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Five minutes later I'm back in the car pulling up to the gallery that is already crowded when I arrive.
People spill from room to room with champagne flutes and low voices and the sort of reverent excitement that means the show is working. French and English drift together beneath the music.
And then I see her.
She's standing in the center room beside Gabriel, one hand wrapped around the stem of a wineglass, the other gesturing toward a canvas while she talks to a couple I don't recognize. She's smiling. Animated. Bright in a way I haven't seen since before I ruined everything.
She looks like she belongs here.
No.
She looks like she made this room belong to her.
Gabriel is standing beside her with the relaxed confidence of a man who thinks he has every right to be there, listening to her speak with the kind of attention I've been too stupid to show when it mattered.
That should be my place.
The thought hits so fast I nearly laugh at myself. Because I had that place. And I walked away from it.
Then I look at the walls. At the paintings giving this place color.
They aren't dark like I thought they might have been.
I expected grief from her painting because of how this breakup feels in my gut… in my soul. Something to prove that she feels as miserable as I do.
Instead every canvas is heat. Anticipation. Light moving over skin and water and shadow and hands reaching and almost-touching and finally touching.
The title card near the entrance reads:
Falling in Love in Cannes
Fuck.
The whole damn room is a love story and Gabriel is standing in the middle of it beside her and I can't decide if I want to be sick or get on my knees.
I move before I can think better of it.
Gabriel sees me first, his expression changes, subtle but immediate, from polished host to something more alert. Then Aria turns.
Her gaze finds mine across the room and locks there.
The smile slips from her face. Not dramatically… it’s just gone.
She says something quick to the couple beside her, hands off her glass to Gabriel, and walks toward me. Every step makes my heart pound harder.
She stops three feet away.
"What are you doing here?"
"You didn't sign the papers."
Her eyes close briefly.
When they open again, they are full of murder.
"You flew all the way to Cannes to harass me about paperwork at my own opening?"
"I came because you left."
