Francis hovered at the edge of it all, dressed in a tailored black suit—borrowed, not bought—clutching a flute of champagne he hadn’t touched.
He watched Marie with something between reverence and pride. She moved like she belonged in oil and gold leaf, radiant beneath gallery lights, surrounded by people who knew her name, her pedigree, her story.
He was still learning how to fit into this world. But for Marie, he tried.
He smiled at the appropriate moments. Nodded when critics spoke about color theory and market value. Shook hands with men whose cologne cost more than his rent once had. She had introduced him as *her partner*—some accepted it graciously, others with hollow civility.
He didn’t mind. It wasn’t about him.
Tonight was hers.
Still, when the social strain grew tight acro
