17. Graham
GRAHAM
The piece sat badly.
I stood in front of it for the third time that morning, trying to see what Petra saw.
The bronze was small, maybe ten inches tall, a figure with a patina that caught the light wrong in the front corner.
Petra had chosen the placement. I'd agreed.
It looked expensive, significant, like the kind of sculpture that belonged in a gallery trying to make a statement.
It looked like I was trying too hard.
God, when had I started second-guessing myself like this?
I used to trust my eye. I used to know what would sell and what wouldn't, what collectors wanted and what they'd walk past without a second glance.
Now I stood here staring at a sculpture I'd signed off on three weeks ago and couldn't remember why.
Petra's heels clicked across the floor behind me. "Stop brooding over it, Graham."
I turned. She'd dressed for Anya today, sleek and polished in a way that said serious gallery owner without trying to intimidate. Smart. Anya didn't respond well to intimidation.
"I'm not brooding."
"You've been standing there for ten minutes." Petra stopped beside me, arms crossed, examining the piece with the same critical eye I'd been using. "It's a strong work. Anya will see that."
I wasn't sure Anya would see anything except another gallery trying to box her in. She was difficult, prickly, suspicious of anyone who wanted to represent her. Elise had been the one to bring her in, spent months talking to her, convincing her we understood her vision.
My chest tightened. I shoved the thought away.
"She'll be here in twenty minutes," Petra said. She glanced at me, something assessing in her expression. "You look tired."
"I'm fine."
"You haven't been fine since the gala." Her voice was careful, sympathetic in a way that grated. "Graham, if you need to talk?—"
"I don't."
She held my gaze for a beat too long, then nodded. "All right. I'll make sure everything's ready."
I watched her walk toward the front desk, efficient and capable, exactly the kind of partner I'd thought I needed when I brought her on. She understood the business. She had the connections, the eye, the drive to make the gallery everything I wanted it to be.
So why did it feel like I was standing in someone else's space?
The door chimed. Anya Lindqvist walked in like she owned the place, all angular confidence and sharp edges. Her hair was pulled back, her coat expensive but worn, paint still under her fingernails. She didn't smile.
"Anya." I crossed to her, hand extended. "Thank you for coming."
She shook my hand briefly. "Graham."
Petra appeared at my shoulder, her smile warm and professional. "Ms. Lindqvist. We're so glad you're here. Can I get you coffee? Water?"
"No." Anya's gaze swept the gallery, taking in the walls, the lighting, the piece Petra and I had chosen. Her expression didn't change. "Let's just talk."
We moved to the sitting area near the windows. I'd always liked this space, the way the light came in, the sense of openness without feeling exposed. Anya sat on the edge of the chair, back straight, ready to bolt.
I leaned forward, trying to project calm. "We want to represent you, Anya. You know that. Your work is exactly what this gallery was built for—bold, uncompromising, the kind of art that defines a generation."
"You sound like a brochure," Anya said.
Petra laughed, light and easy. "He does, doesn't he? What Graham means is that we believe in your vision. We have the resources, the collector base, the platform to get your work the attention it deserves."
Anya looked at her for a long moment. "Where's Elise?"
The question hit like a fist to the stomach. I kept my face neutral. "Elise isn't involved in this conversation."
"Why not?"
"Because this is gallery business," Petra said smoothly. "Graham and I are the partnership you'd be signing with."
Anya's jaw tightened. She looked at me, something hard in her eyes. "Elise is the one who understood my work. She's the one who spent months talking to me, listening, actually seeing what I was trying to do. You want me to sign with you, but you won't tell me where she is?"
"Elise is taking a step back," I said. The words felt like broken glass in my throat. "But the gallery's vision hasn't changed. Everything we discussed with you is still on the table."
"No." Anya stood. "It's not."
Petra rose with her, voice urgent. "Ms. Lindqvist, please. If you'd just give us a chance?—"
"I came here because Elise asked me to trust her," Anya said. She looked at me, and I felt the weight of it, the judgment. "She's not here. So neither am I."
She walked out. The door chimed behind her, bright and final.
Petra stood frozen for a heartbeat, then spun toward me. "What the hell was that?"
"She's loyal to Elise."
"Loyal?" Petra's voice climbed. "Loyal? Graham, we just offered her everything—representation, resources, a platform most artists would kill for. And she walked out because Elise isn't here to hold her hand?"
My hands curled into fists. I forced them open. "Anya's difficult. We knew that going in."
"Difficult is one thing. This is something else." Petra paced, heels sharp against the floor. "She didn't even look at our offer. Didn't ask about terms, didn't want to see the contract. She just walked out the second she realized Elise wasn't part of the deal."
"I know."
"Do you?" She stopped in front of me, eyes blazing. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you just lost us the most important signing of the quarter because your wife decided she's too good to show up."
The anger surged so fast it startled me. "Don't."
Petra blinked. "Graham?—"
"Elise has nothing to do with this."
"She has everything to do with this," Petra snapped. "Anya made that perfectly clear. She doesn't want us, Graham. She wants Elise. And Elise isn't here."
I turned away, jaw tight, trying to breathe past the pressure building in my chest. Petra was right. Of course she was right. Anya had looked at me like I was a stranger, like the months of groundwork meant nothing without Elise there to make it real.
But I couldn't say that. Couldn't name the reason, couldn't admit that everything I'd built was falling apart because my wife asked me what she'd been to the gallery and I didn't have an answer.
The door chimed again. I looked up, some desperate part of me hoping Anya had changed her mind.
It wasn't Anya.
Three collectors I recognized filed in, the kind of regulars who came every week to see what was new. Petra straightened immediately, smoothing her expression into something professional and welcoming.
"Mr. Chen," she said warmly. "Ms. Voss. Good to see you."
I let her handle them. She was better at this anyway, the small talk and the gentle steering toward pieces they might actually buy. I hung back, watching as they moved through the space, stopping in front of the small bronze Petra and I had chosen together.
Chen tilted his head. Voss frowned.
"Interesting," Chen said, in the tone that meant he hated it.
Voss stepped closer, examining the label, the price. "Who's the artist?"
"Delacroix," Petra said. She moved beside them, gesturing at the sculpture. "The patina work is exceptional. Very bold, very now."
"It's cold," Voss said.
Chen nodded. "Not for me."
They moved on. Petra stayed by the piece, smile fixed, frustration tightening the corners of her mouth. I watched two more collectors drift past it without stopping, another pause and walk away.
Nobody bought it.
By the time the last collector left, Petra's smile had gone brittle. She stood in front of the bronze again, arms crossed, staring at it like it had personally betrayed her.
"They don't get it," she said.
I moved to stand beside her. "Maybe it's not the right piece for this room."
"It's a strong work, Graham. Bold, confident, exactly the kind of statement we should be making." Her voice had an edge. "If they can't see that, the problem isn't the piece."
"Then what is it?"
She turned to look at me, something sharp in her gaze. "They're used to Elise's picks. Soft, accessible, the kind of art that makes them feel smart without actually challenging them. This—" She gestured at the bronze. "This is real. And they're not ready for it."
I stared at the sculpture. It was real, in the way Petra meant. Uncompromising. Difficult. The kind of work I'd wanted to show when I first opened the gallery, before I learned that difficult didn't sell and accessible did.
Elise had known that. She'd chosen pieces that walked the line, challenging enough to feel important but warm enough that collectors didn't walk away. She'd made it look easy.
God, I missed her.
The thought cracked something open in my chest. I turned away, shoving my hands in my pockets, trying to think past the pressure building behind my ribs.
"We'll move it," I said. My voice came out rough. "Try a different room, different lighting. See if that helps."
Petra didn't answer right away. When I looked back, she was watching me with that assessing expression again, the one that said she knew something was wrong but couldn't figure out what.
"Graham," she said quietly. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"You've been different since the gala. Distracted. And now Elise?—"
"Elise is fine," I snapped.
Petra held up her hands. "Okay. I'm just trying to understand."
"There's nothing to understand." I forced the anger down, made my voice level. "We had a setback today. That's all. We'll regroup and try again with someone else."
"Someone else." Petra's laugh was bitter. "Right. Because there are so many artists like Anya Lindqvist just waiting for us to call."
She wasn't wrong. Anya was the kind of artist who defined a gallery, the name that brought in other names, the credibility that opened doors. Losing her was more than a setback. It was a failure.
I wanted to fix it. Wanted to call Elise, ask her what I should have said, how I could have made Anya stay. She'd know. She always knew.
But Elise wasn't here. And the reason she wasn't here was because I'd failed her the same way I'd just failed with Anya—standing there silent when I should have spoken, taking for granted that she'd always be there to fill the gaps I left.
My throat tightened. I swallowed hard, trying to push the realization down, away, anywhere but the front of my mind where I'd have to look at it.
Petra was still watching me, waiting for an answer I couldn't give.
"I need to make some calls," I said. It was an excuse and we both knew it. "Can you handle things here?"
"Of course." Her voice was careful, professional. "Graham, if you need?—"
"I'm fine."
I walked to my office before she could finish, closing the door behind me, leaning against it like it was the only thing holding me upright. The space was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that used to feel like focus and now just felt empty.
I pulled out my phone, scrolled to Elise's name, stared at it.
What did I do wrong?
The question sat in my chest like a stone. I knew the answer, could feel it taking shape in the edges of my mind—the speech where I thanked Petra and never said Elise's name, the late calls I didn't explain, the way I'd reached for her and been surprised when she stepped back.
But naming it meant admitting I'd broken something I didn't know how to fix. Meant looking at eleven years of marriage and seeing all the moments I'd been silent when she needed me to speak, all the credit I'd let other people take for her work because it was easier than fighting for her in public.
I couldn't do it. Couldn't face it, couldn't say it out loud, couldn't call her and admit I'd spent three days trying to run the gallery without her and everything was falling apart.
So I stood there in my office, phone in my hand, and did nothing.
Outside, Petra's voice drifted through the door, smooth and professional as she talked to someone on the phone. Probably already reaching out to another artist, another opportunity, trying to salvage what we'd lost today.
She didn't know why we'd failed. Didn't know that Anya hadn't walked out because she was difficult or because the offer wasn't good enough.
She'd walked out because Elise wasn't there. And Elise wasn't there because of me.
The piece Petra and I chose hung on the walls. Nobody would buy it. Anya was gone. And I stood here alone, unable to name the reason, unable to fix it.
Unable to do anything but fail.