Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Arthur
The museum steps are wide and formal, the kind of entrance designed to communicate importance before anyone even crosses the threshold. Press are gathered at a respectful distance. They are controlled. Managed. Acceptable.
I approve of all three.
Lindsay walks beside me.
She's wearing her pink sparkly hoodie.
That, I do not approve of.
I would have preferred a dress or a pants suit. But her hoodie is like everything else she owns—bedazzled, catching the light in a way that feels deliberately defiant.
Her handbag is worse. Of course she would bring the one that is oversized, sparkling, bright white, and impossible to ignore.
I clock the looks immediately. Curiosity. Judgment. Interest sharpened by the knowledge that this is the woman who married me and also won the lottery.
I feel irritation curl low in my chest—not at the attention, but at her refusal to preempt it.
"This isn't exactly appropriate," I murmur under my breath as we approach the doors.
She doesn't answer. Doesn't adjust.
She glances at me, amused. Unconcerned.
Inside, the museum hums with quiet wealth.
Donors. Patrons. And regular people packing the exhibits. I nod to people I recognize, adjusting my pace instinctively, keeping Lindsay positioned slightly to my right—protective habit, not strategy.
She keeps up easily, but I can feel her resistance when I start offering corrections.
Where to stand. When to pause. How long to look.
"This section will be crowded," I say, low. "Stay close."
That earns me a look—half incredulous, half exasperated. "Arthur."
"Yes?"
She stops walking. Turns to face me fully.
"I won the lottery," she says flatly. Then, sharper: "I never attended finishing school—stop talking to me like I know museum etiquette."
A few people glance our way.
I expect her to be embarrassed.
She isn't.
What I get instead is something dangerously close to pride.
I incline my head, conceding without apology. "Noted."
We stop in front of one of my favorite pieces.
Smaller. Sparse. Mostly negative space, with a single off-center form that looks almost accidental—like it landed there instead of being placed.
Lindsay squints. “This one looks like it fell off the wall and they decided not to fix it.”
I don’t answer immediately.
I study it the way I always have. The tension. The imbalance that refuses correction. The way the eye wants to interfere—and shouldn’t.
“Some things,” I say aloud, measured, certain, “are diminished by refinement.”
She turns toward me slowly.
“The impulse to fix them,” I continue, “usually says more about the fixer than the thing itself.”
Her mouth curves.
Not teasing. Not defiant.
Warm.
“So,” she says lightly, “you’re saying some things are better left exactly as they are.”
“Yes.”
She holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary.
Then she gives me a small, deliberate wink.
“Good,” she says. “I was getting worried you’d try to polish me.”
I open my mouth—then close it. I have no idea how to respond to that.
Around us, the gallery hums on. Footsteps. Low voices. A camera shutter somewhere in the distance.
For a suspended moment, it’s just us. The art. The space between meaning and recognition.
I exhale once, controlled.
“I wouldn’t dare,” I say finally.
She smiles like she knows that isn’t entirely true.
And like she doesn’t mind anyway.
We move on together, leaving the piece exactly where it is—unexplained, unresolved, and unmistakably complete.
As we move deeper into the exhibit, my irritation dulls.
The way she looks at the art—unfiltered. Curious. The way she asks questions without worrying whether they sound informed enough.
She stops in front of a sculpture—abstract bronze, twisted metal that suggests motion without defining it. She tilts her head, studying it from different angles, then steps closer to read the placard.
"What do you think it means?" she asks.
"I don't," I reply honestly. "It's not my area."
She laughs once, surprised. "You don't have an opinion?"
"I have several. None of them educated."
That pulls another smile from her, softer this time. She looks back at the sculpture, considering. "I think it's about being stuck between two places. Not quite one thing. Not quite another."
I glance at the piece again, reassessing. "That's apt."
She catches my tone. "You think I'm projecting?"
"I think you're observant."
She holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then moves on to the next piece.
I notice other couples now.
Too composed. Too aligned. Familiar patterns of restraint, proximity, discretion.
These are other ERS couples.
I recognize the tells—the way they navigate public space without touching, the careful orchestration of attention, the measured conversations that never quite become personal.
It unsettles me.
We're not unique. We're not an anomaly. We're part of a system—one I chose deliberately.
And yet, watching Lindsay tilt her head at a sculpture, hoodie glittering under curated lighting, I know she doesn't belong to any system that would try to sand her down.
She belongs as she is.
The thought catches me off guard—not the observation itself, but the certainty behind it.
She excuses herself to the restroom, leaving me in conversation with someone I vaguely know.
The exchange is automatic. Pleasantries. Business adjacency. Nothing that requires full engagement.
My attention, however, isn't fully engaged.
I track Lindsay's movement across the floor without turning my head. Old instinct. Security training from years of high-profile events. Know where your vulnerabilities are at all times.
Then I notice the problem before Lindsay does.
Someone standing too close behind her as she steps away from the restroom corridor, attention fixed on the glittering distraction at her side instead of her face.
His hand moves, casual, practiced.
This isn't curiosity.
It's intent.
I'm already crossing the floor.
By the time I reach them, his fingers are closing around the strap of her bag.
Lindsay turns at the movement, confusion flashing across her face just as I step between them.
I don't speak at first. I don't need to.
I place my body squarely in his space, forcing him to stop, forcing him to look at me.
"Let go," I say quietly.
He scoffs—an error. He tries to pivot, to slip past, tugging the strap hard enough that Lindsay stumbles forward.
I react without thinking. Training takes over.
I hook my foot behind his ankle and shift my weight just enough to break his balance. It's not violent. It's efficient.
He goes down hard, surprise knocking the breath from his lungs as the bag slips free of his grip. I grab it.
I catch Lindsay by the arm and pull her back with me in the same motion, steering her into the recessed alcove beside the exhibit wall.
She doesn’t resist.
I place myself fully between her and the open floor, one arm braced across the stone beside her head, the other angled protectively across her front. The bag is secured in one hand, out of the criminal's reach.
"We're safe here," I tell her.
Her breath is quick but steady. She watches me, eyes sharp, trusting me without question.
Security is already moving—I see them in my peripheral vision, closing in, efficient and silent.
The threat is neutralized within seconds, lifted and escorted away without spectacle. Procedures executed. Risk contained.
Only then do I become aware of how close we still are.
Lindsay is pressed lightly to the wall, my body shielding hers, my arm still braced above her, my presence enclosing her space completely.
I can feel the heat of her through the fabric of her hoodie. Her pulse flutters beneath my fingertips where I'm still holding her steady.
For a suspended moment, neither of us moves.
I lower my voice even further. "Are you hurt?"
She shakes her head once. "No."
Relief hits fast—and is immediately replaced by something worse.
Awareness.
The way her gaze drops to my mouth. The way my hand tightens reflexively before I force it to release.
A security agent clears his throat nearby. "Sir, the situation's handled."
I step back at once, restoring the distance between us. If only my emotions could be handled as easily.
I hand Lindsay her bag. "We need to get you your own security," I say, trying to shake the lingering feeling.
But the space where I was standing feels empty.
And I know without needing to look at her that she feels it too.