I smoothed my dress, fingers tracing down emerald silk to erase any evidence of the last twenty minutes.
My reflection in the workroom's dusty mirror showed a woman perfectly composed—lipstick fresh, hair artfully disheveled in a way that looked intentional. Julian zipped his pants with the satisfied languor of a cat after cream.
"You're extraordinary," he said, voice still rough with spent desire. "Everything I imagined and more."
"We won't be doing this again." I turned from the mirror, meeting his eyes.
"I know." He adjusted his collar, fingers working the buttons with practiced ease, a smile playing at his lips like he owned a secret. "But I'll remember it. The great Angie Blake, letting someone else take charge for once."
"Thank you." The words felt foreign on my tongue, like speaking a dead language. "For understanding what I needed."
"My pleasure. Literally." He moved toward the door with feline grace, then paused, hand on the handle. "Your husband's a fool, you know. Having you and still needing more."
My ego preened at the compliment, warming like cognac in my chest, even as I recognized the irony—here I stood, having just done exactly what I condemned Andrew for.
"We should return separately."
"Five minutes." He slipped out, the door clicking shut with finality.
The room fell into silence, punctuated only by the ticking of a distant clock.
When I emerged, the gallery hummed with success. Andrew held court near his largest piece, hands conducting an invisible orchestra as he described his process to rapt collectors.
Hannah stood at his elbow like a shadow made flesh, nodding at perfectly timed intervals, playing the devoted assistant with Oscar-worthy commitment.
"Mrs. Williams, a moment?"
I turned to find a young woman with sharp eyes and an eager smile—press, clearly, though not one of the critics I'd cultivated. Her blazer was off-the-rack; her ambition was couture.
"Angie Blake," I corrected, my voice cooling several degrees, frost forming on each syllable. "I didn't take my husband's name."
"Oh! I'm so sorry." Pink bloomed across her cheeks, but her eyes remained calculating as a casino dealer's. "I'm Olivia Campbell, with Urban Arts Quarterly. I was hoping for a brief interview about your husband's exhibition?"
Not much of a journalist if she didn't even know my surname. Still, I needed distraction from the sight of Andrew and Hannah's synchronized performance, their bodies angled toward each other like matching parentheses.
"Brief," I agreed, the word clipped short as a threat.
She led me to a quieter room with velvet sofas the color of old blood. I noticed Miriam in the hallway. Relief washed through me—she'd come despite our fight.
"So," Olivia began, recorder in hand like a weapon she didn't know how to wield, "what inspired Andrew's new direction? The vulnerability, the raw emotion?"
"Artists evolve." I gave her the expected answer, wrapped in safe metaphors like bandages around truth. "Andrew's exploring the complexities of modern love, the various pathways intimacy can take."
"The title—'All Ways Love'—suggests multiple interpretations." She leaned forward, hunger sharpening her features.
"Art should provoke questions, not provide answers." The response came automatically, years of gallery openings having trained me in meaningless profundity.
"Are you his only muse?" Olivia's tone sharpened to a blade's edge. "Or does he draw inspiration from others?"
I kept my expression neutral, though my fingers tightened on my champagne glass until the crystal sang a warning.
"All artists have multiple sources of inspiration," I said carefully, each word measured.
"Of course. It's just—" She leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made my skin crawl. "Hannah Rogers is a friend of mine. She's mentioned how much work she put into this exhibition, how close she and Andrew have become through the process."
The trap revealed itself, jaws wide and patient. This wasn't random—Olivia had sought me out specifically, a hunter who'd scented blood.
"Hannah's been invaluable as exhibition coordinator." Each word emerged precise, revealing nothing.
"Just professionally?" Olivia's smile turned predatory, showing too many teeth. "Because Hannah suggested there might be more to the story. Something about alternative arrangements, modern relationships—"
"There you are!" Miriam's voice cut through the interrogation. She glided over, all elegance and authority, her presence changing the room's chemistry. "Angie, darling, I've been looking everywhere. You promised to show me Andrew's centerpiece."
"Of course." I stood smoothly, my movement liquid and dismissive. Turning to Olivia with the kind of politeness that could freeze blood: "If you'll excuse me."
"Certainly. Perhaps we could continue later?" Olivia's eyes glittered with frustrated ambition, a fisherman watching her catch slip the hook.
"Perhaps." I took Miriam's arm, allowing her to guide me away through the crowd that parted before us like we were royalty.
Once safely distant, Miriam's grip gentled from rescue to comfort. "You okay?"
"Yes. Thank you for—"
"I owe you an apology." She stopped walking, turning to face me fully, her expression stripped of its usual armor. "I overreacted before. About your... situation. You're an adult with the right to make your own choices, even if they terrify me. I was overprotective and nearly lost my best friend over it."
The unexpected confession caught me off-guard, like missing a step in the dark. "Miriam—"
"Let me finish." She squeezed my hand, her rings pressing small truths into my palm. "I still think you're playing with fire, but it's your fire to play with."
"Actually," I glanced back toward where Olivia had disappeared into the crowd, her blazer visible like a warning flag, "for the first time today, I thought you might have been right."
"What happened?" Miriam's concern sharpened to a point.
My jaw tightened as the implications crystallized. "That journalist... she's Hannah's friend. And I think she knows something."