Honestly, standing in my own gallery in SoHo felt like a fever dream. A year ago, I was literal trash at my job, stressed about coffee orders and sleeping on a futon that smelled like old gym socks. Now? I'm the Associate Curator at Marx Gallery. My name is on the wall, and I don't have to lie to anyone to get a seat at the table. It's wild how much can change when you finally stop playing a character and start playing yourself.
But the real stress wasn't the art or the lighting or the high-end catering…it was the text sitting on my phone screen.
WILL [10:14 AM]: Just landed. Heading to the hotel to drop my bags then coming straight to see you. Can't wait to see your empire, Ana.
My heart did a literal backflip. Tbh, I was shaking. We hadn't seen each other in person for months. It had been a long stretch of pixelated FaceTime calls, "I miss you" texts at 3 AM because of the time difference, and voice notes that never felt like enough. I was lowkey terrified that without the London rain and the fancy hotel bars, the spark might be mid. What if he saw the "real" New York Ana—the one who drinks too much coffee and gets paint on her sneakers and realized I was just... normal?
"Ana, you're staring at your phone like it's a bomb," Amy said, popping her head into my office. She looked fire in a new oversized blazer she was my lead assistant now, and no cap, she was the only reason the gallery wasn't on fire.
"He's here, Amy. Will is in the city," I said, my voice cracking just a little.
"And? You look 10/10, the show is sold out, and you're a boss," she said, walking in to fix my collar. "Stop overthinking it. He didn't fly across the Atlantic for the art, babe. He flew here for you. He's already seen you at your worst, remember? The whole 'I'm a fake Director' thing? If he stayed after that, he's locked in."
"I know, but... what if the reality is boring compared to the fantasy?" I asked, looking around my office. It was nice, but it wasn't a billionaire's mansion. It was a workspace. It was real life.
"Girl, if he finds you boring, then he's a clown. But we both know he's obsessed. Now, get out there. The New York Times critic is coming in ten minutes and you need to look like you own the place."
The Grand Opening
The gallery was packed. The "Urban Pulse" exhibit was my first solo project, and it was a whole mood. I had moved away from the stuffy, old-money vibes of Erwin's. Instead, I featured street artists from Brooklyn raw, neon, and aggressive. It was the kind of art that felt like new york sounds.
I was in the middle of explaining a massive spray-painted canvas to a group of collectors when the front door opened.
The room was loud, but everything went quiet for me when I saw him. Will. He wasn't in a tuxedo this time. He was wearing a dark overcoat and a simple black sweater, looking effortlessly rich but somehow more approachable. Our eyes locked across the room, and the air left my lungs.
He didn't come over immediately. He stood back, watching me work. He watched me command the room, watched me talk about the art with a confidence I never had in London. I saw him smile a small, private smile that was just for me. It wasn't the look you give a "Director." It was the look you give someone you're proud of.
When I finally managed to slip away from the collectors, he was standing by a sculpture in the back corner.
"Director Santos," he said, his British accent cutting through the noise like music. "I have to say, this is a massive upgrade from the basement in London."
"Will," I whispered, finally reaching him. Tbh, I wanted to jump him right there, but I had to keep it professional for the critics. "You actually came."
"I told you I would," he said, his eyes scanning my face like he was trying to memorize every detail. "You look incredible, Ana. And this place? It's you. It's vibrant, it's honest... it's perfect."
"I was so nervous," I admitted, stepping a little closer, feeling the heat coming off him. "I thought you might see the New York version of my life and think it was too messy. Like, I'm not always wearing Vivian's silk dresses, Will."
"Messy is good," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "I'm tired of 'polished.' I missed you, Ana. Fr. The London house felt like a museum without you."
The Rooftop Scene
An hour later, I couldn't take it anymore. The champagne was flowing and the music was loud, but I just wanted to be alone with him. I grabbed his hand and led him through the back door, up the narrow, creaky stairs to the roof of the gallery. The New York skyline was spread out like a million diamonds on black velvet. The wind was cold, but I didn't care.
"Finally," I breathed, leaning against the brick ledge and looking out at the city.
Will didn't say anything. He just stepped into my space, his hands finding my waist and pulling me flush against him. The contrast between the cold NYC air and his warm skin was insane.
"I've spent three months thinking about this," he said, his forehead resting against mine.
"Only three months?" I teased, but my breath was hitching.
"Every single second of them," he replied.
He leaned down and kissed me, and it was like the world finally snapped into focus. It wasn't a polite "hello" kiss or a "thank you for the invite" kiss. It was deep, hungry, and full of all the words we couldn't say over the phone. My hands slid into his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel every bit of him. Tbh, the London kiss was a 10/10, but this? This was the real deal. This was us, in my city, with nothing left to hide.
His hands moved to the small of my back, holding me like he was never going to let me go. For a minute, the sirens and the honking taxis of SoHo just faded into the background. It was just us.
"Stay with me?" I whispered against his lips when we finally broke for air. "Not just for the weekend. I want you here. For real. No more long-distance, no more time zones."
Will smiled, his eyes dark with that look that made my heart stop. He brushed a stray hair from my face, his touch so gentle it hurt. "I've already started looking at gallery spaces for an expansion of my own. I think New York could use a bit more of us. And I think I've spent enough time in First Class alone."
I laughed, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders that I'd been carrying for a year. I started with a First Class lie, but I ended up with a First Class life. No cap, the view from the top is way better when you're standing next to the person who knows exactly how hard you worked to get there.