The gallery was hushed, the air smelling faintly of varnish and roses.
Gigi stood alone in the center, her exhibition finally complete. The walls glowed under the soft amber lights, each canvas breathing a fragment of her story — the fall, the grief, the becoming.
Her assistant had left hours ago. Even Isabella had been dragged home by her husband after insisting she’d sleep on one of the benches “just in case something collapses.”
Now it was only Gigi — barefoot, quiet, listening to the hum of the space that had once been her battleground and was now her cathedral.
Tomorrow would be the first time her name appeared not as a curator, but as an artist.
Her own heart on display.
She traced her fingers along the edge of a frame, her breath catching.
For the first time, she felt no fear
