“A masterpiece of American folk art,” Knox interrupts, completely unashamed. “That painting has soul.”
“That painting has googly eyes,” Bianca counters. “They follow you around the room.”
I watch Elliot’s shoulders shake with genuine laughter, and something possessive tightens in my chest. This—his happiness—I did this. Not alone, perhaps, but I played my part.
“At least I didn’t accidentally donate a nude self-portrait to the children’s hospital fundraiser,” Knox retorts, and Bianca’s face flushes scarlet.
“Remember last year’s Hunt when Victor somehow ended up hanging from the chandelier?” Knox leans back in his chair. “Still no idea how he got up there.”
“Wasn’t that the same night Dominic lost his pants to that hedge fund manager’s daughter?” I add, swirling my wine.
Bianca’s eyes widen. “Lost them how, exactly?”
“She literally stole them while he was... occupied,” I explain with practiced nonchalance. “He had to walk back through the main hall wearing nothing but a borrowed tablecloth.”
Bianca nearly chokes on her Barolo, hand flying to her mouth. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were,” Elliot adds, his shoulders finally loosening. “I had to witness the whole spectacle. The tablecloth had the Purgatory logo right across his ass.”
I watch Elliot’s face as he speaks, a subtle pride washing through me at seeing him engage so naturally. Two weeks ago, he could barely maintain eye contact. It makes my heart happy to see him finding his back to himself so soon.
“What about you?” Knox asks Bianca. “Any gallery nightmares to rival Elliot’s?”
“Well,” Bianca leans forward, “there was the time a very drunk socialite tried to purchase what she thought was an avant-garde sculpture, which was actually just a maintenance ladder with a tarp draped over it.”
Elliot laughs, his eyes crinkling. “That’s nothing. I once had a collector insist that a water stain on the ceiling was part of a minimalist installation. He offered six figures before I could correct him.”
The rhythm of their banter flows easily, professional war stories trading back and forth. I find myself simply watching Elliot’s face, cataloging each genuine smile.
After several minutes, Bianca reaches across the table, her hand covering Elliot’s. Her voice softens. “How are you really doing, though? It’s been a lot to process.”
Elliot’s smile fades slightly, his eyes dropping to the tablecloth. “I’m... getting there. Some days are better than others.” He pauses, fingers tightening around his water glass. “I still expect to see her everywhere. Walking down the street, outside the gallery construction site. I’ll catch a glimpse of someone with the same hair or perfume, and my heart stops.”
Knox swirls his whiskey, expression suddenly pensive. “At least you knew her. I never even met my parents. Dad diedbefore I was born—motorcycle accident. Mom died giving birth to me.”
The revelation hangs in the air. Knox Blackwood, the eternal trickster, rarely spoke with such vulnerability.
“Xavier, Landon, and Vane raised me.” Knox shrugs, a practiced casualness that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe I was better off, you know? Can’t miss what you never had.”
Bianca squeezes Knox’s hand.
A weighted silence falls over the table. I’ve known about Knox’s background for years, but hearing him speak of it so plainly catches me off guard. The vulnerability feels foreign coming from a Blackwood.
“I’m sorry you never got to meet them,” Elliot says, his eyes soft with genuine compassion.
I nod in agreement. “It’s a unique loss,” I offer, thinking of my own mother’s unwavering support when I came out as bisexual. The contrast between our experiences couldn’t be starker.
“I’m sorry too,” Bianca adds, her gaze steady on Knox. “Though, for what it’s worth, your brothers did an impressive job. Not many men could raise a child while being children themselves and then build an empire.”
Knox’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “An illegal empire.”
“Details, potato-potatto,” Bianca waves a graceful hand dismissively, making us all chuckle.
I watch Elliot’s reaction closely. His relationship with his mother was nothing but toxicity and pain, yet there’s still genuine empathy in his expression for Knox’s different kind of loss.
“Xavier used to read me bedtime stories,” Knox admits, looking slightly embarrassed. “Complete with different voices for all the characters. Vane taught me to ride motorcycles whenI was eight, which was definitely illegal. And Landon would help me with math homework.”
Bianca reaches for her wine glass, lifting it gracefully. “I think we should make a toast,” she announces, eyes bright with emotion. “To unconventional families. The ones we’re born into, the ones we create, and the ones that find us when we need them most.”
