The gallery at 6:45 PM was a study in controlled chaos. The string quartet had finished their sound check and were now playing soft, elegant background music.
The catering staff had their stations set up and ready. The bar was stocked and staffed. The security team was in position, dressed so well they could have been guests themselves.
Everything was perfect.
Almost everyone was ready.
"I can't do this," Ophelia said suddenly, gripping Kalina's hand with white-knuckled intensity. They were standing in her office, out of sight of the main gallery. "I can't. I'm going to throw up. Or faint. Or both. Can you faint while throwing up? I feel like I'm about to find out."
"Breathe," Kalina said calmly, used to last-minute panic attacks. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like we practiced."
"We didn't practice," Ophelia wheezed.
"Well, we're practicing now," Kalina said. "Come on, with me. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four."
They breathed together for a minute, Ophelia's panic gradually subsiding to merely elevated anxiety.
"Better?" Kalina asked.
"Marginally," Ophelia admitted. "Kali, what if I forget everything? What if someone asks me a question about the art and my brain just... stops?"
"Then you'll say 'That's an interesting question, let me think about that for a moment,' and your brain will start working again," Kalina said practically. "But that's not going to happen, because you know this art better than anyone. You selected these pieces. You wrote the curatorial statements. You've been living and breathing this exhibition for weeks."
"What if Maxi thinks I'm boring?"
"He won't."
"What if Amelia is prettier than me?"
"She's not. And even if she were, Maxi doesn't care about that."
"What if—"
"Lia," Kalina interrupted gently but firmly. "You're catastrophizing. Nothing terrible is going to happen. You're going to walk out there, you're going to greet people who are genuinely excited to see this gallery, and you're going to talk about something you love with people who want to hear about it. That's all this is."
Ophelia took another deep breath. "You're right. You're right, I know you're right."
"Of course I'm right, I'm always right," Kalina said with a slight smile. "Now, Julia's about to give us the five-minute warning. Are you ready?"
"As ready as I'm going to be," Ophelia said, straightening her dress and checking her reflection one last time.
"Then let's do this," Kalina said, squeezing her hand once more before releasing it. "Remember—you've got this."
They emerged from the office to find Logan and Mireille waiting, both dressed impeccably in pieces from LOMIKA's evening collection. Logan had opted for a sharp black suit with a subtle sheen, while Mireille wore a sleek jumpsuit in midnight blue.
"There's our star," Logan said warmly. "Ready to shine?"
"Stop, you'll make her nervous again," Mireille chided, though she was smiling.
Julia appeared, clipboard in hand but looking much more relaxed now that everything was in place. "First guests will be arriving any moment. Ms. Ophelia, you'll greet them at the entrance, welcome them, and direct them to the champagne. After the first few arrivals, you can begin circulating. Your speech is at eight PM. I'll give you a signal five minutes before."
"Got it," Ophelia said, her voice steadier than she felt.
"Positions, everyone," Julia said, and it felt almost theatrical, like the start of a performance.
And perhaps it was.
At exactly seven PM, the first guests arrived.
Eleanor Pemberton swept in like she owned the place, which, given the number of galleries she probably did own or bankroll, wasn't far from the truth. She was in her sixties, elegant in a way that came from decades of moving through high society, with sharp eyes that missed nothing.
"Ms. Levesque?" she said, extending a hand to Ophelia. "Eleanor Pemberton. Thank you for the invitation."
"Ms. Pemberton," Ophelia said, her professional smile activating automatically. "It's an honor to have you here. Welcome to Art by Lia."
"Charming space," Eleanor said, already looking past Ophelia to scan the gallery. "I'm eager to see this Nakamura installation everyone's been talking about."
"It's one of my favorite pieces," Ophelia said, falling into step beside her. "If you'd like, I can give you a brief overview—"
"Please," Eleanor said, and Ophelia launched into her explanation, her nervousness evaporating as she talked about something she knew intimately.
Within fifteen minutes, the gallery was filling with the art world elite. Marcus Chen from the National Gallery, Vivienne Laurent the critic, Antonio Rossi who kissed Ophelia's hand and complimented her curation in Italian-accented English, Sarah Yamamoto who asked thoughtful questions about each piece.
Ophelia was in her element. This was what she'd trained for, what she'd built her gallery for—sharing art with people who appreciated it, facilitating that moment of connection between viewer and piece. Her earlier panic seemed like a distant memory.
Kalina watched from the periphery, a glass of champagne in hand, allowing herself a small smile of satisfaction. See, Lia? I told you so.
"She's good at this," Logan observed, appearing at Kalina's elbow with his own drink.
"She is," Kalina agreed. "I knew she would be."
"And you're not at all smug about being right?"
"Oh, I'm extremely smug," Kalina admitted. "I'm just polite enough not to show it too obviously."
The business elite began arriving around seven-thirty. Well-dressed couples, powerful individuals, the sort of people who could afford original art and wanted to be seen at cultural events. The gallery was becoming pleasantly crowded without feeling packed, the sound of conversation mixing with the string quartet's elegant melodies.
And then, at seven forty-five, Kalina heard Mireille make a strangled noise beside her.
"That's him," Mireille hissed, grabbing Kalina's arm with bruising force. "That's HIM. The convenience store guy. He's HERE."
Kalina followed her gaze to the entrance, where a man in an impeccably tailored suit had just walked in. He had dark hair, sharp features, and an expression of professional reserve that made him look like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Are you sure?" Kalina asked, studying him.
"I'm positive," Mireille breathed. "I memorized his face. Oh god, he's even more attractive in formal wear. This isn't fair. This is so unfair."
"Go talk to him," Kalina suggested.
"Are you insane?" Mireille's voice pitched higher. "I made a complete fool of myself the last time. I accidentally bought condoms while trying to spy on him. I cannot approach him. I'll die."
"You won't die," Kalina said practically. "You'll just be embarrassed, which you'll survive."
But before Mireille could respond, another figure entered behind the man, and Kalina felt something shift in the air.
Rhys Castillon.
She'd seen pictures of him in business magazines, of course. Everyone knew who the Big Three were. But photographs didn't capture the presence of him—the way he seemed to carry weight, a gravity that made people's attention drift toward him even when he was just standing still.
He was handsome in a cold, carved sort of way. Sharp jawline, dark hair precisely styled, expensive suit that fit like it had been made for him—which it probably had. But what struck Kalina most was his expression: completely closed off, politely distant, like he was here out of obligation rather than interest.
The man who'd entered first—Mireille's convenience store mystery—leaned in to murmur something to Rhys, who nodded once, curtly.
"And he works for Rhys Castillon," Kalina added. "Interesting."
Ophelia, finishing a conversation with a collector, glanced toward the entrance and froze. Her expression shifted through several emotions in rapid succession—recognition, nervousness, excitement, panic.
"There's another one," Logan said, nodding toward the entrance where a third man was arriving.
Silas Ashworth.
Unlike Rhys's cold reserve or Tristan's professional distance, Silas had a quieter presence. He moved through the space like he was trying not to draw attention, though his expensive clothing and the way he carried himself made that difficult. His eyes scanned the gallery, pausing for just a moment when they landed on Kalina, before moving on as if cataloging everything with careful precision.
"The Big Three," Kalina murmured. "All here."
"Together, which is strange," Logan noted. "They're supposed to be competitors."
"Maintaining appearances," Kalina guessed. "Arriving separately but around the same time. Circulating in different areas. Anyone watching would think they're here independently."
Silas approached the bar, ordered something, and then turned to study the nearest artwork—a bold abstract that used slashes of color to evoke emotion rather than represent anything concrete. He studied it with what appeared to be genuine interest, though Kalina noticed his attention occasionally drifted toward where she stood.
Probably just being polite, she thought. Acknowledging familiar faces.
She had no idea that Silas was actively fighting the urge to cross the room and talk to her, that his heart had jumped when he'd spotted her, that seeing her in person after months apart felt like someone had knocked the air from his lungs.
She had absolutely no idea.
"I need to circulate," Kalina told Logan. "Play the social butterfly, make sure no one feels neglected. You handle the business types who want to talk shop. Mireille can—where did Mireille go?"
They both scanned the room and spotted her attempting to casually position herself near where Tristan stood with Rhys, holding a champagne flute and pretending to study a sculpture with intense fascination.
"She's going to hurt herself," Logan predicted.
"Probably," Kalina agreed. "Keep an eye on her?"
"Always," Logan sighed, already heading in that direction.
Kalina began her own circulation, engaging in the sort of light social conversation that required effort but not too much thought. She complimented people's insights about the art, facilitated introductions, made sure everyone felt welcome. It was exhausting in its own way, but necessary.
She was discussing the Beaumont painting with a collector when she heard a commotion near the entrance.
The crowd's energy shifted, conversations faltering for just a moment before resuming, but with an added layer of interest.
Amelia Crystal had arrived.
And she hadn't arrived alone.
On her arm, looking slightly trapped but polite, was Maximilian Blackwood.
Kalina watched Ophelia's face across the room, saw her sister's expression freeze, saw the flash of panic and hurt before Ophelia schooled her features into professional welcome.
Oh, Lia, Kalina thought sympathetically. This is going to be harder than I thought.
Amelia Crystal was the kind of beautiful that made other women immediately check their own appearance. Tall, model-thin, with perfect features and hair that looked professionally styled even though she'd probably just stepped out of a car. Her dress was designer, her jewelry was real, and her smile was sharp enough to cut.
She swept into the gallery like she was being photographed, her hand possessively on Maxi's arm, her eyes already scanning for whoever wasin charge.
Those eyes landed on Ophelia, and something predatory flickered in them before being replaced by a perfectly practiced smile.
"You must be the gallery owner," Amelia said, gliding forward with Maxi in tow. "How absolutely darling, this whole setup. So... intimate."
The way she said "intimate" made it sound like a polite euphemism for "small."
"Thank you for coming," Ophelia said, her voice steady despite the way her heart was hammering. "I'm Ophelia Levesque. Welcome to Art by Lia."
"Amelia Crystal," the woman said, extending a hand with perfectly manicured nails. "And of course you know Maximilian Blackwood."
Ophelia's eyes finally, finally met Maxi's, and she saw something there—discomfort? Apology? Recognition?
"Ms. Levesque," Maxi said, gently extricating his arm from Amelia's grip to extend his hand properly. "Thank you for the invitation. I've been looking forward to seeing your gallery."
His handshake was warm, his eyes kind, and Ophelia felt something settle in her chest. He wasn't with Amelia by choice. She could see it in the tension in his shoulders, the way he'd freed himself from her hold at the first opportunity.
"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Blackwood," Ophelia said, finding her professional voice.
"I hope you'll find the collection interesting. We've curated pieces that explore the boundaries of contemporary expression."
"I'm sure it will be fascinating," Maxi said, and he sounded like he meant it.
"Oh, I'm sure it will be very educational," Amelia added, her tone suggesting education was something one endured rather than enjoyed. "Maximilian is so devoted to supporting the arts. He drags me to every little gallery opening." She laughed, a practiced sound. "I keep telling him that if you've seen one abstract painting, you've seen them all, but he insists on being thorough."
Ophelia's professional smile didn't waver, but Kalina, watching from across the room, saw her sister's hand clench briefly at her side.
"I find that each piece has its own voice," Maxi said, his tone polite but with an edge. "And that dismissing entire artistic movements as 'all the same' generally indicates a lack of engagement rather than a lack of merit in the work itself."
It was the gentlest possible rebuke, delivered with perfect courtesy, but Amelia's smile tightened fractionally.
"Of course," she said smoothly. "I'm sure you're right. You always are about these things." She turned back to Ophelia. "We'll let you get back to your other guests. I'm sure you're terribly busy. Come, Maximilian, let's get champagne."
She moved toward the bar without waiting to see if Maxi would follow. He hesitated, his eyes meeting Ophelia's for just a moment longer.
"I really am looking forward to hearing your thoughts on the collection," he said quietly. "Especially the Nakamura installation. I've heard remarkable things about it."
"I'd be happy to discuss it with you," Ophelia said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Maximilian!" Amelia called from near the bar, her tone suggesting he was being rude by lingering.
"Excuse me," Maxi said with what looked like genuine regret, before turning to follow Amelia.
Ophelia stood frozen for a moment, processing what had just happened, before Julia appeared at her elbow.
"More guests arriving," Julia murmured. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," Ophelia said automatically, straightening her shoulders. "Who's next?"
But as she turned to greet the newcomers, her eyes drifted back to where Maxi stood at the bar, Amelia's hand once again on his arm, talking animatedly while he nodded politely, his expression carefully neutral.
He doesn't want to be with her, Ophelia thought, and felt a small flame of hope kindle in her chest. He really doesn't.