Chapter 11
FREYA
My phone buzzes with Ben’s ringtone just as I’m applying the final touches of mascara. I stare at his name on the screen for a moment, my hand frozen halfway to my lashes.
I should answer. We haven’t spoken in three days, not since we signed those contracts in his office. Three days of deliberately not returning his texts, of finding excuses to be busy when he suggested meeting up, of generally behaving like a coward.
The phone stops ringing, then immediately buzzes with a voicemail notification.
I finish my mascara and check my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The black dress I’ve chosen is simple but elegant, appropriate for a gallery opening without being too formal.
My hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders, and I’ve managed to cover the dark circles under my eyes that have appeared since this whole fake engagement business began consuming my life.
I look like someone who’s put together, someone who’s excited to spend an evening surrounded by art and interesting people.
I don’t look like someone who’s been avoiding her best friend because she’s terrified of what she might say to him.
My phone buzzes again. A text this time.
Ben: “Hey, just wanted to see how you’re doing. Call me when you get a chance?”
I type and delete three different responses before settling on: “Heading out for the evening. Will call you later.”
It’s not technically a lie. I will call him later. Much later. When I’ve figured out how to have a conversation with him without blurting out that signing those contracts made me feel like I was selling my soul.
Another buzz: “Have fun. We should talk soon about the next steps.”
Next steps. Right. Because this is just a business arrangement with action items and milestones and progress reports.
I grab my purse and keys and head out before he can text again.
The Stedman Gallery is buzzing with the typical opening night crowd when I arrive—art collectors in expensive shoes, young professionals nursing glasses of cheap wine, and a handful of artists trying to look like they belong.
It’s a group exhibition featuring emerging Chicago artists, the kind of event I used to attend religiously.
I typically love gallery openings. The energy of seeing new work, the conversations with other artists, the possibility of discovering something that might stop me in my tracks and remind me why I fell in love with art in the first place.
Tonight, though, I feel like I’m watching everything through glass. Like I’m here but not really here, going through the motions of being the person I used to be.
I make my way through the main gallery, wine glass in hand, stopping in front of a large abstract painting that’s made of sharp angles and clashing colors. The artist’s statement talks about “the violence of modern existence” and “the fragmentation of the contemporary self.”
I understand that feeling more than I’d like to admit.
“Freya? Oh my God, Freya Hull!”
I turn to find Sofia Alvarez practically bouncing toward me, her arms already extended for a hug. Sofia was my roommate during my junior year of college, one of those effortlessly social people who knew everyone and somehow managed to maintain friendships with all of them even after graduation.
“Sofia, hi!” I accept her enthusiastic embrace, genuinely happy to see a familiar face. “How are you?”
“I’m amazing, but more importantly, how are YOU?” She pulls back to look at me, her eyes bright with excitement. “I saw the photos online. I cannot believe you didn’t tell me you were dating Ben Lawlor. Like, the Ben Lawlor.”
My stomach drops. “Oh, that. Yeah, it’s been… exciting.”
“Exciting? Girl, it’s like a fairy tale! Childhood friends to lovers is literally the best romance trope ever. And those engagement photos?” She fans herself dramatically. “I died. Actually died. You two look so perfect together.”
I take a large sip of wine, trying to think of an appropriate response.
“Thank you,” I manage. “We’re very happy.”
“I bet you are. God, I remember you talking about him in college. You always insisted you were just friends, but I could tell there was something there. The way your whole face would light up whenever you got a text from him.”
Did I really do that? Did I make it that obvious, even back then?
“We’ve always been close,” I say carefully.
“And now you’re getting married! When’s the wedding? Please tell me you’re having some huge, gorgeous ceremony. With your artistic eye and his money, it’s going to be incredible.”
“July. We’re keeping it relatively intimate.”
“July? That’s so soon! Oh my God, you must be so busy planning everything. Are you having it here in the city? What’s your dress like? Have you picked a theme?”
The questions come rapid-fire, and I find myself answering on autopilot, giving vague responses about venues and flowers and all the wedding details that Carson and his team are actually handling. Sofia hangs on every word, as if she’s personally invested in every decision.
“I’m just so happy for you,” she says finally, reaching out to squeeze my arm. “Seriously, Freya. You deserve this. You deserve someone who loves you the way Ben obviously does.”
The way Ben obviously does.
If only she knew that the way Ben obviously loves me is entirely manufactured for public consumption.
“Thank you,” I say again, because what else can I say? “That means a lot.”
“We should definitely get together soon and celebrate properly. Maybe after the wedding, when things calm down a bit?”
“Absolutely. I’d love that.”
Sofia gives me another hug before floating off to talk to someone else, leaving me standing alone in front of the painting again.
But now I can’t focus on the art at all.
All I can think about is the genuine joy in Sofia’s voice, the way she talked about Ben and me like we were the answer to all her romantic dreams.
She’s not the only one. As I move through the gallery, I notice other people recognizing me, whispering to their companions and shooting glances in my direction. A few people approach to congratulate me on the engagement, all of them talking about how “perfect” we are together and how “lucky” I am.
Lucky.
I excuse myself from the third conversation about my “fairy tale romance” and step outside onto the gallery’s small patio. The evening is warm, and the sounds of traffic and distant music from a nearby restaurant create a comforting urban soundtrack.
But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m living someone else’s life.
Three weeks ago, I was just a struggling artist and graphic designer, unremarkable in every way that matters to the wider world. Now I’m the fiancée of billionaire Ben Lawlor, romantic inspiration to strangers, subject of engagement photos that apparently make people “die” from their perfection.
The problem is that none of it feels like me. It feels like playing a character in a story someone else wrote, hitting marks and delivering lines while my actual self watches from the sidelines.
I finish my wine and decide to leave early. The art isn’t speaking to me tonight, and I’m tired of pretending to be the blissfully happy bride-to-be that everyone expects me to be.
The walk back to my apartment takes twenty minutes, giving me plenty of time to think. By the time I climb the stairs to my studio, I know what I need to do.
I need to paint.
I change out of my dress and into my oldest jeans and a paint-stained T-shirt, then set up a fresh canvas in the middle of my studio. I don’t have a plan or a vision, just a desperate need to get something out of my system before it consumes me entirely.
I start with black. Bold, angry strokes across the white canvas, creating jagged lines that cut through the space like wounds.
Then deep red, the color of secrets and lies and feelings you’re not supposed to have.
Blue for sadness, for the loneliness of being surrounded by people who see a version of you that doesn’t exist.
I paint until my shoulders ache and my hands are covered in color. I paint until the rational part of my brain shuts up and lets the emotional part take over. I paint until the canvas looks like the inside of my head—chaotic and beautiful and completely honest.
When I finally step back, hours later, I’m looking at something I’ve never painted before. It’s abstract, but there’s emotion in every brushstroke. Pain and longing and confusion all swirled together in a way that makes perfect sense even though it shouldn’t.
It’s the painting of someone who lost herself somewhere between what she wants and what she’s agreed to do.
It’s the painting of someone who’s falling in love with a person she can never have, even though she’s going to marry him in a month.
I clean my brushes in the kitchen sink, watching the colors swirl down the drain.
My phone is buzzing again. It’s probably Ben, wondering why I haven’t called him back yet.
But I’m not ready to talk to him. I’m not ready to pretend that everything is fine and that our business arrangement isn’t slowly killing me.
Instead, I grab some water and sit in front of my new painting, studying the chaos I’ve created.
Sofia was right about one thing. I do deserve someone who loves me the way Ben “obviously” does in those photos.
But I’ll have to wait, because my knight on a white horse won’t be riding in anytime soon.