POV: Rosalind
During the event, I poured wine like I was born to it.
Maybe I was. Twenty-two years of practice had given me the kind of effortless grace that made people think service was natural to me, that I enjoyed standing beside my husband with a bottle in hand and a smile on my face. The Hendersons arrived first, just as Daniel had predicted. I made them comfortable. I didn't mention their son.
The gallery hummed with cultivated conversation—the kind where everyone said very little and meant even less. Chen's daughter held court by the Rothko, explaining color theory to three men who couldn't have cared less but were too polite to walk away. I caught fragments as I moved through the room with a 2016 Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
"Delayed again," someone murmured near the bar. "Third time this month."
"Old contracts don't just disappear," another voice responded. "They resurface. Always do."
I refilled glasses. Corrected a server who was holding the Barolo wrong. Kept close to Daniel, my hand occasionally finding his arm, his back, the space between his shoulder blades. We were a unit tonight. Unified. Unshakeable.
It was exhausting.
Daniel worked the room with the precision of a surgeon—knowing exactly who needed attention, who needed distance, who needed to see us together. When Marcus laughed too loud near the Henderson piece, Daniel was there instantly, redirecting the conversation. When James started talking about Geneva, Daniel's hand landed on his shoulder like a warning.
I watched it all. Listened to all of it.
"The shipment clearing customs is taking longer than expected."
"We need the documentation from 2019, not 2020."
"Tell him the old arrangements still stand."
None of it made sense. All of it made me uncomfortable.
By eleven, the last guests filtered out into the night, trailing compliments and promises to return. The Chens' daughter kissed both my cheeks. The Hendersons thanked Daniel for his discretion. Marcus and James were the last to leave, both looking relieved the evening was over.
The door closed.
Silence settled over the gallery like dust. I stood in the center of the room, surrounded by paintings that weren't for sale and conversations I wasn't supposed to understand, and something in me finally snapped.
"What kind of business requires secrecy inside my winery?" I asked.
Daniel was locking the door, his back to me. He didn't turn immediately. Just finished with the deadbolt, tested it once, then faced me with the kind of expression that suggested he'd been expecting this.
"The kind that pays for this winery," he said calmly.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you need."
I crossed my arms. "Delayed shipments. Old contracts. Geneva connections. Either tell me what's happening in my space, or get it the hell out."
"Your space." Daniel smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's interesting. The deed says otherwise."
The barb landed exactly where he'd aimed it. He'd bought this place eight years ago, put it in his name, let me run it like it was mine. Another gift. Another collar.
"Fine," I said. "Your winery. Your paintings. Your guests. But you're using it for something, and I want to know what."
Daniel moved to the bar, poured himself two fingers of scotch. He didn't offer me any. "My work is about keeping past problems from resurfacing, not creating new ones."
"What does that mean?"
"It means some people make mistakes. Big ones. The kind that follow them for decades if someone doesn't clean them up." He took a sip, studied the glass. "I clean them up."
"Here? You clean up people's problems here?"
"Sometimes. When necessary." His eyes met mine over the rim of the glass. "It's discreet. It's neutral territory. No one looks twice at a wine gallery hosting private viewings."
My stomach turned. "How long?"
"Does it matter?"
"How. Long."
Daniel set down his glass with deliberate care. "This isn't the first time people have used your space to feel safe, Rosalind."
The words hung between us like smoke. I stared at him, my mind racing backward through eight years of events, private viewings, meetings I'd arranged without question. How many had been real? How many had been Daniel's cleanup operations disguised as art appreciation?
"You've been using me," I said slowly. "Using this place. This whole time."
"I've been shielding you." His voice was sharp now, defensive. "Do you have any idea what happens when people find out too much? When they ask too many questions? I kept you separate. Kept you clean."
"Clean." I almost laughed. "You mean ignorant."
"I mean safe." Daniel stepped closer, and I saw something in his face I rarely saw—something almost human. "You think I wanted you involved in this? You think I wanted our son growing up knowing what I really do?"
Our son. Luca. Twenty-one years old and already learning to ask questions with Daniel's same calculated smile.
"How much does he know?" I asked.
"More than you. Less than he wants to." Daniel's jaw tightened. "He's his father's son, Rosalind. He sees patterns. Makes connections. Asks to be involved."
"And you said yes."
"I said eventually."
I felt sick. The gallery—my gallery, except it wasn't, it had never been mine—suddenly felt like a crime scene. Every bottle, every painting, every elegant evening bleeding together into one long con where I'd been both the mark and the accomplice.
"Get out," I said quietly.
"Rosalind—"
"Get out of my sight. Go home. Leave."
Daniel studied me for a long moment, then picked up his jacket from the back of a chair. He moved toward the door, paused with his hand on the lock.
"I protected you," he said. "Whether you believe it or not."
Then he was gone, and I was alone with the paintings and the truth and the realization that Daniel had been shielding me without telling me.