Chapter 14 #2
The tension from our earlier argument lingers. Ethan has been professional but distant since we arrived, keeping me in his sightline but avoiding direct interaction. It's maddening and a stark reminder of how much I'd come to value our easy rapport before the camera discovery changed everything.
"Jade Sinclair!" A woman's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "What a lovely surprise. I didn't expect to see you here tonight."
I turn to find Vanessa Harrington, fashion editor and perpetual social butterfly, air-kissing both my cheeks. "The exhibition is extraordinary," I reply smoothly. "I wouldn't miss it."
"So you've seen it already?" She raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "The work is still under wraps. Everyone's waiting for the big reveal."
I curse my slip. "No, but I've heard whispers. The artist's early pieces showed remarkable promise."
"Well, aren't you the dedicated art enthusiast?" Vanessa's gaze drifts past me to where Ethan stands. "And who is your delicious companion that walked in the door with you? I don't believe we've been introduced."
Something hot and unexpected flares in my chest, not quite anger, but certainly not pleasure. "A friend," I say vaguely, unwilling to elaborate.
"A friend." Vanessa's smile turns predatory. "How delightful. Maybe he wants to be my friend too. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll introduce myself."
Before I can respond, she glides past me toward Ethan, her intentions transparent in the deliberate sway of her hips.
I shouldn't care. It's not like Ethan is actually my date. He's here in a professional capacity, and his job would be easier without being tethered to my side all evening.
Yet I find myself watching their interaction with unwarranted intensity. Vanessa touches Ethan's arm as she speaks, laughing at something he says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger in the universal signal of female interest.
And Ethan, professional, distant Ethan who's barely spoken ten words to me outside of security matters all week, is smiling back at her, attentive and charming.
"Didn't realize this was a surveillance operation," a familiar voice murmurs beside me, and I turn to find Mateo suddenly at my side, his expression amused. "If looks could kill, that lady talking to Ethan would be a pile of designer ash right now."
"Shouldn't you be outside?" I ask, ignoring his observation.
"Rotation," he explains. "Declan's covering both exits for the next fifteen minutes while I check the interior layout again. Also, you looked like you could use rescuing from your own thoughts."
"I'm fine," I insist, taking a sip of champagne to avoid meeting his knowing gaze.
"Sure you are," Mateo agrees easily. "That's why you're breaking the stem of your glass."
I glance down to find my knuckles white around the delicate crystal. Forcing my grip to relax, I set the glass on a passing server's tray.
"He's working," I say, not bothering to pretend I don't know who Mateo's referring to. "Blending in. It's what I asked for."
"Mmhmm." Mateo's eyes dance with barely suppressed laughter. "And you're not jealous at all that Ethan's giving that lady his undivided attention."
"Of course not," I scoff. "That would be ridiculous."
"Totally ridiculous," he agrees. "Almost as ridiculous as the way you've been watching them for the past five minutes like you're contemplating the most efficient way to remove her claws from his arm."
I shoot him a withering look. "Don't you have security things to do?"
"This is a security thing," he counters, still grinning. "I'm protecting Ethan from the dangerous waves of jealousy radiating from this corner of the room."
"I am not jealous," I insist, though the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
"If you say so, sunshine." Mateo winks, clearly not believing me for a second. "But if it helps, he hasn't stopped monitoring your location once since we arrived. Even while resisting that woman's best impression of a koala with expensive perfume."
Before I can respond, a hush falls over the gallery as the lights dim slightly. Richard, the gallery owner, steps onto a small platform at the center of the main room.
"Thank you all for coming tonight," he begins, his voice carrying in the expectant silence. "We're honored to present the first major exhibition by an artist who has, thus far, chosen to remain anonymous. The choice of the artist is to let the images have all your focus and not who the author is."
My heart pounds as Richard continues with the introduction to the work that means so much to me.
I selected all these photos because they are representations of women who have overcome hardships.
Women who are doing what are considered to be traditionally male jobs, or who are simply pure symbols of strength and resilience.
Soon, all the people in this room will see Horeima, a Yanomami woman who fights everyday against the devastation of Amazonia; Helen, a miner in Australia; and Judy, once a teenage mother who now, at forty, runs a real estate empire.
And there are many more. Each portrait is an inspiring story of grit.
I find my gaze drifting to Ethan, curious about his reaction to work he doesn't know is mine.
To my surprise, he's already looking at me, his expression unreadable across the room. Vanessa still hovers at his side, but his attention has shifted entirely, focused on me with an intensity that makes my skin warm despite the gallery's aggressive air conditioning.
Richard signals to an assistant, who begins pulling black curtains from the previously covered walls, revealing my photographs for the first time.
Gasps and murmurs ripple through the crowd as the images are unveiled.
Stark, powerful photographs capturing moments of vulnerability transformed into strength.
"Wow," Mateo whispers beside me. "Whoever this artist is, they've got serious talent."
Pride swells in my chest at his unconscious compliment. These photographs represent years of work, thousands of hours perfecting my craft in secret, developing a style and perspective entirely my own. Not dictated by managers or clients or the expectations of the fashion industry.
For years, these images were my secret rebellion. Proof that I saw the world in more than angles and symmetry, more than beauty. They were the only thing I created without someone else's agenda attached. And now they were out in the world, exposed, evaluated, vulnerable. Like me.
Leaving Mateo supervising a tray of hors d'oeuvres, I move through the exhibition, pretending to see the photographs for the first time, listening to the reactions of the crowd. For once, the admiration has nothing to do with my face or my body. Just my vision, my talent, my voice.
When I reach the far corner, a small motion catches my eye. Ethan, now free of Vanessa, examining one of my photographs with unusual intensity. It's one of my favorites. A woman, Joanne, nursing her baby among the devastation left by Hurricane Helene. A moment of tenderness amid the chaos.
"What do you think?" I ask, moving to stand beside him.
He doesn't look at me immediately, still studying the image. "It's powerful," he says finally. "The subject appears vulnerable at first glance. There is destruction everywhere. But you can see hope. That life, no matter what, continues, even with all the chaos."
His insight into my intention is so precise it momentarily steals my breath. "You see all that in a single photograph?"
Now he does turn to me, his earlier professional distance softened by something resembling our old connection.
"It's there if you know what to look for.
" His gaze returns to the photograph. "You can see that whoever took this has known the worst that life can throw at you and still manages to find beauty among the remains of life. "
"Yes," I say quietly. "I imagine they do."
A comfortable silence falls between us as we stand before the image, our earlier argument temporarily set aside.
At this moment, I have an inexplicable urge to tell him the truth.
That these are my photographs, my vision, that they represent the only part of my life that's truly mine, my most private form of expression now on public display.
"There's something personal for you here, isn't there? Something beyond professional interest."
"Why do you ask that?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing," he says, though his expression suggests otherwise. "You just... look different when you're here. More yourself, somehow."
The observation hits uncomfortably close to home. I am more myself here, surrounded by my own work, even if no one knows it's mine.
"Maybe art brings out the best in me," I offer with a slight smile.
"Maybe," he agrees. Then, unexpectedly, he adds, "I'm sorry about earlier. The argument. I was... concerned."
"I know." And I do know. Whatever tension exists between us, I never doubt his commitment to keeping me safe. "I wasn't exactly at my diplomatic best either."
Something in his expression softens, and for a moment, I glimpse the Ethan from before, the man who made me cinnamon milk at 2 AM, who listened without judgment, who saw me as more than just a client to be protected.
And, because of that... I deflect, "You know, if you're not careful you will be Vanessa's husband number five. "
"Are you jealous, Jade?"
"You wish."
He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Because if you are, I have to say, it looks good on you."
I scoff, but my cheeks flush. "You're insufferable."
"It takes one to know one." He's smiling now. Actually smiling. And it ruins me.
"Besides, she is not my type."
The unexpected admission sends a rush of warmth through me that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way he's looking at me. Like I'm the only person in the crowded gallery, like the professional boundaries he's been so carefully maintaining are suddenly paper-thin.
"No?" I find myself asking. "What is your type?"
His gaze holds mine, something unspoken but unmistakable passing between us. "I think you might have some idea."
Standing here, surrounded by my secret work, with Ethan looking at me like that, it's disorienting.
Two worlds colliding. The woman I pretend to be and the one I truly am.
The professional relationship we're supposed to maintain and whatever this is building between us.
I've spent years keeping these parts of myself carefully separated. Compartmentalized. Safe.
But tonight, the walls are thinning. I can feel something shifting, like tectonic plates beneath the surface of my carefully constructed life. A tremor that promises either destruction or creation. Maybe both.
I wonder which of us will be brave enough, or foolish enough, to take the next step. And which version of me will be there when he does.