Damien had come. He had seen. He had looked proud. And then he had walked away.
The rest of the night stretched on, endless and heavy. People praised her work, journalists scribbled notes, collectors whispered about purchasing, but Lena moved through it like a ghost. She was polite, gracious even, but her mind kept circling back to that single moment across the room, that look Damien had given her, so proud, so restrained, so final.
When the night finally wound down and the last of the guests trickled out, Lena stood alone in the gallery, surrounded by her own creations. The silence felt too large, too empty. Her hand brushed against one of her canvases, Unbound, a riot of crimson and ash and she thought of Damien again.
He had seen her. That much she knew. But he hadn’t stayed.
Withou
