POV: Rosalind
After Theo left, I finished what we'd started.
The gallery space transformed under my hands—rearranged furniture, fresh linens on the tasting tables, crystal stemware catching afternoon light. I worked methodically, letting my body move while my mind stayed carefully blank. Don't think about Luca's eyes. Don't think about how Theo had walked out without looking back. Don't think about the café by the river at one o'clock.
Just work.
The private viewing that evening was for twelve guests. Twelve very specific guests whose names Daniel had provided on embossed cardstock three weeks ago, with strict instructions not to add anyone. Not even close friends. Especially not close friends.
I was polishing the bar when I heard his car. The Aston Martin purred like a threat before the engine cut. I didn't need to look up to know Daniel had brought company—the doors closed in succession. Three of them. Maybe four.
The front door opened, and my husband entered like he was arriving at his own coronation.
"Darling." Daniel crossed to me, his associates flanking him like well-dressed sentries. He kissed my cheek—soft, practiced, the kind of affection that photographed well. His cologne was expensive. Everything about Daniel was expensive.
"You're early," I said.
"Wanted to ensure everything's perfect." His fingers found the necklace at my throat—the sapphire pendant he'd given me for our anniversary. He adjusted it, tilting the stone so it caught the light just so. His hands lingered.
The associates watched. They were supposed to watch. This was performance, and we were both very good at our roles. His thumb pressed against my collarbone—not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to remind me I was wearing something he'd paid for. That I was something he'd paid for.
The sapphire felt suddenly heavy, cold against my skin like a collar. I didn't move. Didn't flinch. I'd learned that compliance looked like contentment from the right angle, and Daniel was always watching the angles.
"Everything's ready," I told him.
"Of course it is." He stepped back, finally, his hand trailing away. "Rosalind, you remember Marcus and James."
I did. Marcus had kind eyes and a firm handshake. James drank too much and laughed at his own jokes. Both worked for Daniel's firm doing things I wasn't supposed to ask about.
"Gentlemen." I nodded. "Can I offer you something? We've just opened a rather exceptional Barolo."
"Actually, we should discuss the evening." Daniel moved to the seating area, and his associates followed like satellites in orbit. I trailed behind, aware I was being managed.
We settled into chairs. Daniel produced a leather portfolio, flipped it open. Inside: photographs of that evening's guests, names I recognized from Forbes lists and political donations.
"The Hendersons will arrive first," Daniel said. "Make them comfortable, but don't engage about their son. Recent scandal, best avoided."
"Understood."
"The Chens are bringing their daughter. Art history degree from Oxford. Let her talk. She enjoys feeling intelligent."
I bit back a smile at that particular irony.
"And these paintings—" Daniel gestured to three specific pieces along the east wall. "Display only. Not for sale. Not for discussion."
"Why?"
"Because I'm telling you they're not." His tone didn't change, but something in his eyes did. A warning, maybe. Or a reminder of who made decisions here.
Marcus shifted in his seat. "The logistics for the Henderson piece are almost finalized. The Geneva connection confirmed this morning—"
"Marcus." Daniel's voice cut like a blade. Clean. Surgical. Marcus stopped mid-sentence, jaw clicking shut.
James cleared his throat, suddenly fascinated by his phone.
I watched this happen. I watched Daniel control the room with a single word, watched grown men fold under the weight of his displeasure. I'd seen this before. I'd see it again.
But that day, something was different. Maybe it was Luca's smile from that morning. Maybe it was Theo's caution. Maybe I was just tired of being the beautiful wife who arranged flowers and didn't ask questions. Twenty-two years was a long time to play that role.
"Switzerland," I said. All three men looked at me. "That's what you were about to say, wasn't it? Geneva. Switzerland."
Marcus glanced at Daniel. James studied his shoes.
Daniel smoothed his tie—a tell I'd learned over twenty-two years of marriage. He only touched his tie when he was deciding how much truth to give me.
"The art world is international, darling. Buyers come from everywhere."
"Of course." I leaned back, crossed my legs. "I just wondered why we're suddenly so interested in Swiss buyers when we've spent the last three years building our reputation locally."
"We're expanding."
"Into what?"
"Opportunities."
The word hung there, meaning everything and nothing.
James excused himself to take a call. Marcus found something urgent in his portfolio. They were leaving us alone, these practiced men who knew when to give their boss space to handle his wife.
When they were gone, I looked at Daniel properly. Really looked. He was handsome in that calculated way—good bone structure, expensive haircut, suits that cost more than most people's monthly rent. Twenty-two years ago, I'd thought that was enough. Thought I could build a life on sharp cheekbones and ambitious eyes.
I was twenty. I was stupid.
"Why does everyone talk like I'm not supposed to understand?" I asked it directly, no dance, no performance.
Daniel studied me for a long moment. Then he closed his portfolio, stood, buttoned his jacket with the kind of finality that ended conversations.
"Because you don't need to."
The words landed like a door slamming. Not angry. Worse than angry—dismissive. Final. I felt it in my chest, that particular brand of insignificance he was so good at delivering. My jaw tightened. The sapphire at my throat felt like it was choking me. But I didn't argue. Didn't push. Because Daniel was already walking toward the door, and men like him didn't explain themselves to women like me. Women they'd married young and polished and displayed.