Chapter Eighteen
Jesse
“Your sister hates me,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time that Saturday morning, as I wriggled into my little black dress for the exhibit.
“She doesn’t hate you.” Sebastian sighed, equally for the hundredth time. “She’s used to people criticizing her work. Comes with the territory.”
He looked maddeningly good—casual cream shirt, dark blue slacks, clean shave, hair mussed just enough to make him look like he’d rolled out of bed. Meanwhile, I was two coffees deep and still jittery, my head aching from lack of sleep.
“Used to it or not, I shouldn’t have said what I did. I don’t take it back, I just shouldn’t have said it out loud.” I hesitated, then rubbed my forehead. “But I meant it. I don’t know how she can do what she does.”
Sebastian came over, turned me gently, and zipped up my dress. His fingers lingered just long enough to adjust the spaghetti straps, the gesture unexpectedly tender.
“Somebody has to,” he said quietly. “It’s a job like any other.”
“Not quite.” I slipped on red heels, spritzed perfume at my throat, and caught his gaze in the mirror. “What do you think about her defending a rapist? Just between us. Are you okay with it?”
His eyes flicked away. The weariness in his face said more than his words. We’d been circling this argument since that night at Rumors, and I knew he was tired of it.
“I try not to think about it,” he admitted.
“She’s my sister. I love her. And I know she believes in the system.
Everyone deserves a fair trial, Jess. Some guys accused of rape are innocent.
You’ve read the stories—men who lost years to prison before the truth came out.
” His voice softened. “Janine has integrity. If she chose to defend him, she must have believed he deserved that defense.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but stopped. His tone had shifted—defensive, protective. If there was one thing I’d learned, it was that Janine was Sebastian’s Achilles’ heel, just as he was hers. Poking at that bond wouldn’t get me anywhere.
I hadn’t meant to offend Janine, and I was sorry, even if the damage was already done.
All I could do now was try to mend fences.
Maybe it was hopeless after two bad impressions.
Normally, I wouldn’t care that much what a stranger thought of me, but Janine wasn’t just anyone.
She was Sebastian’s family. And if I wanted a future with him, her opinion mattered.
She’d promised to come to the exhibit today and even bring friends.
I whispered a silent prayer I wouldn’t blow it.
I already had enough reasons to be nervous.
Sebastian squeezed my shoulders between his warm palms, his smile grounding me.
“You’re going to do great, okay? You look incredible, you’re an amazing artist, and today is going to be fantastic.”
I swallowed hard. I felt like a kitten about to be dropped into a bathtub, claws out and no way to escape. But he was right—if I wanted art to be more than a hobby, I had to get used to public events. This was part of the deal.
“Thanks for putting up with me.” A wobbly smile tugged at my lips. Then I hesitated, nerves sparking again. “Before we go, I have something for you.”
Heat rushed into my face as I crossed into my workroom. My fingers trembled a little as I opened the cabinet and pulled out the frame I’d hidden there all week. When I turned back, Sebastian was watching me with a curious frown.
I held out the sketch. “This is for you. I... hope you like it.”
His expression softened instantly as his eyes fell on the drawing.
It was him, from the collarbone up, rendered in charcoal, sharp and alive with depth.
The planes of his forehead, the lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw—all strong, confident, unmistakably him.
His mouth was caught mid-smile, the faintest trace of his dimples teasing at the corners.
But it was the eyes that had cost me the most hours.
Eyes full of mischief and intelligence, shadowed with determination, bright with promise.
They said the eyes were the windows to the soul. And though I knew I could never quite capture the light that was Sebastian, I had tried with everything I had.
He moistened his lips, then looked up at me. I braced myself for his usual cocky grin, but it never came. Instead, his face was solemn, his eyes dark and intense as they locked on mine.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “This is beautiful. It means a lot to me.”
Before I could breathe, he pressed the sketch to his chest, then pulled me into him.
His kiss was deep, searing, and so full of heat it left me dizzy.
He didn’t care that my red lipstick was smearing across both our mouths.
His hand slid firm across my back, his lips moving over mine with raw, deliberate passion.
“If we didn’t have to leave for such an important event, I’d drag you to bed and make love to you all day,” he murmured against my mouth.
“All day?” My voice came out breathless, almost a moan.
His gaze speared mine, challenging, wicked. “Don’t make any plans for tomorrow.”
A shaky laugh escaped me, though my knees nearly buckled. God, I wanted to believe he wasn’t joking.
“I can’t wait. But right now, we really need to go.”
Reluctantly, I pulled away, heels clattering across the bathroom tiles as I tried to gather myself.
Behind me, Sebastian chuckled. “I’ll just run upstairs to take my treasure home.”
I spun, horrified. “Wait! You look like The Joker.”
His face was smeared with crimson. I grabbed tissues and scrubbed at him, laughing and cursing, before turning to fix my own wrecked lipstick.
Ten minutes later, we were in my truck. I asked Sebastian to drive to the Narcissus Gallery, and I ran through my speech one last time.
He’d been amazing, helping me polish my notes, nudging me when I rambled, reminding me to speak from the heart.
Thanks to him, I felt almost confident. These weren’t hollow lines I’d memorized; they were truths I knew—things my dad had once told me about Greek mythology, art history, museums, and all the random anecdotes that had shaped me.
With Sebastian’s help, I’d managed to string them together into something that actually sounded like a proper introduction to my collections.
But all my fragile confidence shattered the moment we arrived.
I froze as I spotted the entrance. A massive banner with my name in bold letters draped across the gallery’s facade. My jaw dropped. I had no idea Malcom had taken the promotion this far.
And then I saw them—people with cameras. Microphones. Reporters.
My heart lurched to my throat as the first flash went off. The next thing I knew, a small crowd surged toward us, shoving microphones into my face, firing questions faster than I could even register.
I’d convinced myself I’d only face a handful of people today—friends, maybe a local journalist or two. That was manageable. This? This was a firing squad.
My tongue glued itself to the roof of my mouth. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
“You’re a star. Act like a star and stay calm,” Sebastian whispered against my ear before stepping aside and leaving me alone with the firing squad.
“Ms. Nielsen, are you excited about today’s event?” one reporter shouted.
“Is this your first exhibit? How do you feel about it?” another cut in before I could answer.
“What kind of art have you prepared for us today?” A woman practically stabbed me with her microphone.
My throat locked. I threw a desperate glance toward Sebastian.
He stood a few feet away, impossibly composed, radiating confidence.
One small nod from him, steady and sure, and something inside me steadied, too.
I wanted to make him proud. I wanted to make my dad proud.
And for the first time in forever, I wanted to make myself proud.
So I drew in a breath, straightened my spine, and smiled.
My voice came out clear and warm as I answered their questions—friendly, professional, even throwing in a joke or two.
When they asked me to pose by the banner, I did it without flinching, shoulders back, chin high, as though I belonged there.
By the time the press was satisfied, my heartbeat had slowed to something almost normal. I invited them all inside for drinks and a first look at the art. That’s when I spotted the girls—my girls—waiting with balloons and flowers.
My chest squeezed. My throat tightened. In an instant, I was wrapped up in hugs, lipstick smudges, and perfume. Sue, Lily, Ange, and Nikki—all dressed sharp, sexy, confident, as though they’d stepped straight out of my Women of New York sketches.
“You look amazing!” Sue squealed, clutching my hand.
“Not as good as you, Mrs. Jones,” I teased, using Cam’s last name. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen you since before your honeymoon.”
“It’s best that you haven’t,” Ange cut in, rolling her eyes with a grin. “Her conversations lately could’ve doubled as softcore porn. It’s all ‘Cam this, Cam that, Cam in bed—’”
“It’s normal,” Lily interrupted, slipping an arm around Susanne.
“She’s been through hell and back. If she wants to gush about her husband, let her.
And you—” She turned her sharp gaze on me, taking my other hand.
“You look radiant, Jess. Glowing. And I don’t say that just because I haven’t seen you lately. ”
“How is that possible when you’re neighbors?” Nikki frowned, adjusting her glasses.
Ange smirked. “Easy. Jesse has a boyfriend now.” She tipped her chin toward Sebastian, who was by the door talking to Malcom. “And may I just say, we approve. He’s gorgeous.”
“And brilliant,” Nikki added primly. “Far more attractive than gorgeous, if you ask me.”
“Why choose?” Sue winked. “She caught the bouquet at my wedding. Bachelorette party, here we come.”
“Shut up.” I rolled my eyes, but my heart gave the tiniest, traitorous flutter. “I’m not the marrying type. Besides, his sister hates me.”
Lily’s eyes widened. “Janine hates you? Why?”
“I opened my big mouth and said something dumb about her job,” I admitted with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter. Come on, I’ve got something to show you.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and smiled at them. “And seriously... thank you for being here.”
I let the girls sweep ahead of me in a wave of perfume and laughter. Sebastian was waiting just inside, and as I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm, the knot in my stomach began to unravel. Together, we walked through the glass doors.
I was stunned by how many guests had already arrived, drifting from piece to piece, their faces lit with admiration.
My heart raced—half nerves, half exhilaration—as I took in the sight.
The gallery had transformed into a prism of colors and soft light, the perfect stage for my art.
This was the moment I had dreamed of for years: my work finally on display, no longer hidden in my cramped studio, but alive in the world.
A jazz trio played in the background, their mellow notes weaving seamlessly into the hum of chatter and laughter. Fairy lights glittered across the walls, throwing a warm glow over each canvas. Every piece felt like a fragment of my soul pinned to the whitewashed walls, a narrative of my journey.
Sebastian squeezed my hand, reading the tears that threatened behind my lashes.
“You did a fantastic job, Jess. I’ve never seen art more beautiful than this.”
He stopped in front of the Seasons collection—four canvases that had drained me and completed me in equal measure.
The colors seemed to breathe under the gallery lights: the raw greens and pinks of spring, the searing blues and golds of summer, the burnished flames of autumn, the still, icy glow of winter.
“Thank you,” I whispered, pressing closer to him. I faked a scratch at my nose, dabbing away a rogue tear before it betrayed me.
Around us, guests studied my work with wide eyes, their expressions soft with wonder, or breaking into smiles. Pride rose sharply in my chest. Somehow, with brushes and pencils, I’d built a doorway and they’d walked through into my world.
Across the room, the New York City collection commanded a corner of the gallery. Skyscrapers stretched into stormy skies, reflections rippled in puddles, the energy of the streets captured in quick strokes. Each canvas pulsed with the life of the city that had shaped me. My love letter to New York.
Near the back wall, I spotted my girlfriends frozen in front of the Manhattan Women sketches, their champagne flutes dangling forgotten in their hands. I pressed Sebastian’s arm and murmured, “Go grab a drink. I’ll be right back.”
He kissed my temple before stepping toward the bar, and I slipped away to join the girls.
They hadn’t moved. They stood transfixed, gazes fastened to the series that meant the most to me.
Bold, fashionable women in quick, stylized lines—the women of my city, women who inspired me daily with their grit and grace.
Each sketch was a tribute, a celebration of strength wrapped in stilettos and subway swipes, of individuality and poise carved out in charcoal.
This was the collection closest to my heart. And seeing my friends—my muses—standing there, awestruck and silent, felt like the truest victory of all.
“You like?” I asked, grinning.
The girls turned toward me in unison, faces lit with delight.
“These are fantastic!” Ange said, practically bouncing. “I want to buy all of them—if only I could afford it.”
“Not that they aren’t worth every penny,” Lily added firmly. Her hand shot out to point at one of the sketches. “This one’s mine. Definitely my style.”
I followed her finger and smiled smugly. She was pointing at the sketch of herself—yellow blouse, black slacks, jacket slung casually from one hand.
“That is you,” I said. “I made a sketch of each of you.”
Gasps, giggles, and a few suspiciously shiny eyes followed as I guided them from portrait to portrait. One by one, recognition dawned, and with it came laughter, a few sniffles, and lots of teasing.
When I confessed that I’d planned to gift them the sketches, they all protested at once, voices overlapping.
“No way.”
“Absolutely not.”
“We’re paying for ours!”
I threw up my hands, conceding. “Fine, fine. Then you’ll have to go through Malcom. He handles all the transactions.”
“Did I hear my name?”
I turned to see Malcom appear behind me, cheeks flushed, grin as bright as the fairy lights.
“Yeah,” I said, laughing. “I was just telling my friends they need to talk to you about buying some of the sketches.”
Malcom gave a theatrical half-bow. “Ladies, I’d be honored to assist you in just a few moments—and I’ll be sure to put some red dots on your choices. But first…” His eyes found mine, warm and steady. “We need our star artist to give her speech and officially open the exhibit.”