ABIGAIL.
The gallery meeting was real.
Medley Pierce, one of the most influential gallery owners in the city, called me personally. She wanted to see my portfolio, discuss representation, maybe even a solo show. I should have been elated.
Instead, I was terrified that Oberin would appear in the middle of it.
I dressed conservatively—tailored pants, a silk blouse, understated jewelry. Professional. Respectable.
Not at all like someone who’d been f****d by a demon in her shower two days ago.
The meeting started well. Medley loved my work, praised my technique, talked about how she’d always thought I was talented and was shocked by the plagiarism allegations.
“Between you and me,” she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “Tate Harrison’s work has always been derivative. But his fam
