okay,” I whisper, although I know I won’t be.
A few beats pass before she mouths, Okay , and reluctantly, even more so, closes the door softly behind her.
Alone in the room, I immediately feel his presence like he, too, has been waiting for this moment. I can almost picture him leaning against the desk, arms folded across his broad chest as he curiously watches me, searching my eyes for my deepest thoughts and darkest desires, lips twitching when he stumbles upon something forbidden.
But that’s just a fantasy. Instead, I have his words, the iPad shaking in my hands until I press it against my chest while sinking low onto the chaise. Seeking the courage I don’t possess, I glance down, three tears rolling from my cheeks and exploding on the screen.
There, with a splintering heart, I read his words as if they’re whispered from his mouth to mine.
Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.