I do it without question while still on the phone with him.
“She won’t get away with this,” Julian says after a moment. “I’ll have my team retrieve security footage from nearby buildings. We’ll prove it was her. And when we do, I’m going to ruin her, Elliot. Completely. Systematically. Her entire social world, her church standing, her reputation—all of it gone.”
I should be horrified by the vengeance in his voice. Instead, a warmth spreads through my chest, pushing back against the despair threatening to overwhelm me. For so forty years, no one has ever fought for me. No one has ever been willing to burn down the world when I was wronged.
“Julian...” My voice catches.
“I’m leaving my meeting now. Tell me where to meet you.”
The simplicity of his declaration—dropping everything, no questions asked—makes my eyes burn with tears I refuse to shed.
“The gallery on Fifth.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
I clutch the phone tighter, suddenly desperate not to disconnect. “Julian, thank you.”
“For what?” he asks.
“For caring.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Always, Elliot. Always.”
As we hang up, I stare out the window at the city rushing by, and despite everything, I feel something I haven’t in a very long time—protected. The man on the other end of that phone would wage war for me. And God help me; I love him for it.
The Uber rounds the corner onto Fifth Avenue, and my heart stops. Flames lick the sky where my gallery once stood proud,orange and angry against the morning blue. Fire trucks line the street, their lights painting the scene in surreal flashes of red.
I stumble out of the car before it fully stops, drawn toward the destruction like a moth to flame. A police barrier prevents me from getting closer, but I don’t need proximity to feel the heat of my life’s work burning away.
“Sir, you need to stay back,” an officer says, but I barely hear him.
“I’m Elliot Chambers. It’s my gallery.”
His expression shifts to pity as he lets me through to speak with the fire chief. But I hardly register the conversation. My eyes are fixed on the blackened frame of the front windows, where just yesterday, Alessandra’s sculpture series “Unveiled” had been displayed. Six months of her work—gone. The back room held Jenkins’ entire upcoming show—his breakthrough collection, three years in the making.
My knees nearly buckle. These artists trusted me with their creations, their souls rendered in paint and clay and metal. I was their guardian, their champion in the art world. Now I’ve failed them completely.
A firefighter walks past carrying a charred frame—I recognize it as Miranda’s landscape, the one that sold last week but hadn’t been picked up yet. The canvas inside is nothing but ash.
My phone buzzes with incoming calls from artists who’ve heard the news. I can’t bear to answer right now, to tell them everything they entrusted to me has been destroyed because my mother couldn’t accept who I am.
Insurance should at least cover monetary losses. I’ve always maintained comprehensive coverage—fire, theft, and natural disaster. But if they investigate and discover my mother’s involvement, would they rule it a personal conflict? Classify it asdomestic sabotage stemming from my coming out? I might be deemed partially responsible, invalidating the claim entirely.
I watch another section of the roof collapse inward, sending a fresh plume of smoke and glowing embers skyward. Years of carefully cultivated relationships and reputation vanished in the heat.
A sleek black car pulls up, and Julian emerges, his usual composed demeanor cracked with concern. He spots me immediately, ducking under the police tape despite an officer’s protests. When he reaches me, his arm slides around my waist, steadying me against his solid frame.
“My God, Elliot.” His eyes reflect the dancing flames.
I lean into him, grateful for the support as my legs threaten to give way. “Everything’s gone, Julian. Everything those artists trusted me with. Their work, their futures...” My voice breaks. “And the insurance—what if they investigate and find out it was my mother? They’ll claim it’s a domestic dispute, a personal vendetta. They’ll deny the claim.”
Julian’s fingers tighten on my hip. “Listen to me.” His voice is calm, grounding. “The insurance will pay out. I’ll make sure of it.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because I have relationships with every major insurer in this city.” He turns me to face him, away from the devastation. “Part of my job as an investment banker is managing risk portfolios for these companies. I sit on advisory boards for three of the largest insurance firms in the country.”
I blink up at him, momentarily distracted from the chaos. “You do?”
