Chapter 6: The Gallery Game
612 Words
Three days after their dinner, Lena was awoken by a knock—not Genevieve, not the staff.
Damien.
She cracked the door open, still in her robe, hair a mess. “Problem?”
“We’re going out,” he said, holding up a sleek black envelope. “Gallery opening. A friend. Good press opportunity.”
Her stomach flipped. “You want me to play trophy wife now?”
He smirked. “You’re not the trophy. You’re the showstopper.”
---
By 6 p.m., they were at the Rivera Gallery downtown—an event crowded with society’s elite. Lena wore a flowing black gown with a plunging back, her hair swept into a sleek bun. On Damien’s arm, she looked the part—elegant, mysterious, desirable.
Flashes exploded the moment they stepped out of the car.
“Mr. Blackwood! Who’s your stunning wife?”
“Lena, over here!”
He kept his hand on the small of her back, a steady pressure, grounding her. “Smile,” he murmured. “Not too much. We’re in love, not on honeymoon.”
Inside, the gallery shimmered with champagne flutes and whispered gossip. Lena scanned the crowd. Art dealers. Journalists. A few actors. And a woman—icy blonde, emerald gown, daggered eyes—approached with a knowing smile.
“Damien. I didn’t believe the rumors until I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Clara,” Damien said, smooth. “This is my wife, Lena.”
Clara offered a hand. Lena took it, her grip calm, firm. “Pleasure.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Clara replied coolly, then turned to Damien. “You’ve never brought a woman to a Rivera event. That must mean something.”
Lena tilted her head. “Only a woman worth showing off, right?”
Clara blinked. Damien’s lip twitched, almost impressed.
The woman moved on. Damien leaned closer. “Well played.”
Lena sipped her champagne. “You think I can’t handle the sharks?”
“I think they should be scared of you.”
---
As the evening wore on, Lena wandered into one of the quieter gallery rooms—a display of abstract pieces. She stood before a painting, lost in the layers of red and charcoal.
“You like it?” a voice asked behind her.
She turned. A young man with soft brown eyes and paint on his cuticles.
“The chaos. I love it,” she said.
“I’m the artist.”
“Then you must know heartbreak.”
He smiled. “It shows, doesn’t it?”
Damien’s voice cut in, sharp and close. “Lena.”
She turned, startled. His jaw was tight. “We’re leaving.”
Back in the car, she asked, “Are you jealous?”
He didn’t look at her. “You’re not here to flirt with starving artists.”
“No. I’m here to save your image. But I’m still me, Damien.”
He didn’t respond.
The silence in the car was louder than any argument.
---
That night, Lena couldn’t sleep. She went to the studio and started painting—bold strokes, dark colors, fierce emotion.
A few minutes later, she sensed him at the door.
Damien.
“You’re angry,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “I’m alive. That’s different.”
He stepped inside. “I don’t like sharing.”
“You don’t own me.”
Their eyes met across the canvas.
“No,” he said finally. “But I married you. That’s something.”
And then, as if it cost him something real, he added, “You were brilliant tonight.”
She turned back to the canvas.
And kept painting.
- Writer
