Chapter 14
BEN
“Want to come up for a minute?” Freya asks as we reach her building after the walk from Grounds Up. “I have some new pieces I’ve been working on, if you want to see them.”
I check my phone reflexively—a habit that’s become so automatic I barely notice I’m doing it. Sunday morning means emails from international clients, reports from my overseas teams, and market updates that can’t wait for Monday.
But Freya is looking at me with an expression that’s half invitation, half challenge, like she’s testing whether I can put the phone away for five minutes.
“I’d love to see them,” I say, sliding the phone back into my pocket.
I follow her up the familiar stairs to the fourth floor, the same route I’ve taken dozens of times over the past few years—picking her up for dinner, dropping off documents, retrieving her when her car was in the shop.
But it’s been months since I’ve actually spent time here, and longer still since I’ve seen her studio.
“Sorry about the mess,” she says as she unlocks her door, though her apartment is actually quite tidy. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
The space is mostly as I last saw it—the same eclectic furniture, thriving plants, and books stacked on every surface that I remember. Her own art still covers most of the walls, though I notice a few new pieces mixed in with the familiar ones.
“The studio’s still in the back,” she says, leading me past the kitchen and living area. “Though I’ve rearranged things quite a bit since you were last in there.”
It’s been at least eight months since I’ve seen her studio properly—not since that evening when I stopped by to drop off her laptop after she’d left it in my car. Even then, I’d only glanced in briefly while she gathered her things.
The studio still has the same floor-to-ceiling windows facing west toward downtown, but everything else has changed dramatically.
Where I remember a somewhat cramped space with a few canvases propped against the walls, there’s now a well-organized artist’s workspace.
Canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion, and there’s a large easel in the center of the room with something covered by a paint-stained sheet.
But it’s the finished pieces that stop me in my tracks.
The last time I really looked at Freya’s work—not just glanced at pieces hanging in her living room—I remembered it as good, competent, the kind of abstract paintings you might see in a coffee shop or small gallery.
This is something completely different.
The paintings surrounding me are bold and emotional and completely arresting. The evolution in her work is staggering. There’s a confidence and sophistication here that wasn’t present before, a maturity that speaks to hours of dedicated practice and artistic growth.
One of the paintings has mostly deep blues and blacks with sharp streaks of white cutting through like lightning. Another is all warm colors—reds and oranges and golds—swirling together in a way that somehow suggests both violence and tenderness.
“Freya, these are…” I turn in a slow circle, trying to take in everything at once. “These are incredible.”
“You think so?” She sounds genuinely uncertain, like she’s not sure whether I’m being polite or honest.
“I think so. When did you do these?”
“Most of them over the past six months. I’ve been working on a series about transformation, about how we become different versions of ourselves depending on circumstances.”
I stop in front of a canvas that’s dominated by swirling patterns in shades of green and gray, with touches of gold that catch the light. There’s something about it that makes my chest tight, though I can’t articulate why.
“This one,” I say, pointing to the green and gray piece. “What’s it about?”
Freya comes to stand beside me, close enough that I can smell her shampoo mixed with the faint scent of paint.
“It’s about wanting something you can’t have,” she says quietly. “About the way desire can transform you, even when you know it’s hopeless.”
Something in her tone makes me look at her sideways, but she’s studying the painting with an expression I can’t read.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, and I mean it. “They’re all beautiful. Freya, you’re incredibly talented.”
“Thank you.” She moves away from me, straightening brushes that don’t need straightening. “But talent doesn’t pay the bills.”
“You should be getting this work out there more,” I say, studying the paintings again. “Have you approached any galleries recently?”
“A few smaller ones. Mostly form rejections so far, but that’s normal. You have to develop a thick skin in this business.” She sits down on the small couch in the corner of the studio, looking frustrated. “The art world is all about who you know, and I know basically nobody.”
“I could help with that,” I say. “I know people—collectors, business leaders who buy art for their offices or homes. I could make some introductions.”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I expected. “I appreciate the offer, Ben, I really do. But I want to make it on my own merit, not because I’m connected to you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” She looks at me with an expression that’s almost challenging. “If I succeed because of introductions you make, because of your name and your connections, is that really my success?”
I want to argue with her, to point out that networking is how every industry works, that using available resources isn’t the same as not earning your success. But something in her voice stops me.
“I understand,” I say instead.
“Do you?”
“I think so. You want to know that you succeeded because of your talent and your work, not because of who you’re associated with.”
“Exactly.” She relaxes slightly. “I know it might take longer, and I know it might be harder, but I need to know that whatever success I have is mine.”
I look around the studio again, at the evidence of her talent and dedication surrounding us. “It will be yours, Freya. Anyone who sees this work will know that.”
“You really think they’re good? You’re not just being nice because we’re… whatever we are?”
“Business partners?” I suggest.
“Right. Business partners.”
But the words feel inadequate for what we are, what we’ve been to each other for most of our lives.
Business partners don’t know each other’s childhood fears or remember exactly how the other person takes their coffee.
Business partners don’t have the kind of easy familiarity that comes from years of friendship, even when that friendship is currently complicated by contracts and performance schedules.
“I think they’re extraordinary,” I tell her honestly. “And I think anyone who sees them will agree.”
“Thank you.” She stands up and moves to adjust one of the canvases, but I can tell she’s pleased by my response. “That means a lot.”
“How many pieces do you have in this series?”
“Eight finished, three in progress. I’m hoping to have twelve total.”
I think about offering to help again, but I can see from her expression that she’s serious about wanting to do this independently. There’s something admirable about that determination, even if it means she’ll face more obstacles than necessary.
“Well, when you do get a show—and you will—I want to be the first one there.”
“Even if it’s at some tiny gallery in a neighborhood you’ve never heard of?”
“Especially then.”
She smiles, the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her all morning. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“I hope you will.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, probably with something that requires immediate attention. But for once, I don’t check it. Instead, I spend another ten minutes looking at Freya’s paintings, asking her about her process, listening to her explain the emotions she was trying to capture in each piece.
When I finally leave her apartment, I feel lighter somehow. Not just because I’ve seen evidence of her incredible talent, but because for a few minutes we felt like ourselves again—Ben and Freya, friends who genuinely care about each other’s dreams and successes.
The compensation from our fake marriage will give her the freedom to pursue her art without worrying about rent money. And even if she won’t let me make introductions or open doors, I can at least give her that.
It’s the least I can do for someone whose friendship has been the most genuine thing in my life.