Orlando steps back, dusting his hands together. “I think we’re ready.”
Butterflies are going wild in my stomach. This is far from my first show, but I feel like a student again, presenting my work for the first time.
Orlando did a great job, placing the pieces just right. Not that it’s a surprise, he’s co-owned a handful of galleries with my friend Mandi for years, so we’ve worked together before and he knows what he’s doing.
And as much as I’d love to see Mandi, I’m glad she decided to stay home tonight.
Last time we saw each other, I was leaving her house to get my car from Lee’s after the whole he’s married thing. And now… I glance down at my still wildly sparkly ring. Well, now, I’m married to the man who was sitting on her couch during that whole altercation. And no matter how you cut it, three weeks is awfully quick to go from being strangers to being spouses.
I blow out a breath and try to focus on today.
This gallery is mostly just one white-washed room, with high ceilings and two movable, partition walls that are currently set up at opposing angles in the center of the room, each side showing off one of my four largest paintings.
It’s clean, contemporary, and even though I can’t stop feeling like I’m gonna gag from nerves, I know it’s the perfect way to showcase this collection.
“Would you like a glass of wine while we wait for the doors to open?”
I’m shaking my head before Orlando even finishes his question. “I think I’ll just go to run cold water over my wrists, and maybe throw up.”
He laughs, and I don’t miss him lifting a hand, like he’s going to pat my shoulder, only to drop it again. “I’ll make sure to yell for you when it’s time.”
And I have to wonder if he was remembering what King said about breaking arms.
My hands are sweating so bad, I’m surprised they’re not dripping when Orlando unlocks the door, allowing the line of people inside.
It still blows my mind that anyone cares enough about my art to come to a live showing, let alone to come early and get in line. But a lot of that credit goes to Mandi and Orlando, since they’re out in the world working hard to build hype.
I stand in my usual spot in the middle of the room, next to one of the partial walls, so people can choose to either come talk to me, or wander through the room.
And when the nerves kick up a notch, and I have nowhere to put my hands, I curse myself for picking pants without pockets. I choose these bright red, high-waisted and wide-legged pants for the drama, but I didn’t consider the panic attack it’d be having while wearing them. But at least my white lacy top shouldn’t show any of the stress sweat I’m sure I’ll be covered with in no time.
Orlando’s offer of wine is sounding more and more like a good idea…but if I start drinking now, I’ll end up drunk.
Voices start to fill the room as people stream in. And finally, as I look for King in the crowd, I admit that he’s the reason I’m so nervous.
I mean, I’m always a little nervous, but this…
This is… different.
Because I really want him to like everything.
Because I want him to be impressed.
Because he’s told me that the world needs my art.
People are still entering the door, when Orlando checks his phone, then walks over to one of the six foot paintings and places a round sticker on the tag next to the frame designating the price. He gives me a wink, then goes back to greeting the newcomers.
Mandi had convinced me to do a set on an extra-large scale, and Orlando convinced me to price them five-figures.
I swallow.
I can’t believe I sold one.
When I decided to paint a whole collection of lions’ heads, I did it because it was fun. Because it gave me a little freedom to decide if they’d have their eyes open or closed, mouths open or closed. Manes flowing in the wind or laying flat.
But now when I look at them, all I can think about is King.
“Wow!” a voice next to me exclaims.
And it takes me a second to realize it’s a voice I recognize. “Ginger?”
She waves at me with one hand, as she uses the other to take a sip of red wine.
“What are you doing here?” It’s probably rude to ask it like that, but…what the hell is she doing here!?
Ginger smiles, “I love a good art show.”
A low whistle draws our attention as her husband walks up to stand beside her. “Damn, Boss Lady can paint!”
I think my jaw comes unhinged. “J-Jamie?”
He does a little bow. “I didn’t really get a good look at that one painting before you torched it. If I’d’ve known how fire they were, well, I would’ve saved it from the fire.”
Ginger smacks his chest. “Where’s Cici?”
“Cici’s here?!” I ask, my throat feeling tight.
“She spotted the charcuterie table and told me to fuck off,” Jamie shrugs.
They continue to talk, but I’m too busy trying to breathe to listen.
What is this?
Did King tell the house staff about my show?
Why would he do that?
Why would they come?
Did he tell them they had to?
“Ooo, this one is perfect!” Another familiar voice comes from the other side of the partial wall.
Slowly I step away from Ginger and Jamie, who have moved on to discussing the hunting patterns of lions, and make my way around to the other side of the wall.
“Payton?”
She smiles so big when she sees me, there’s no doubting that it’s real. “Savannah!” She attempts to pull her arm free from where it was entwined with her husband’s, but he doesn’t let her go. She rolls her eyes at Nero but gestures with her free hand to the giant all-gold painting of a lion before them. “This is for sale, right? Like we can buy it?”
My head is nodding, but my brain is glitching.
“Okay, good! Nero,” she nudges her husband, “get Orlando. I think he’s the one we talk to for this.”
“You know Orlando?” My voice is getting higher with each question I ask.
Honestly, what the fuck is happening?
Payton smirks. “No, but I heard about him.”
My eyes move to Nero, but his focus is elsewhere, his arm lifted to draw attention.
Does that mean King told Nero about Orlando?
I clear my throat so I can try and speak normally. “Did King make you guys come?”
I hate the question even as I ask it, but I have to.
Payton looks genuinely shocked. “What? No. But after the Orlando story I made Nero find out about the show.” She glances around the space. “And I’m so glad we did. You’re amazing.”
I press my fingers against my cheeks and accept that my face is just gonna be flushed red all night. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Payton grins at my reaction. “And for real, this one is perfect for the living room remodel we’re doing.”
She turns to Nero, who’s just finished telling Orlando to sticker this one. “Let’s go look at the smaller ones before they’re all taken. I’d love one of the multi-colored ones for my office.”
“I already told you, we can keep sharing an office.” Nero’s voice is gruff, but Payton isn’t even the tiniest bit fazed.
They share an office? Weird.
The noise in the gallery swells and I try my best to nod and smile like a normal person as I move through the crowd accepting compliments.
I spot Val across the room, talking to some other guest, and a weight presses down on my chest.
I’ve never…
Movement at the front door draws my attention.
It’s him.
My King.
Standing there, broad body wrapped in a flawless black suit, he looks like Lucifer in the flesh.
And his eyes are only for me.
And I’m frozen. Totally immobile.
I knew he would come.
He said he would, and he always follows through. But telling everyone else. Having his friends come. Having my friends from the house come…
The weight on my chest shifts, until it’s wrapped around my heart, and I have to press my lips together to stop them from trembling.
Orlando says something to King as he walks by, but King just glares at him as he keeps walking.
And he just keeps walking.
Just keeps coming.
Closing the distance between us, ignoring multiple people that try to greet him.
Because he’s coming to me.
Because I’m his.
King comes to a stop in front of me, his gaze roving across my face. “You okay?”
I nod.
He reaches up, brushing a thumb over my heated cheek, “Then why does it look like you might puke on me?”
I laugh a tiny bit, like I’m sure he intended. “You told so many people.”
“Of course, I did.”
Of course, I did.
“Why?” I whisper the question, even though it causes tears to gather in my eyes.
Not once, not ever, have I had family at a showing.
Not once has anyone outside the art world come to see my paintings.
Not once has anyone from my personal life bought one of my paintings.
“Why would I tell people about your show?”
I nod.
“Honey,” he cups my chin, keeping my eyes on his. “I’ll tell everyone about your art because I’m fucking proud of you.”
It’s like a lantern drops inside my chest.
The casing cracking open, and the light scattering into all the dark corners I hadn’t even known were there.
I’m fucking proud of you.
A tear drips down my cheek, and King wipes it away.
His chest lifts and falls with a deep breath, as he reads me like an open book. “You’re breaking my damn heart, Savannah Baby.”
His free hand closes over both of mine, as they twist together in front of my heart, and he pulls them to his chest. Trapping them there.
The look in his eyes.
The way he’s holding me.
It’s more comfort than anyone has ever offered me.
It’s more comfort than I’ve allowed myself to hope for.
This man. This husband of mine.
The one who stole me. The one who took away my choice.
He’s the one…
“I’m so proud of you,” he repeats. And I feel his words in the center of my heart. “Look around us. Look at all this beauty you add to the world. All of the goodness you share.” He gently squeezes my hands. “I wasn’t lying when I told you that the world needed your art. But that wasn’t all of it. I need it too. I need your joy. I need you to even out the bad things I do. Because with this,” he turns his head, taking in my paintings. “The world doesn’t feel quite so awful. So, yeah, Baby, I’m proud of you. And if no one has ever said that to you before, it’s not because you weren’t good enough. It’s because they weren’t.”
King swipes his thumb across my cheek, catching another tear.
I don’t want to cry here.
I don’t want to cry at all.
But I don’t know what to do with this overwhelming feeling of acceptance. With the heat building inside of me. Because it feels…
My heart aches as it swells.
It feels a lot like love.
But I don’t know if I’m supposed to love my husband.
Holding my chin in place, King leans down and presses a chaste kiss to my lips. “Now,” he gives me a soft smile, “do you want me to stay out here and schmooze with the mouth breathers while you take a moment? Or do you want me to ignore Orlando’s demand that I not buy anything, and buy everything, so we can kick everyone out?”
I wet my lips and whisper. “Option one please.”
“Alright,” King lowers my still clasped hand as he lets go of my chin.
I use my fingertips to dab at the corner of my eyes, forcing a smile onto my face. “But I do expect you to buy anything that doesn’t sell.”
