Chapter 15
FREYA
I’m standing in the produce section of Whole Foods, debating between organic and regular carrots, when my phone rings.
The caller ID shows a number I don’t recognize, so I almost let it go to voicemail.
I’ve been getting random calls ever since news of the engagement broke, everything from wedding vendors to reporters to people claiming to be long-lost relatives.
But something makes me answer.
“Hello?”
“Is this Freya Hull?” The voice is cultured, professional, with just a hint of a British accent.
“Yes, this is Freya.”
“Ms. Hull, my name is Ron Gabriel. I’m the director of The Jetson Gallery here in Chicago. I’m calling because I saw the announcement of your engagement to Benjamin Lawlor, and I was intrigued enough to look up your work online.”
I nearly drop my phone into the cart full of groceries. The Jetson Gallery. I know that name. Everyone in the Chicago art world knows that name. It’s one of the most prestigious contemporary galleries in the city, the kind of place that can make an artist’s career with a single show.
“I—yes, that’s me,” I manage, abandoning my cart and walking toward a quieter corner of the store.
“I must say, what I found was quite impressive. Your abstract work has an emotional depth that’s quite rare. I was wondering if you might be interested in coming in to discuss your work? Perhaps bring a portfolio?”
“You want to see my work?” I repeat, still not quite believing this is happening.
“Indeed. I’m always on the lookout for emerging talent, and frankly, your pieces have a sophistication that caught my attention immediately.”
My heart is racing. This is the kind of call every artist dreams of getting, the phone call that could change everything. But the timing feels too convenient, too perfect.
“Mr. Gabriel, can I ask how you found my work? I mean, specifically, how you looked me up?”
“Well, as I mentioned, I saw the engagement announcement in the Tribune. I make it a habit to research anyone connected to prominent Chicago figures. You’d be surprised how often I discover interesting artists that way.
Your website came up immediately, and I spent quite some time looking through your gallery. ”
“Did Benjamin—I mean, did anyone contact you about me? Make a recommendation?”
“Absolutely not. This is entirely my own initiative, I assure you.” His voice carries a note of mild offense, as if the suggestion that he’d need someone else’s recommendation is insulting.
“Ms. Hull, I’ve been in this business for twenty-five years.
I know talent when I see it, regardless of how I discover it. ”
“Of course, I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I understand the question. In fact, I appreciate that you asked. It shows you’re serious about your work and not looking for shortcuts.
” His tone warms again. “Would you be available to come in this afternoon? I know it’s short notice, but I have a window of time, and I find it’s best to strike while the iron is hot. ”
This afternoon. I glance at my watch. It’s just past noon, and I have a client presentation to finish for tomorrow morning. But this is The Jetson Gallery. This is a chance that might not come again.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I can be there this afternoon.”
“Excellent. Shall we say three o’clock? And please, do bring examples of your recent work. Physical pieces, if you have them, or high-quality photographs at a minimum.”
“Of course!”
A woman pushing a cart nearby gives me a sharp look and makes a shushing sound. I realize I’ve been talking louder and louder as I got more excited, my voice echoing off the high ceilings of the produce section.
“Sorry,” I mouth to her, then lower my voice. “Three o’clock sounds perfect. Thank you so much, Mr. Gabriel.”
After we hang up, I stand in the middle of Whole Foods for a full minute, staring at my phone. The Jetson Gallery wants to see my work. Because they saw the engagement announcement. Because I’m marrying Ben.
The thought should bother me more than it does.
For weeks, I’ve been struggling with the ethics of our fake relationship, the lies we’re telling, the way everything in my life has become performance for public consumption.
But this—this is something real and good coming out of the chaos.
This is an opportunity that could actually advance my career, not because of Ben’s connections or influence, but because someone saw my work and thought it was worth their time.
I quickly check out and drive home as fast as traffic allows, my mind racing with possibilities. The Jetson Gallery. It has discovered artists who went on to show in New York, in Los Angeles, and even internationally. A recommendation from him could open doors I didn’t even know existed.
Back in my apartment, I spread out photographs of my recent work on the dining table, trying to decide which pieces best represent what I’m capable of.
The transformation series I’ve been working on, definitely.
The piece about wanting something you can’t have that Ben admired so much.
A few others that show range and technical skill.
I also grab the painting I finished the night after that gallery opening, the one I created in a fury of emotion after listening to Sofia gush about my perfect romance.
Looking at it now, I can see all the chaos and longing and confusion I was feeling translated into bold strokes and clashing colors.
It’s raw and honest in a way that makes me slightly uncomfortable, but it’s also some of the best work I’ve ever done.
The Jetson Gallery is located in River North, in a sleek building that houses several high-end galleries and design firms. I’ve walked past it dozens of times, always peering through the windows at whatever exhibition was current, never imagining I’d be walking through the front door as anything other than a casual observer.
Ron Gabriel is not what I expected. I’d pictured someone pretentious and intimidating, all black clothing and critical stares.
Instead, he’s warm and approachable, probably in his fifties, with graying hair and laugh lines around his eyes.
He greets me at the front desk and immediately puts me at ease.
“Ms. Hull, thank you so much for coming on such short notice. I hope I didn’t disrupt your day too dramatically.”
“Not at all. Thank you for the opportunity.”
He leads me through the main gallery space, which is currently featuring an exhibition of contemporary sculptures. The work is impressive, but I’m too nervous to focus on it properly.
“We can talk in my office,” he says, opening a door that reveals a space that’s both professional and personal—art books stacked everywhere, photographs of exhibitions and artists covering one wall, and a comfortable seating area with good lighting.
“Please, have a seat. Can I offer you coffee? Water?”
“Coffee would be great, thank you.”
While he prepares single-serve coffees from a machine, I arrange the photographs of my work on the low table between us.
“Ah, let’s see what we have here,” he says, settling into the chair across from me with two steaming mugs.
For the next twenty minutes, Ron studies each photograph carefully, asking questions about technique, about inspiration, about the emotional content of the pieces. His questions are insightful and specific, the kind that can only come from someone who genuinely understands art.
“This one,” he says, picking up the photograph of the piece I painted after the gallery opening. “Tell me about this one.”
“It’s about feeling trapped between what you want and what you’re supposed to want. About the way emotions can become overwhelming when you can’t express them honestly.”
He nods thoughtfully. “The color choices are quite bold. The way you’ve layered the paint creates this sense of movement, of internal struggle. It’s very powerful.”
“Thank you.”
“How long have you been working in this style?”
“About a year, seriously. I mean, I’ve always been drawn to abstract work, but this particular approach to emotional expression is relatively new for me.”
“And what prompted the evolution?”
I hesitate. How do I explain that my art changed because my life became more complicated, because I started having to hide my true feelings on a daily basis?
“Life got more complex,” I say finally. “I found I needed a way to express things I couldn’t say out loud.”
“The best art often comes from that kind of emotional necessity,” he says, setting down the photograph and looking at me directly.
“Ms. Hull, I’m going to be frank with you.
I see dozens of portfolios every month, and most of them are technically competent but emotionally empty.
Your work has something that can’t be taught—genuine feeling, authentic expression. That’s increasingly rare.”
My heart is pounding so hard that I’m surprised he can’t hear it. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’d like to include two or three of your pieces in our upcoming group exhibition. ‘Emerging Voices’ opens next month, featuring work by five Chicago artists who I believe are on the verge of breaking through.”
I stare at him, certain I’ve misheard. “You want to show my work?”
“I do. The exhibition will run for two months, and we typically see strong sales and significant critical attention. It’s exactly the kind of exposure that can launch a career.”
“I… yes. Yes, absolutely. I would be honored.”
“Excellent.” He stands and extends his hand. “I’ll have my assistant send over the paperwork. We’ll need the actual paintings by next Friday for installation.”
I shake his hand, still feeling like I’m in some kind of dream. “Mr. Gabriel, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why did you really call me? I mean, I know you said you saw the engagement announcement, but you must research dozens of people connected to prominent figures. What made you follow through with me?”
He considers this for a moment. “Honestly? It was the piece on your website about transformation. There was something about it that stayed with me after I closed my laptop. That doesn’t happen often.”
As I walk back to my car, portfolio in hand and a contract to sign, I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Something good has come from this elaborate charade Ben and I are performing. Something real and mine and completely separate from fake things.
Maybe Ron found my work because of the engagement announcement, but he’s showing it because it deserves to be shown. That distinction matters more than I expected it would.
For the first time since this whole thing began, I’m grateful for the attention our relationship has brought. Not because it’s helping Ben’s business deal or improving his public image, but because it led someone to discover work I’ve poured my heart into.
Maybe something authentic can grow out of even the most artificial circumstances.
Maybe this fake marriage isn’t going to destroy everything I care about after all.
Maybe, just maybe, some good can come from all the lies we’re telling.