In the alcove, the Big Three were indeed having a conversation, though it was brief and focused.
"Impressive venue," Maxi said quietly. "The owner has genuine taste. The curation shows a clear artistic vision."
"It's competent," Rhys allowed, which from him was high praise.
Silas, who had been quiet, finally spoke. "Did you see who helped organize this event?"
"Several people, presumably," Rhys said, not following.
"Kalina Levesque," Silas clarified, his voice carefully neutral. "Ophelia's sister. She's been advising on the collection."
Maxi's interest sharpened. "Kalina's involved? I hadn't realized. Though it makes sense—she always had excellent instincts about art."
Rhys frowned slightly. "You know her?"
"University," Maxi said simply. "We were in a project group together. She's brilliant when she bothers to try, which is rarely. Prefers to coast on natural talent rather than work for anything."
"Sounds like she's working now," Silas said, still in that carefully neutral tone. "This event took significant planning."
"People change," Maxi allowed. "Or maybe she's finally found something she cares enough about to put in effort."
Rhys said nothing, but his mind was on the terrace, on the way Kalina had looked at him after he'd grabbed her—not angry, not frightened, but... understanding. Like she'd seen straight through his panic to the wound underneath.
He didn't like being seen. Didn't like that she'd looked at him with something that might have been compassion.
"We should get back," he said abruptly. "We've been gone long enough that people will notice."
They separated, drifting back into the main gallery at different intervals, maintaining their facade of polite rivalry.
None of them noticed Kalina watching from across the room, a thoughtful expression on her face.
At eight PM, Julia gave Ophelia the five-minute signal for her speech.
Ophelia felt her stomach drop. She'd been so caught up in talking to guests, handling small crises, and trying not to stare too obviously at Maxi (who kept finding reasons to be near her despite Amelia's best efforts), that she'd almost forgotten about the speech.
Almost.
Now it came rushing back—all her earlier anxiety, all her fears of freezing up or saying something stupid or boring everyone into a coma.
"You've got this," Kalina said, appearing at her elbow like a mind reader. "Just like we practiced. Well, didn't practice, but like you would have practiced if we'd had time."
"That's not helpful," Ophelia said, but she was smiling weakly.
"You don't need helpful. You need to remember that you're brilliant and everyone here is lucky to be in your gallery," Kalina said firmly. "Now go. Julia's signaling."
Julia had stepped onto the small raised platform that served as a stage, tapping the microphone to get everyone's attention. The string quartet stopped playing.
Conversations died down. All eyes turned to the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Julia said with practiced grace, "thank you so much for joining us this evening. It's my pleasure to introduce the curator and owner of Art by Lia—Ms. Ophelia Levesque."
Applause rippled through the crowd as Ophelia made her way to the stage, her heart hammering so hard she was sure everyone could hear it. The lights seemed too bright. The crowd seemed too large. Her prepared remarks fled from her mind entirely.
She reached the microphone and opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Panic seized her throat. This was it. She was going to stand here like an idiot, silent, while everyone watched and—
Her eyes found Kalina in the crowd. Her sister was looking at her with absolute confidence, no doubt in her expression at all. And next to Kalina stood Mireille and Logan, both of them smiling encouragingly.
And there, standing near the back but paying close attention, was Maxi.
You can do this, she told herself firmly. You know this art better than anyone. Just talk about what you love.
"Good evening," she said, and her voice came out steadier than she felt. "Welcome to Art by Lia. I want to thank you all for being here tonight."
The words started coming then, slowly at first, then with more confidence.
"When I opened this gallery three years ago, I had a vision—to create a space where contemporary art could be experienced not as an intimidating intellectual exercise, but as a conversation. A dialogue between artist and viewer, between tradition and innovation, between what was and what could be."
She was finding her rhythm now, the anxiety easing as she fell into the comfortable pattern of talking about something she knew deeply.
"The pieces you see tonight represent that conversation. From Nakamura's exploration of light and shadow through the lens of Japanese calligraphy, to Sterling's sculpture series that challenges our perception of form and negative space, to Beaumont's painting that uses color to evoke emotion rather than representreality—each piece asks us to see differently, to think differently, to feel differently."
Her voice grew stronger, more passionate. This was what she did, what she loved—making art accessible, helping people connect with it.
"Contemporary art can sometimes feel... exclusive. Like you need a degree in art theory just to appreciate it. But I've always believed that art is fundamentally human. It's about connection, about the moment when something inside you responds to something an artist created. That moment is available to everyone, regardless of education or background. You just have to be willing to look. To really look."
She paused, scanning the crowd, and saw that people were actually listening. Not politely waiting for her to finish, but genuinely engaged.
"Tonight, I invite you to do exactly that. To look at these pieces not with the goal of understanding them intellectually—though that can be part of it—but with the goal of experiencing them. Let them challenge you. Confuse you. Move you. And if you'd like to discuss what you're seeing, what you're feeling, I'm here. That's what this gallery is for—conversation, connection, and the courage to see the world through someone else's eyes."
She took a breath. "Thank you for being part of that conversation. Enjoy the exhibition."
The applause was immediate and genuine. Not the polite golf claps of obligation, but real appreciation. Ophelia felt something warm bloom in her chest—pride, relief, joy all mixed together.
She stepped down from the stage, her legs slightly unsteady, and was immediately enveloped in hugs from her friends.
"That was perfect," Mireille said fiercely.
"Absolutely perfect."
"You were brilliant," Logan agreed. "See? We told you."
"I told you so," Kalina said smugly. "But nobody ever listens to me."
"We always listen to you," Ophelia protested, still riding the high of having successfully delivered the speech without fainting. "We just don't always admit you're right."
"A critical distinction," Kalina agreed.
Julia appeared with her clipboard, beaming. "Ms. Ophelia, that was wonderful. Several guests have already approached me asking about the guided tours. Should we begin those in fifteen minutes?"
"Yes," Ophelia said, feeling more confident now. "Let's do this."