Miriam's gaze tracked Olivia through the crowd like a hawk marking prey, then swung back to me.
"Build a dossier on her, find leverage to blackmail her, and voilà—problem solved."
"If only." I watched Olivia's blazer disappear behind a sculpture. "First we need to determine whether this isn't Hannah's plan."
"Has anything happened recently?" Miriam's voice dropped, intimate as a confession. "Something that might have pushed Hannah to decide mutual destruction was worth it?"
The office flashed through my mind—Hannah on her knees, the lock clicking, the line I'd crossed. My expression must have shifted because Miriam's eyes sharpened.
"These relationships are unconventional by nature," I said carefully, each word weighed before release. "There are plenty of things anyone might object to."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting." I grabbed two fresh champagne flutes from a passing server, handing one to Miriam. "Let's actually look at Andrew's work. We're at his exhibition, after all."
We moved through the gallery with the practiced ease of women who'd attended a thousand such events. Andrew's paintings surrounded us—flesh and shadow, intimacy twisted into something beautiful and terrible.
"He's genuinely talented," Miriam admitted, stopping before a canvas where bodies merged into abstract patterns. "Whatever else he is, the man can paint."
"He paints what he knows," I replied, studying the violence hidden in tender brushstrokes. "Or what he thinks he knows."
"And what does he know?" She turned to me, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised.
"Less than he believes. More than he should." The words emerged bitter as black coffee.
The closing remarks began at nine-thirty. Andrew stood at the gallery's center, microphone in hand, his voice carrying that particular combination of humility and pride artists perfect after years of practice.
"Before we end this extraordinary evening, I need to thank someone special." His eyes found mine across the crowd, warm and seeking. "Angie, would you join me?"
The crowd parted as I approached, their faces a blur of expectation. Andrew's arm slipped around my waist with practiced intimacy—the gesture of a man claiming ownership.
"This woman," he announced to the room, "has stood by me through everything. Believed in me when I barely believed in myself. Without her, none of this exists."
The words should have warmed me. Instead, I wondered if he was performing for the crowd or speaking the truth. His sincerity had become impossible to parse, especially after he'd spent the entire night with Hannah at his elbow like a shadow given form.
I found Hannah in the crowd, her face a masterpiece of neutral expression. Our eyes met across the space—predator acknowledging predator. I smiled, sharp and deliberate.
That's when Olivia materialized beside her, leaning close. Hannah shifted, angling toward her friend, their whispers lost in the crowd's applause. My chest tightened. Too much hung in the balance to let this continue unchecked.
"Darling," Andrew's voice cut through my calculations, "would you like to say a few words? About tonight, my paintings—maybe about us?" His smile seemed genuine, arm tightening around my waist. The crowd murmured approval.
Camera flashes erupted like small explosions, temporarily blinding me. Lenses turned toward us from every angle—phones, professional cameras, all of them hungry for the perfect shot of the artist and his wife.
"Of course, Andrew." I took the microphone, its weight familiar as a weapon, my palm slightly damp against the metal.
I scanned the crowd—Hannah and Olivia had vanished.
Damn.
The disappearance rattled me more than it should have. Still, I had a performance to deliver. The crowd waited, expectant, their attention a living thing demanding to be fed.
"When I first met Andrew," I began, finding my rhythm, "I fell in love with his talent before I fell in love with the man. His ability to see beauty in darkness, to find truth in violence—it captured me completely."
The room chuckled approvingly, faces softening with romantic satisfaction.
"He's a captivating man who makes my heart beat faster, even now, even after all these years." The words flowed with practiced ease, but underneath them, truth bled through. "I can't imagine my life without him. Without his art. Without the way he transforms everything he touches into something extraordinary."
More applause. Andrew's hand found mine, squeezing with what felt like genuine emotion.
But as I handed back the microphone, my fingers brushing his in the exchange, as the crowd dissolved into final conversations and farewells, one thought crystallized with perfect clarity:
That was the truth. I needed him—by any means necessary.
Not just wanted. Needed. His talent validated my investment. His success reflected my power. His transformation proved my control. Without Andrew, I was just another executive with a failed marriage. With him, I was the woman who'd turned a mediocre artist into tonight's triumph.
Hannah threatened that narrative. Olivia threatened that narrative.
They had no idea what I'd do to protect it.
"Beautiful speech," Andrew whispered against my ear, his breath warm with champagne and victory, his lips brushing my skin. "Did you mean it?"
"Every word," I replied, and for once, I wasn't lying.
The gallery began to empty, guests drifting toward exits with the satisfied exhaustion of people who'd witnessed something significant. Andrew stayed close, his hand never leaving my waist, anchoring me to him even as my mind raced through contingencies.
Hannah had disappeared with Olivia. Soon I'd deal with that problem directly. Tonight, I'd let Andrew believe in his triumph, in our unity, in the fiction that three could somehow equal completeness.
"Shall we go home?" Andrew asked, his voice suggesting he had plans for celebrating.
"Soon," I promised, watching the last guests leave. "Very soon."