Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Natasha
My second art show actually happened.
Honestly, up until the day before opening, I didn't dare believe it would come together.
That beer-bellied gallery owner had shrugged two days earlier, demanding double the venue fee—clearly trying to squeeze me out.
But the next morning, he flipped. Called me himself.
Not only agreed to the original price, but had the exhibition walls repainted and swapped out the spotlights for ones a broke artist like me could never afford.
I couldn't figure out why he changed his mind. But I didn't have time to wonder.
The place was tiny, tucked away on some forgotten Brooklyn street. Narrow doorway. Sparse crowd. No champagne tower, no live band, no high-society names.
My first show had been nothing like this.
That time, Dante rented the most expensive gallery in the city. Gold-embossed invitations went out one by one. Everyone who came wore tailored suits and expensive perfume. They raised their glasses and praised me—my paintings, my talent.
Back then, Dante's hand stayed on my waist the whole time. I was stupid enough to think that was happiness.
Looking back now, nothing about that glittering show was real. Not the guests' flattery, not Dante's love, not Vera's blessings.
Now, I looked at the portrait of my mother—the one I'd hesitated over but finally decided to display.
I felt more grounded than I had at that first show.
Leo wore a plain shirt, moving through the small crowd, running things for me. When someone asked about prices, he handled it. When a painting needed moving, he helped. He even managed the sign-in sheet at the door.
He did it all with such focus, glancing up now and then to smile at me.
I smiled back.
"Got everything logged," he said, coming over and lowering his voice. "Someone's asked about number three twice now. Looks serious. Don't just stand here—go sit in the back if you're tired, okay?"
His gaze dropped naturally to my stomach.
"I'm fine," I said. "Really, Leo. I'm good."
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, but didn't. Just looked at me once more before turning back to the guests.
That thing between us we'd never named—Leo had brought it up once. Told me he was letting go. Said he didn't want romance anymore, would rather just be my friend for life.
I wasn't sure if he'd actually let go or just found a different way to hold on.
Either way, I'd do everything I could to be the best friend he'd ever have. He'd done too much for me. I owed him that.
That's when I spotted someone in the crowd I never expected to see here.
My father. Nikolai.
He stood alone in a dark overcoat at the edge of the room, not talking to anyone.
He had no business being here. No deals to make, no important people to schmooze, nothing that would gain the Kornilov family territory or money. Just a handful of strangers and a wall of my paintings.
How did he even know about this?
I hadn't told anyone in the family about the show. Since my wedding day, I'd had zero contact with that house.
I instinctively shrank back behind a pillar, but I couldn't stop watching as the man who'd despised me for half my life walked forward through the sparse crowd and stopped dead center—right in front of my painting of Mother.
Nikolai stood there a long time. Then he quickly wiped the corner of his eye.
I stood rooted, watching from a distance, a strange feeling churning inside.
Twenty-some years. I used to ache for his love. Even just a little. As a kid, I'd dreamed of earning my father's approval.
But now, with him actually here at my show, actually moved to tears by my work—that longing I'd once felt for him had faded to almost nothing.
Whether family or romance, recent months had hollowed me out. Left me too empty, too tired.
So I didn't go to him. Some things, once lost, can't be mended.
The show ran until evening.
The turnout was small, but a few people genuinely loved my work. Three bought pieces on the spot. A few others pulled out their phones and carefully photographed each painting.
For me, that was validation enough.
As darkness fell, people trickled out. I started packing up, carefully taking down unsold pieces and wrapping them in bubble wrap.
I was crouched on the floor, boxing things up, when the gallery door swung open.
A familiar perfume drifted in.
I looked up.
Vera stood in the doorway. What a familiar script.
She wore a tailored beige coat today, makeup flawless, hair freshly styled. But even that couldn't hide the exhaustion etched in her face—she'd lost so much weight. Her once-full cheeks had hollowed, cheekbones jutting out, dark circles under her eyes no amount of foundation could cover.
Vera walked straight toward me.
"Natasha."
I slowly stood, setting down the roll of bubble wrap. I said nothing. This woman and I had nothing left to say to each other.
I thought I'd never see her again. But here she was, standing right in front of me. And then she started crying. How odd. Growing up, our roles had always been reversed—me in tears, her stone-faced.
The role reversal threw me.
"I know you hate me." She choked out the words in front of the few remaining guests, not bothering to hide it. "You've got ten thousand reasons to hate me. I'm not asking for forgiveness. I just need you to... hear me out. Just a few words."
I frowned. What could we possibly have to say?
"Vera," I kept my voice low, not wanting others to hear. "This is my show. Whatever you want to say, we can do it another—"
"I don't have another day."
She cut me off. That sentence froze me in place.
She bit down hard on her lower lip. Tears rolled down her cheeks, one after another, landing on her beige collar and soaking into dark spots.
"I'm sick, Natasha." Her voice shook violently. "The doctor said... it's terminal. I don't have much time. Maybe just months."
Someone nearby gasped softly.
"I'm dying." Vera looked at me, tears streaming. "Before I die, I just want to talk to you—to my only sister—alone, properly. I want to apologize, face to face, for everything I've done to you my whole life."
"Please," she said.
I stared at her face, my insides churning. Dante had already told me about Vera's terminal illness, but honestly, I doubted it. She'd lied to me too many times. I could count Vera's truths on one hand.
But... even Vera wouldn't joke about her own death, would she?
What if?
What if, this once, she was telling the truth? If she really was dying...
I glanced around. Guests were watching us, whispers rising. Leo had noticed something wrong too. He was frowning, striding quickly from the other end of the gallery.
I didn't want a scene at my own show. This was a place I'd fought so hard for. I wouldn't let Vera ruin it.
And that tiny, damned sliver of pity I despised in myself surfaced at the worst possible moment.
"Fine." I took a deep breath. "Five minutes."
I gave Leo an almost imperceptible shake of my head, signaling him to stay back. He stopped, frown deepening, but kept his distance, watching me with concern.
"Back alley," I told Vera. "No one's there."
I led Vera through the employee door at the back of the gallery.
Outside was a narrow, quiet alley. Tall brick walls on both sides. Flattened cardboard boxes and a rusted dumpster on the ground. Dim lighting—no proper streetlamps, just a faint glow from the gallery's back window.
I'd barely stepped out when I turned back, ready to get this over with, to ask what apology she wanted to make.
In that instant, the grief vanished from Vera's face.
Her tears still hung on her cheeks, but her eyes held no trace of a dying woman's fragility. Instead, I saw something painfully familiar—triumph.
Cold dread shot up my spine.
Something was wrong.
My heart seized. I spun to run back—
A black van screeched to a stop at the alley entrance. The side door flew open from inside.
A grim-faced man jumped out.
Before I could scream, a hand clamped over my mouth.
The man grabbed my right arm. Vera seized my left. Together, they pinned me between them, dragging me toward the van.
"What are you—let go! Let go!"
I fought hard, kicking and twisting, but I was no match for two adults.
Vera freed one hand and pulled a white cloth from her coat pocket, pressing it over my face. A sharp chemical smell flooded my nose.
"Be good," Vera whispered in my ear, voice thick with barely concealed glee. "It'll be over soon, little sister. Just sleep. You won't know a thing."
I jerked my head, trying to escape the cloth, desperate for clean air. But the man's hand locked behind my skull, holding me still.
The smell grew stronger, more suffocating. My vision blurred. My limbs went weak, useless.
They half-dragged, half-carried me into the van's cold back seat.
I used every last ounce of strength, clinging to the thinnest thread of consciousness, and threw myself against the rear window. Maybe I could spot a landmark, remember the route. Through the glass, I saw the gallery's back door burst open from inside.
Leo.
He locked eyes with me through the window for two seconds. Then he spun toward a car parked on the street, yanked the door open, and jumped in.
The next second, his engine roared to life. He floored it, chasing after us.
"Le...o..."
I tried to shout his name, tried to tell him not to follow, too dangerous. But my voice stuck in my throat, emerging as a barely audible whimper.
I watched helplessly as the man in the front seat rolled down the window and leaned out. He held a modified handgun, the black barrel steady, aimed at the car behind us.
A muffled bang.
Leo's front tire exploded.
The car spun out of control, swerving hard and slamming into a steel guardrail. A massive crash. The hood crumpled, steam billowing from under the engine.
The car went still.
"No... don't..."
A desperate whimper tore from my throat.
Leo! The only person besides Anna who still genuinely cared about me.
But I couldn't do anything. I couldn't even save myself.
The drug took full effect. My eyelids grew too heavy to lift. The smoking car, the dark alley, Vera's smug smile—all of it spun, blurred, faded.
Strangely, in that final desperate moment, one thought surfaced in my mind.
I really wanted to see Dante one more time.