The Faded Marriage of a Billionaire

1. Elise

ELISE

The gallery looked perfect.

I stood at the back of the room and watched the guests gather near the bar, their voices building into that particular hum a successful opening makes.

Women in dark cocktail dresses, men in suits that cost more than most people made in a month, everyone holding wine glasses like they were born doing it.

The paintings on the walls were my picks, every single one of them.

Nobody in the room knew it. The light hit the centerpiece exactly the way I'd told the crew to angle it, warm and precise, catching the texture just right.

The flowers I'd actually chosen — small tight arrangements, white tulips mixed with something green — were shoved into a hallway arrangement nobody would see.

The ones on the tables were Beatrice's order, overblown white roses that looked like a wedding.

Graham was across the room talking to a couple I didn't recognize, blonde woman and her husband, both laughing at something he'd said.

He had one hand in his pocket, his jacket unbuttoned, relaxed, the way he got when a night was going well.

My chest squeezed watching him. God, I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at that painting behind him, the landscape I'd pulled from an estate sale in Brooklyn he'd called a waste of time.

He'd said the artist was nobody. I'd bought it anyway, with gallery funds I wasn't supposed to touch.

Now it was hanging on the wall at his biggest opening of the year.

I smoothed my dress, black silk that had seemed right this morning and now felt too plain, and told myself to stop being ridiculous. This was a good night. The room was full, the work was strong, everything I'd planned for three months was going exactly the way I'd wanted.

So why did I feel like I was watching it happen to someone else?

The room went quieter when Beatrice stepped up beside the bar.

She lifted her glass, and the crowd turned toward her, faces polite and expectant.

She had that air about her, the kind of presence you couldn't buy.

She looked beautiful tonight, silver hair swept up, diamonds at her throat that probably cost more than the gallery made in six months.

She was the woman who'd written the first check that made this place possible.

"I want to welcome someone special tonight," Beatrice said. Her voice carried easily, clear and warm in a way she never sounded when she spoke to me. "Petra Whitlock has joined us as an investor, and we're so very lucky to have her."

Petra stepped forward from somewhere near the front, smiling, and the crowd shifted to make room for her.

She was younger than I'd expected when I'd vetted her file, maybe thirty, polished in a way that made me feel like I'd shown up in the wrong clothes.

She had dark hair, sharp cheekbones, wearing something simple and black that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

The room applauded, warm and genuine, and Petra's smile widened. Graham was smiling at her from across the room, easy and genuine, the same smile he used to give me, and I realized I was holding my breath.

I made myself let it out slowly.

Petra said something gracious about supporting the arts, about Graham's vision, about how this gallery was going to be the most important space in New York. I didn't catch all of it. I was too busy watching Beatrice's hand on her arm, the casual intimacy there, like she'd already claimed her.

My throat went tight, and I looked down at my glass. My hand was shaking.

I drained the wine in two swallows.

The applause faded, and the crowd broke apart into smaller conversations.

I stayed where I was, near the back wall, trying to look like I had a reason to be standing alone.

Like I was observing instead of hiding. This was Graham's night.

I'd done my part already, weeks ago in the back office going through portfolios, on the phone with Anya Lindqvist at eleven at night convincing her to sign when she'd told everyone else in the city to go to hell.

She'd sign for me. She wouldn't sign for Graham.

But nobody here knew that, and I wasn't going to say it.

"Elise."

Beatrice's voice was cool, clipped, exactly the same tone she'd used at every family dinner for eleven years. I turned, and there she was with Petra beside her, both of them looking at me like I was a piece of furniture they were evaluating.

"Petra, this is Elise," Beatrice said. She didn't say my daughter-in-law. She didn't say Graham's wife. Just my name.

"It's so nice to finally meet you." Petra's smile was perfect, white teeth and the kind of friendliness that didn't reach her eyes. She held out her hand, and I shook it. Her grip was firm, confident. "Beatrice has told me so much about the gallery. It's even more beautiful than I imagined."

Of course she had.

"Welcome," I managed. My voice came out steady, like I wasn't rattled at all.

Beatrice was already looking past me, her attention shifting toward someone more important. She touched Petra's elbow, a quick gesture that stung, and then they were moving away. Petra glanced back once, her eyes skimming over me the way you'd look at a coat-check girl.

I took a breath and held it until my chest hurt.

People were looking at the paintings now, drifting along the walls in twos and threes.

The abstract near the entrance, all sharp angles and rust-red slashes.

The small still life in the corner that everyone would walk past tonight.

I knew which ones they'd like. I knew which would sell tonight and which would take months.

I'd been doing this for eleven years, and I was good at it.

But nobody here knew that except Graham.

And he wasn't saying it.

A man I didn't recognize stopped in front of the landscape near the back, frowning at it like it had personally offended him. He tilted his head, stepped closer, stepped back. I bit down hard on the urge to walk over there and explain it to him. My nails dug into my palm.

I stayed where I was.

Graham was near the bar now, laughing with someone, his head thrown back, that genuine laugh he only did when he was happy. His hand moved when he talked, quick and sharp, cutting through the air. I loved watching him like this. In his element. Doing the thing he was built for.

I looked away before he could catch me staring like an idiot.

Petra was holding court near the centerpiece, a small group gathered around her. She was animated, her hands shaping the air, and they were all leaning in like she was saying something important. Beatrice stood beside her, nodding along, her face soft in a way I'd never seen directed at me.

I wondered what that felt like, to be looked at like you mattered.

Probably amazing.

I finished what was left in my glass and set it down on the nearest table, too hard. The base clinked against the wood, loud enough that the couple next to me glanced over. God. Get a grip, Elise.

"Elise Keane," a voice said behind me, warm and amused.

I turned and found Petra smiling at me again, but this time she had someone with her. A tall man, maybe fifty, expensive suit, salt-and-pepper hair, the kind of tan you only got spending weeks on a yacht. He looked like money.

"This is Harlan Rourke," Petra said. She rested her hand on his arm, easy and familiar. "Harlan, this is Elise. She's the one who chose the flowers tonight." She gestured toward the tables. "And the seating chart. Everything looks just beautiful."

The words landed like a slap.

I stared at her, my mouth half-open, and she smiled back, bright and guileless, like she'd just paid me the loveliest compliment in the world.

My face went hot, then cold, then hot again.

I wanted to say something. Anything. I wanted to tell Harlan Rourke that I'd chosen every painting in this room, that I'd vetted Petra's investment portfolio before Graham ever shook her hand.

But the words were stuck somewhere in my throat, and I just stood there like an idiot, my cheeks burning.

"Lovely choices," Harlan said.

Graham was there suddenly, his hand warm and solid on the small of my back, and I flinched without meaning to. He didn't notice. He was already reaching out to shake Harlan's hand.

"Harlan," Graham said. "Good to see you. Glad you could make it."

"Graham. Petra was just introducing me to your wife."

Graham's hand stayed on my back, steady. He didn't correct Petra. He didn't say a single word about what I actually did. He just smiled at Harlan and said, "She's got a good eye."

A good eye.

Like I'd picked out a nice lamp.

I wanted to scream.

"Let me show you something," Graham said, and he was already guiding Harlan away, his hand slipping from my back as he turned toward the far wall. Petra followed them, her heels clicking on the polished floor, and I stayed exactly where I was, rooted, watching them walk away.

They stopped in front of the landscape. My landscape. The piece Graham had said wasn't worth the gas money to drive to Brooklyn. It was small, dark, moody, the kind of thing most buyers walked right past. But I'd known Harlan Rourke would like it. I'd pulled his file. I knew what he collected.

Graham was talking now, his hands moving, gesturing at the canvas. Harlan was nodding, leaning in closer to look at the brushwork. I watched his face change, watched the moment he decided he wanted it.

I should've felt proud. I should've felt like I'd done something that mattered.

Instead I felt like I was disappearing.

I stayed at the gala until the very end, smiling when I was supposed to smile, saying all the right things to all the right people.

Playing the part I'd been playing for eleven years.

Graham's wife. The woman in the nice dress who'd chosen the flowers.

Nobody asked me about the paintings. Nobody asked me anything that mattered.

I was invisible in a room full of my own work.

When we finally got into the car, I sank into the leather seat and let my eyes fall closed. My feet ached. My face hurt from holding the same smile for three straight hours. The city slid past the windows in streaks of gold and white, headlights and streetlamps blurring together.

"That went well," Graham said beside me.

He sounded pleased, satisfied, exactly the way he always did after a successful night.

I heard him shrug out of his jacket, the rustle of fabric.

When I opened my eyes he was loosening his tie, pulling it free, and he was looking at me with that easy affection that used to make me feel like the only person in the world.

Now it just made me tired.

"Petra's going to be a real asset," he said. He rolled up his sleeves, first one then the other. "I wasn't sure at first, but she's good. She knows how to work a room."

I didn't say anything. I looked out the window and watched the city go by.

"And Harlan bought the landscape," Graham said, and I could hear the grin in his voice. "Paid asking price, didn't even try to negotiate. I wasn't sure about that piece when you first mentioned it, but it worked out. He loved it."

When I first mentioned it. Like it had been a suggestion I'd made in passing. Like I hadn't fought him on it for two weeks.

He reached over and took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "You were right about it," he said quietly. "You usually are."

I picked it, I thought. I knew Harlan would love it because I did the research. I did the work.

But I didn't say it.

I never said it.

I pulled my hand away, slow enough that it didn't look like I was angry, and turned toward the window.

Graham kept talking. Something about the next show, about an artist Simon had mentioned, about how the numbers were up from last year.

His voice filled the car, warm and steady, the sound of him happy.

I wanted to be happy with him. I wanted to feel like we'd just pulled off something incredible together.

But he hadn't said my name once all night.

He hadn't said a word when Petra stood there and reduced me to the woman who picked the seating chart.

The wedding ring on my finger felt too tight suddenly, like something I'd forgotten how to wear. I twisted it without thinking, around and around, a habit I'd had for years.

Graham didn't notice. He kept talking, his voice filling up all the empty space between us, and I sat there beside him in the dark, silent and still, wondering when exactly I'd become someone he didn't think he needed to defend.