Chapter 48
forty-eight
And just like that, I’m alone.
I take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of my dress as I lift my chin, trying to act like I belong here.
Please. Like you’re not completely out of your element surrounded by Oscar winners, famous artists and billionaires, babes.
Left to my own devices, I do what any sane person would do—down my current glass of champagne and switch it out with another off a tray from a passing waiter.
Pleasantly buzzed, I turn toward the nearest painting, pretending to be deeply engrossed in its swirling patterns of blue and gold. Truth be told, it’s actually quite stunning. Something about the way the colors blend reminds me of an ocean at sunset.
Bubbles tickle my nose as I sip, wandering through the gallery like I know what the fuck I’m doing. Like I’m not completely out of my depth among all these glamorous, important people who probably discuss Picasso’s blue period over effing breakfast.
The champagne is working its magic, though.
My limbs are loose, my smile comes a little easier, and the anxiety that’s been lodged in my throat since we arrived is finally starting to dissolve.
I’m actually starting to enjoy myself as I admire artwork ranging from stunningly beautiful to downright bizarre.
I pause in front of a particularly perplexing sculpture that looks like a twisted metal pretzel with eyeballs.
“What do you think it represents?” comes a lilting voice from my right.
Turning my head in surprise, an older woman with dramatically arched eyebrows is studying me instead of the piece of art in question.
“The inevitable existence of chaos?” I offer with a shrug, and she laughs delightedly.
“I like you,” she declares, clinking her glass against mine before drifting away.
See? I can do this. Mingling. Art-appreciating.
The room spins just a tad as I round a curved corner into a smaller exhibition area, and I realize I should probably take it easy on the champagne. But then my eyes land on something that makes me freeze mid-step, my glass nearly slipping from my fingers.
It’s my painting. One I did a couple of years ago after a particularly brutal breakup.
More Renaissance than Contemporary, it depicts a woman kneeling with her back turned, her spine a twisted tree trunk. Her arms are morphing into branches as they reach toward a blood-red moon set above a dark, stormy sky.
I’d poured everything I had into this piece, working on it for weeks before finally tucking it away in my storage closet. At the time, it felt too raw and personal to show anyone.
But now, here it is, mounted on a wall with perfect lighting and a small placard beside it.
“What the actual fuck?” I take a step closer to confirm I’m not hallucinating. But there’s no mistake—it’s mine. Every brushstroke, every color choice, even my tiny initials I use as a signature are right there in the bottom corner.
L.C.
How did it get here? No one knows about it. I never told anyone, but...
Mother. Fucker.
Rowan.
Emotions swing wildly between outrage and disbelief. How dare he? How did he find it? How...? I glance around. People are actually stopping to look at it. Really look at it.
My heart pounds in my chest as I frown at the piece of my soul on display. Furious and flattered that Rowan believed in my work enough to do this, I search the room until I spot him.
Carrie leans in close, placing one perfectly manicured hand on his chest before pressing her lips to his cheek as Rowan tilts his head, smiling that devastatingly handsome smile of his.
Jealously, sharp and visceral, twists in my gut. Okay, so yeah. I told him it was fine. I practically pushed him. But seeing them together, how perfectly they fit in all this glitz and glamour, makes me feel like an imposter.
He could’ve said no if he really wanted to. Right?
Whatever.
Downing the rest of what I think is my fourth glass of champagne—okay, maybe it’s more like my sixth—I swing my attention away from the happy couple and back to my painting.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
The deep, sexy, voice startles me. I nearly slosh champagne onto my dress when I turn my head and see Walker Prince standing next to me. The Walker Prince. Star of half a dozen hit rom-coms and Rowan’s biggest heart-throb rival.
“Holy fuck.” The words vomit from my mouth before I can stop them. “You’re Walker Prince.”
He flashes me a devastating smile, complete with the infamous dimple in his left cheek. “In the flesh. And who might you be, gorgeous?”
“Lizzy,” I say, offering him my hand. “Lizzy Cade.”
“Pleasure.” Gently, he takes my hand and lifts it to his lips, brushing a soft kiss against my knuckles. His eyes—bright blue and framed by impossibly dark, thick lashes—never leave mine. “I’ve been watching you all evening.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Well, shit. That’s not creepy at all,” I retort.
Jeez, Lizzy. Filter much?
Walker throws his head back and laughs. “Fair enough. Let me rephrase: I’ve been trying to work up the courage to come talk to the most beautiful woman in the room.”
I arch an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “You think using your Prince charm is going to work its magic on me?”
“Hmm, clever,” he grins. “Depends. Is it working?” He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. It smells musky and expensive.
I quickly glance across the room to where Rowan is still posing with Carrie. As her hand slides up to his shoulder and they smile for the camera, something petty and vindictive flares in my chest.
“Maybe,” I say, giving my full attention back to Walker. “But I might need a little more convincing.”
His eyes light up at the challenge. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Without missing a beat, he flags down a server and snags two fresh flutes of champagne and hands one to me. “So. Are you here with anyone, or braving this craziness all on your own?”
Champagne tickles my lips as my eyes dart across the room. “With someone,” I admit, taking a sip.
He raises an eyebrow, dimple deepening. “Who’s the lucky bastard?”
The champagne is definitely taking over now, making my tongue looser than it should be. “He’s actually right over there.”
Walker follows my gaze and his eyebrows raise in surprise. “Ah, I see. Rowan Cole. So why are you here and he’s over there? Shouldn’t you be the one taking pictures with him instead of his ex?”
I shrug. “It’s his job.”
“Please. Like he needs the extra publicity.”
Putting an arm around my shoulders, he leans in, dropping his voice as he turns us back around and murmurs in my ear, “His loss. My gain.”
The rumble of his voice sends a little thrill through me. But, amazingly, it’s not sexual. Just a happy thrill of getting Walker Prince’s undivided attention.
“So. Back to my original question.” He tips his chin toward the canvas hanging on the wall. “Captivating, don’t you think?”
“I’m afraid my option would be biased.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Because it’s mine.”
“Yours?” His eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise. “You painted this?”
I nod, taking another sip of my drink. “Yeah. It was... a dark time.”
“It’s extraordinary,” he says, studying it more intently now.
“Thank you.”
Walker looks over his shoulder and flashes a maniacal grin. “Looks like we’re about to have company.”
I follow Walker’s gaze, and my stomach drops. Eyes on us, Rowan leans in to whisper something in Carrie’s ear. She smiles and nods as he straightens, making a beeline in our direction.
Even from here, I can see the shift in his expression when he clocks Walker’s arm draped over my shoulders.
Eyes narrowed, jaw tight, Rowan strides across the room through the crowd.
“Well, well. This should be interesting,” Walker murmurs, amused.
I take another sip of champagne, heart hammering with nervous excitement as I grin inside.
Is Rowan jealous? Serves him right for letting Carrie paw all over him. Even if it is for publicity.
“Mind if I stick around for the fireworks?” Walker chuckles, eyes twinkling with mischief.