5. Amara
AMARA
The dress hangs on my closet door. Black, fitted through the waist, hem falling just above the knee.
Sophisticated without trying too hard. I bought it yesterday at a boutique in SoHo, let the saleswoman talk me into it with promises that it photographs well and makes a statement without screaming for attention.
Tonight's the preview event at Sapphire Studios.
Intimate gathering, Katheryn called it. Donors, collectors, a handful of critics, some emerging artists she's courting for future shows.
A chance to network, to put faces to names, to establish myself as more than just a pseudonym people whisper about in gallery circles.
My stomach twists.
June sits on my bed, swinging her legs, watching me wrestle my hair into something presentable. I've given up on taming the curls completely. Instead I work with them, oil and fingers coaxing them into definition, letting them fall natural around my face.
"You look pretty, Mama."
"Thank you, baby."
"Are you nervous?"
I glance at her reflection in the mirror. Five years old and already reading me like a book.
"A little."
"Why?"
"Because it's important. Lots of people I need to impress."
She considers this, face scrunched in concentration. Then she hops off the bed and disappears into her room. I hear drawers opening, things being moved around. She returns holding something small in her fist.
"Here." She opens her hand. A pink bracelet, plastic beads strung on elastic, the kind they sell at craft stores for three dollars. "For good luck."
My throat tightens. "June?—"
"You gave it to me before. Remember? When I was scared about my first day of school."
I do remember. Barcelona, last September, her eyes wide with anxiety about walking into a classroom where nobody spoke English as their first language. I'd fastened this exact bracelet around her wrist and told her it was magic, that it would help her be brave.
I glance at her from under my brows. "You sure you want me to wear it?"
"Yes. You need it more than me tonight."
I crouch down, let her slip the bracelet over my wrist. The beads are bright against my skin, completely clashing with the elegant simplicity I was going for, but I wouldn't take it off for anything.
"Perfect," June says, stepping back to admire her work. "Now you'll be brave."
"Thank you, honey," I say softly.
Small knocks soon come at the door. Maria, the babysitter from down the hall. Grad student at Pratt, needs extra cash, came highly recommended by my neighbor, Mrs. Murray, who's apparently already networked the entire neighborhood and knows the ins and outs of everything that goes on around here.
I let her in, go through the routine: bedtime at eight, no more than one episode of her ocean documentary, leftovers in the fridge if she gets hungry.
"We'll be fine," Maria assures me, already settling onto the couch with her laptop. "Go impress important people."
June hugs me at the door. I breathe in the smell of her coconut shampoo, press a kiss to the top of her head.
"Love you, sweet girl."
"Love you too. Don't forget about the bracelet."
"Never."
The subway rattles downtown. I stand near the doors, one hand on the pole, watching Brooklyn blur past through grimy windows. The F train at seven PM is packed—commuters heading home, college kids heading out, someone's grocery bags leaking something that smells questionable onto the floor.
I check my reflection in the dark glass between stations. The dress looks good. My hair's cooperating, thank God. I put on minimal makeup because I never learned to do more than the basics. The pink bracelet catches light when I move my wrist.
Brave. I can be brave.
Tribeca emerges above ground like a different city entirely.
Clean sidewalks, renovated warehouses turned into luxury lofts, restaurants with minimalist signage and hour-long wait times.
Sapphire Studios stands before me like a beacon of light, already booming with energy that I can feel from where I stand.
I wait outside for a minute, steadying my breathing.
Through the windows I can see people already gathering.
Champagne flutes, designer clothes, art world sophistication that always made me feel like an imposter.
Even in Barcelona, even with a successful career under my pseudonym, I never quite shook the feeling that someone would eventually figure out I didn't belong.
The door opens. A woman in all black—gallery assistant, probably—smiles at me.
"Coming in?"
"Yeah. Sorry."
The space inside is exactly as stunning as Katheryn promised over video.
White walls soaring to twenty-foot ceilings, concrete floors polished to a subtle shine, track lighting positioned to make the art look ethereal.
My work isn't up yet. Tonight's event is celebrating the current exhibition, something about landscape and memory by an artist whose name I recognize but whose work I've never seen in person.
Katheryn spots me immediately. She cuts through the crowd, shouldering through the partygoers until she reaches me.
"Amara," she whispers, hugging me briefly. "You made it."
"Wouldn't miss it."
She looks me over, assessing. "What a beautiful dress. And your hair's perfect. Lose the nervous energy and you'll be fine."
I scoff. "Is it obvious?"
"Only to me. Come on. People you need to meet."
She guides me through the room with one hand on my elbow, rattling off names and credentials faster than I can process. Maury Weiss, collector specializing in contemporary abstraction. Naomi Okafor, critic for ArtNews. Stefan Valley, owns three galleries in Chelsea and one in Berlin.
I shake hands, smile, make small talk about my work in Europe. They're curious but polite, asking careful questions about my process, my influences, whether I'll continue with the pseudonym or work under my real name moving forward.
"Real name," I tell them. "A.C. Monroe was useful, but I'm done hiding."
Katheryn squeezes my elbow approvingly. In my periphery, she sends me a grin.
The champagne is good, better than I expected.
It loosens me up in the way I hoped it would.
I sip it slowly, let the bubbles settle my nerves while Katheryn introduces me to more people whose names I'll forget by morning.
An hour passes. Then another. My feet hurt but I keep smiling, keep answering questions, keep pretending I'm not overwhelmed by the attention and influx of questions about me, my background, my artistic inspirations, and everything else they want to know about the new face of Sapphire Studios.
Someone asks about my upcoming exhibition.
I describe the themes—displacement, identity, the violence of existing between cultures—and watch their faces light up with interest. This is what Katheryn meant when she said my work had gotten harder.
People respond better to pain when it's rendered beautiful.
"Sorry, excuse me," I murmur to the small group that's formed around me. "Need some air."
I slip toward the back of the gallery, away from the crowd, into a quieter corner where the lighting is dimmer and fewer people are congregating. My phone is in my clutch. I pull it out, check for messages from Maria.
"All good here. June went down at 8:15. Sound asleep."
Relief floods through me. I type back a quick thank you and pocket the phone.
The bracelet catches my eye. Bright pink against my brown skin, absurdly cheerful in this space of muted elegance. I touch it with one finger, and feel the plastic beads shift. My daughter's bright and smiling face emerges in my mind, a comforting sight.
I take a breath and force myself to turn back toward the crowd, toward the noise and warmth and the safety of being surrounded by people who don't know me well enough to see through whatever mask I'm wearing.
That's when I see him.
Across the gallery, near the entrance. Talking to someone I don't recognize—a woman in navy blue, gesturing towards the crowds with her champagne glass.
But I'm not looking at her. I'm looking at him.
Tall, brown hair that's slightly longer than it used to be so that it curls at the ends, those high cheekbones and that cutthroat jawline I've memorized from a thousand Google searches I swore I'd stop doing.
A fitted suit that accentuates every muscle hiding beneath that fabric.
His confident posture that somehow manages to be relaxed and commanding at once.
Cassian.
My heart stops. Actually stops, then restarts with a painful lurch that makes my breath catch somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
It can't be. This is a private event, invitation only, curated guest list of artists and patrons and people Katheryn personally vetted.
There's no reason for him to be here. No reason for our worlds to collide tonight when I'm not ready, when I haven't prepared what to say or how to act or whether I should run or stay or pretend I don't know him or?—
He turns slightly, angling toward the woman he's speaking with. The gallery lighting catches his face full-on.
It's him.
Cassian Griffin. Here. Twenty feet away. Looking exactly like he did in every photo I've tortured myself with over the past six years.
My hands shake. Champagne sloshes in the flute I'm still holding.
He hasn't seen me yet. He's focused on whoever he's talking to, nodding at something they're saying, but the subtleties in his expression make it clear he's not really paying attention.
Good God, how could this be happening to me?
I should leave. That would be the smartest idea, to slip out the back exit, text Katheryn some excuse about a sick daughter, disappear before he notices me.
But I can't move.
I'm weighed down by my six years of running, of convincing myself I'd done the right thing, of building a life that didn't include him. And now he's here, in the flesh, and I don't know whether to scream or cry or laugh at the cosmic joke of it all.
The woman he's talking to gestures toward the art on the walls. He follows her hand, turning slightly.
His gaze sweeps the room.
And those hazel eyes that have haunted me for years land on me.