18. Anika
— ? —
Anika
My show was finally starting to feel real.
The gallery was transformed for initial viewing. Anwesha had outdone herself with her soft lighting and white walls. My paintings hung in careful sequence, each one lit like it mattered. Because it did. Because years of work had led to this moment.
The press preview was packed. Critics, collectors, journalists, all of them wandering through the space with champagne glasses and calculating expressions. I’d already done three interviews and smiled until my face hurt.
And then Theo Lachlan walked in.
I’d heard of him, of course, everyone in the art world had. European collector with old money. He bought paintings the way other people bought coffee. He had a reputation for discovering talent and a bigger reputation for being devastatingly charming.
The reputation was accurate.
He was tall, blond. Like he belonged in a period drama, all sharp cheekbones and knowing smiles. He walked through the gallery with rich-people confidence.
He stopped in front of one of my pieces, studied it for a long moment, then turned and walked directly toward me.
“Anika Franco.” His accent was hard to place. Something that made every word sound like an invitation. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Mr. Lachlan. I’m flattered.”
“Theo, please.” He took my hand. He held it, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a way that was either European or flirtatious. “Your work is extraordinary. This one especially.” He gestured at the painting behind him. “The way you capture absence. The weight of empty space. It’s remarkable.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll take it. And the one by the door. The woman waiting at the window.”
I blinked. “You haven’t even asked the price.”
“The price is irrelevant.” He pulled out his phone, typed something, and put it away. “Done. My people will handle the details. Now.” He offered his arm. “Shall we walk? I have questions about your process.”
We walked. He asked smart questions and listened to my answers. Made observations that showed he actually understood what I was trying to do.
It was intoxicating. Having someone pay attention. Having someone care about the work, not just the drama surrounding it.
And the whole time, I felt Neil’s eyes on me.
He was standing in the corner of the gallery, trying to be unobtrusive.
Failing spectacularly. Neil Franco didn’t do unobtrusive.
He stood there in his perfectly tailored suit, watching Theo’s hand on my elbow, watching us laugh at something I’d said, watching with an intensity that made the air feel charged.
“Your husband is staring at me like he wants to commit murder,” Theo said conversationally.
I glanced at Neil. His jaw was tight and his hands were fists at his sides.
“He’s protective.”
“He’s jealous.” Theo leaned closer. His cologne was subtle, expensive. “Have dinner with me. Tomorrow. To discuss Milan.”
“Milan?”
“I have connections at several galleries there. Your work would be well received. I could make introductions.” He smiled, clinical and knowing. “Purely professional, of course.”
“I’m married.”
“You’re separated. Soon to be divorced if the rumors were right.
The diary is all over the internet.” He said it without judgment.
Just a statement of fact. “He wrote that you weren’t compatible.
You filed for divorce. And now he’s looking at you like you’re oxygen.
” Theo tilted his head, studying me. “Fascinating.”
Before I could respond, Neil crossed the room.
Every step was controlled. The crowd parted for him without being asked, because that’s what crowds did for Neil Franco. He stopped next to me, close. So close his shoulder pressed against mine, his body heat bleeding through the thin fabric of my dress.
“Theo Lachlan,” he said.
“Neil Franco.”
They shook hands. I watched their knuckles go white. Watched the muscles in their forearms flex. Two alpha males measuring each other, using a handshake as a battlefield.
It went on too long, way too long. Neil’s jaw was carved from granite. Theo’s smile never wavered.
“You have a wonderful wife,” Theo said when they finally released each other.
“I’m aware.”
“Her work is extraordinary.”
“I’m aware of that too.”
“I’ve just offered to introduce her to some galleries in Milan. Perhaps expand her reach internationally.”
Neil’s jaw tightened. I could almost hear his teeth grinding.
“How generous of you.”
Theo smiled and turned to me. “So the dinner tomorrow evening. We can discuss the details.”
I should have said no. Should have shut this down, whatever this was. Power dynamics. Two men using me as a proxy for something that had nothing to do with art.
But I thought about all the times I’d watched Karina touch Neil’s arm. All the times I’d sat alone at galas while he worked the room. All the times I’d felt invisible while he laughed with someone else.
“One dinner,” I said. “Business only.”
Pain flickered in Neil’s expression. He didn’t say anything.
Theo walked away. Neil didn’t move.
“You’re angry,” I said.
“Furious.”
I turned to face him fully. Let him see that I wasn’t sorry. “Now you know how I felt about Karina. Every time Karina touched your arm and you didn’t notice. Every time you laughed with someone else while I sat alone waiting for you to remember I existed.”
He was quiet for a long moment. His chest rose and fell. His hands flexed at his sides. I could see the effort it took him not to reach for me, not to argue, not to do any of the things he would have done three weeks ago.
“I deserved that,” he finally said.
“Yes.”
I walked away. I didn’t look back. But I felt him watching me.
Tomorrow, I would have dinner with Theo Lachlan.
And Neil would have to live with it.