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I’m so stunned by his reaction, I visibly tremble. A man standing nearby gasps. Another woman points at me.
Do they all know?
How could they know I’m losing my damn mind over this man?
“It’s her,” someone says. “Wow.”
I jerk my head to follow where he’s pointing. The enormous print behind Dempsey is…me.
Me?
Unable to make sense of what I’m seeing, I push past several suited men until I can see the entire exhibit clearly. The highlighted piece is me in my navy-blue dress—the same godforsaken dress I’m wearing now. The expression on my face is sad. Lonely. Vulnerable.
Oh my God.
Each and every other display scattered around is also me.
Me. Me. Me. Me.
This is a nightmare, right?
Unfortunately, not.
Dempsey
Sloane is here.
Holy fuck.
This was not supposed to happen!
Everyone is staring at her as though she stepped right out of the realistic art print and into their presence. Living art. Some new-age artistic show.
They gasp and croon, all clearly impressed by the spectacle.
Un-fucking-believable.
I didn’t invite my parents or Sloane for this very reason. Somehow, they found out and showed up anyway. The three people who weren’t supposed to see are gawking at the art I so lovingly worked hard on.
Sloane’s gaze lands back on me. Her cheeks are flaming crimson and her eyes are watery. I feel like a total asshole. She’s embarrassed and it’s all my fault.
Before I can call out to her, Sloane turns on her heel and rushes out of the auditorium, pushing past people with surprising strength.
I need to go after her.
Right?
Mom’s eyes find me next. Her mouth is curved into a disappointed frown and anger flashes in her gaze. She’s pissed at me. As she should be. I’ve made a mockery of her best friend and our family. Rather than showcasing my talent, I’ve revealed my obsession with Sloane for the entire goddamn town to see.
Mom shakes her head at me and turns to follow Sloane’s path. I’m sure Dad is around here somewhere, the disappointment etched on his face too.
What have I done?
“Mr. Park,” a woman with sleek black hair purrs as she extends her hand. “I’m Mona Angel and I’m quite impressed with your style. I think your work would fit well in my Seattle gallery. I would love to discuss commissioning you.”
This is what I wanted.
Seattle. Art galleries. Recognition for my work. Paid commissions.
