15. Graham
GRAHAM
The knock came at half past ten.
I'd been staring at the gallery contracts for the better part of an hour, reading the same page three times without taking in a word.
The numbers should have mattered. Revenue projections, acquisition budgets, the spring show lineup.
But every time I tried to focus, my mind drifted to Elise's question, the one I still couldn't answer. What have I been to the gallery?
The knock yanked me out of it.
My first thought was Simon, coming back with whatever he'd found. My second thought, the one that made my pulse kick up like an idiot, was Elise. Maybe she'd come home.
I crossed the foyer fast and opened the door.
Petra stood on the step.
She wore a black coat over something dark underneath, heels that put her nearly at my height, and a smile I didn't trust. Her hair was down, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. She never wore it down at the gallery. At the gallery she was all business. This was different.
"Graham," she said. Her voice was warm, familiar. Too familiar.
I didn't move from the doorway. "Petra."
"I came to see you." She tilted her head, the smile widening just a fraction. "Are you going to let me in, or should I freeze out here while you decide?"
It wasn't cold. October had been mild, the kind of fall that felt like summer holding on.
But I stepped back anyway, because turning her away on the doorstep felt like the kind of thing that would get repeated at the next investor dinner, rephrased into something I hadn't meant.
Graham Keane slammed the door in my face.
She walked past me into the foyer, bringing the smell of her perfume with her. Something expensive, something with jasmine or vanilla underneath. Something I didn't recognize. Elise didn't wear perfume. She smelled like paint and turpentine and the lavender soap she kept by the studio sink.
I shut the door and turned to face her, keeping the length of the hall between us. "It's late."
"I know." Petra unbuttoned her coat slowly, like she had all the time in the world.
Underneath she wore a dress I'd seen once before, at a dinner last spring.
Deep red, cut low enough I had to make an effort not to look.
She draped the coat over the bench by the stairs and looked at me. "I wanted to talk to you. Alone."
Something tightened in my throat. "About the gallery."
I made it a statement, not a question.
"About us," Petra said.
The air in the foyer felt wrong. I shoved my hands into my pockets and stayed where I was. "There's no us, Petra."
"Isn't there?" She stepped closer. One step, then another. The heels clicked on the hardwood. I could see the light from the hallway catch in her eyes, turning them amber. "Graham. You can't tell me you haven't thought about it. I've seen the way you look at me."
"I don't."
"You do." She was close now, close enough I could smell the wine on her breath under the perfume. Not drunk. Just confident. "At the gala. At the studio. You've been working late with me for months, and you know what we have. You have to know."
God. I took a step back, my shoulders hitting the edge of the hall table. A vase rocked. I steadied it without looking. She kept coming.
"I know what you need," Petra said, her voice dropping. "Someone who understands this world. Someone who belongs in it. Someone who can stand next to you at these dinners and not embarrass you. Someone who knows how to talk to collectors, how to close a deal, how to make you look good."
My jaw tightened. The dig at Elise was so obvious it made my chest hurt. Elise had never embarrassed me. She'd made me look brilliant. Every deal I'd closed, every artist I'd signed—Elise had been the reason. She'd picked the work. She'd talked to the artists. She'd made the whole thing possible.
And I'd never said her name.
"Stop," I said.
"I'm not saying anything that isn't true.
" Petra reached out and put her hand on my chest, right over my shirt, her palm warm through the fabric.
Her fingers spread, pressing gently. "You built something incredible, Graham.
You deserve someone who sees it. Someone who appreciates what you've done.
Someone who can help you keep building it, instead of holding you back. "
I stepped back, pulling away from her touch. She let her hand drop. "I'm married."
"Are you?" Petra's smile didn't slip. If anything, it sharpened. "Because your wife left you, Graham. Everyone knows that. She's been gone for a week. She walked out and she hasn't come back."
"She didn't leave."
"No?" Petra's eyebrows lifted. "Where is she, then? Because she's not here. And you're alone in this big empty house, pretending everything's fine when we both know it isn't."
I stepped around her, putting the width of the foyer between us again. My hands wouldn't stay still. I shoved them back into my pockets and made myself breathe. "This isn't happening."
"It already is." Petra turned to face me, and there was something in her expression I didn't like.
Confidence. Certainty. Like this was a deal she'd already closed.
"You can keep pretending you don't want this, but we both know you do.
I've been patient, Graham. I've waited while you figured out your marriage wasn't working. But you can't keep me waiting forever."
"I'm not asking you to wait." The words came out harder than I meant them to. "I'm telling you no."
Her eyes narrowed. Just a fraction. "Are you certain?"
"Yes."
The silence stretched. Petra tilted her head, studying me like I was a painting she was considering buying, weighing whether I was worth the investment. Then she smiled again, and this time it had an edge I recognized. The smile she wore when a negotiation wasn't going her way.
"Let me make sure you understand what you're refusing," she said.
Her voice was smooth now. Too smooth. "I have a quarter of a million dollars in the gallery, Graham.
My name is on six pieces currently on the walls, and three more in the back waiting for the spring show.
I've brought in four new collectors in the last two months alone—people who wouldn't have walked through your door if I hadn't personally vouched for you. "
My stomach dropped. I knew what was coming.
"If you think you can just walk away from me without consequences," Petra continued, her tone still pleasant, "you're not as smart as I thought you were.
This gallery needs me. You need me. My money is in your walls, Graham.
It's in your reputation. And turning me down tonight isn't going to change that. "
I said nothing. I didn't trust myself to speak. The calculation was already running in my head. How much damage she could do. How fast. Whether the gallery could survive losing her and her money and everyone she'd brought in. Whether the other investors would pull out if she made a scene.
The answer wasn't good.
Petra watched me. She knew exactly what I was thinking. Of course she knew. She'd probably been counting on it.
"I'm not pulling my investment," she said after a moment. "I want you to know that. I'm not vindictive, Graham. I'm practical. I believe in what you're building here, and I'm not going to sabotage it just because you're being stubborn."
"Stubborn," I repeated.
"You'll come around," she said, like it was already decided. "You just need time to see clearly. To see what's right in front of you."
She crossed the foyer and picked up her coat, shrugging it on without hurry. I didn't help her. I stayed where I was, my back against the wall, watching her button it up and smooth the collar into place.
"I'll remain an investor," Petra said. She looked at me, her expression calm now.
Professional. "I'll keep my commitments to the gallery.
I'll keep bringing in collectors. I'll show up to the dinners and the openings and I'll smile and play nice.
And I'll keep waiting for you to stop lying to yourself about what you want. "
"I'm not lying."
"You are." She walked to the door and put her hand on the knob, then paused and looked back over her shoulder.
"Your wife doesn't understand you, Graham.
She never did. She doesn't know what it takes to build something like this, what you have to sacrifice.
I do. I understand you. And when you're ready to admit that, I'll still be here. "
I wanted to tell her she was wrong. I wanted to tell her Elise understood me better than anyone, that she'd built the gallery with me, that every piece on those walls Petra was so proud of funding had been chosen by Elise's eye.
That Elise had talked Anya Lindqvist into signing when Anya wouldn't even return my calls.
That Elise had been the one to suggest bringing in Harlan Rourke, and the Castellis, and half the other collectors Petra thought she'd discovered.
But the words stuck. Because Elise wasn't here. She'd asked me a question I couldn't answer, and I'd stood there like a fool and repeated an offer she didn't want. I'd lost her because I didn't know how to say the things that mattered.
Petra opened the door. Cold air drifted in. "Goodnight, Graham."
Then she was gone.
I stood in the foyer for a long time after the door clicked shut, staring at nothing. My hands were still in my pockets. My chest felt tight. The contracts were still on the desk in the study. The house was still empty. Elise was still gone.
And Petra was still an investor.
I'd refused her. I'd done the right thing.
But it didn't feel like a win. It felt like I'd just barely dodged something that was going to come back and hit me later, harder.
She hadn't cried. She hadn't begged. She'd made her move and I'd said no, and she'd smiled and reminded me exactly how much power she had.
She was going to stay. She was going to keep her money in the gallery and keep her place at the table and keep pushing, and I didn't know how to stop her without burning down everything I'd built.
God, what a mess.
I turned off the foyer light and went back to the study. The contracts were still waiting. I still couldn't read them. My head was full of Petra's voice—Your wife doesn't understand you—and the smell of her perfume, and the weight of her hand on my chest.
She was wrong. Elise understood. She'd understood before I did.
I just hadn't listened.
The clock on the mantel read eleven. Too late to call Simon. Too late to do anything useful. I sat down at the desk anyway and pulled the contracts toward me.
The numbers swam. Revenue projections for the next quarter. Commitments from five investors, Petra's name third on the list. A quarter of a million dollars. Six pieces on the walls.
I shoved the folder away and scrubbed my hands over my face.
Elise had vetted her. Elise had said yes to bringing her in, back when Petra was just another heiress with money to spend and an eye for art.
Back before I'd known what she wanted. Or maybe I had known, and I'd just told myself I was imagining it.
Maybe I'd been lying to myself a lot longer than tonight.
My phone sat on the desk, screen dark. I picked it up and opened my messages. The last text from Elise was from nine days ago. Running late. Start without me. I'd been at a dinner with three collectors and Petra. Elise had never shown up.
I typed I'm sorry and stared at it for thirty seconds before deleting it. Sorry wasn't enough. Sorry didn't answer her question.
What have I been to the gallery?
I still didn't know how to answer. Or maybe I did, and I just didn't want to say it out loud.
She'd been everything. She'd been the reason the gallery worked.
She'd been the eye, the instinct, the quiet brilliance behind every decision I'd made.
And I'd let other people call her my decorator.
I'd let Petra introduce her as the woman who chose the flowers.
I put the phone down.
The house was silent. Too silent. I'd gotten used to the sound of Elise moving around in the next room, the faint smell of paint thinner on her when she came in, her voice calling something down the hall I only half heard. I'd taken it for granted. All of it.
Now it was just me and the contracts and the echo of Petra saying she'd wait.
I didn't want her to wait. I didn't want her in the gallery. I didn't want her money or her collectors or her hand on my chest. But I didn't know how to get rid of her without losing everything else. Without watching the gallery I'd spent eight years building collapse.
The clock ticked over to midnight.
I closed the folder and left it on the desk. Tomorrow I'd call Simon. Tomorrow I'd figure out what Petra was really up to, whether she'd actually keep her word or whether tonight was just the opening move. Tomorrow I'd find a way to fix this that didn't end with the gallery in pieces.
Tonight I just sat in the dark.
Elise's question wouldn't let me go.