Page 3 of His Vow

"I guess so."

Doors opened at 7:00 p.m. By 7:30 p.m., the room was breathing.

Rafael's streetscapes drew people first — the bold ones. The bright geometry of favela rooftops and laundry lines strung between buildings, colors so saturated they vibrated against the white walls. But the ones who stayed, the ones who went quiet and leaned in close enough to see the brushstrokes, found the kitchen paintings. The interiors. The spaces where the light softened.

I moved through the room, touching elbows and remembering names. A collector from Chelsea met a curator from the Bronx because I introduced them. I watched the handshake turn into a real conversation. An art teacher from Queens stood in front of the grandmother painting for so long her eyes got wet, so I pulled a tissue from my pocket and pressed it into her hand without saying a word.

I was telling a young couple about Rafael's streetscape of the Pinheiros River — how he'd painted it from memory because the actual riverbank had been demolished before he could photograph it — when a voice cut through the room like a bell made of glass.

"Soleil!"

Camille swept toward me in a cream silk dress, her chestnut hair blown out so perfectly it moved as a single unit. Behind her, the rest filed in — Bianca in black from head to toe, her dark skin glowing against the fabric, a statement necklace resting on her collarbone like a piece of armor. Dominique, petite and blonde, was already scanning the room. Sloane was taller than all of them, red-haired, fingers wrapped around a clutch she kept adjusting. And Petra at the rear, olive-skinned, quiet, and sophisticated.

Air-kisses. One after another. Camille's lips landed near my left ear.

"The space looks incredible," Camille said. "You've done such a good job with it."

"So charming," Bianca added. Her eyes swept past me toward the bar. "Very intimate."

"Is the artist here?" Sloane asked. "He's so brave to show this early in his career."

Even when the support had a texture I couldn't quite name, I still skilled and thanked them for coming . That was what I did when people showed up for me. I walked them over to Rafael and introduced him. He shook their hands with an earnest grip.

Camille tilted her head and asked where he studied.

"Self-taught," Rafael said. No apology in his voice.

Camille's smile tightened. A millimeter. Maybe less.

My teeth found the inside of my cheek and pressed. "Rafael's work is being collected in four countries," I said. "His technique is entirely his own. That's what makes it extraordinary."

"Of course." Camille's smile reset, smooth as glass sliding back into a frame. "Extraordinary."

They drifted into the crowd. Within minutes, Bianca had cornered a man I didn't recognize and was explaining, with great authority and volume, why "raw art has such an interesting energy."

I caught Margaux's eye across the room. She was standing by the wine table, a glass in one hand. Her face was arranged in the expression she reserved for moments of extreme restraint. She mouthed two words at me that were so profane I had to look away before my composure cracked entirely.

I was still biting the inside of my cheek when the door opened again, and Rhys walked in carrying a bouquet of sunflowers.

My brother was a handsome man who made rooms rearrange themselves. Tall, golden-brown skin, a jaw sharp enough to cut, and the easy, practiced smile of a man who'd been the center of attention since birth. His suit fit perfectly. His hair was freshly cut, his shoes were polished, and the sunflowers — my favorite. He never forgot the soft things even when everything else about him was hard edges and high walls.

"Congratulations, Sol." He pulled me into a one-armed hug, the flowers crushed between us, petals catching in my hair. He smelled like sandalwood cologne and wine.

"Thank you for coming."

"Wouldn't miss it." He kissed my temple.

Camille materialized at his elbow within seconds. Bianca drifted over. They orbited him — the heir, the golden boy, the name they wanted proximity to. Rhys smiled through it. He was exceptional at smiling through things.

The moment they released him, I watched him cross the room in a straight line to the bar. He ordered a dark spirit and finished it in two swallows. His hand came up to signal for another. His shoulders were pulled tight under his blazer, the fabric bunching between his shoulder blades as he leaned forward on the bar.

I looked away.

Camille found me again near the back wall. She tucked a strand of that perfect hair behind her ear and dropped her voice like she was sharing classified intelligence. "I ran into your father's lovely assistant last week. Catherine mentioned Hugh is planning a special gathering for your birthday next month."

"He always does something." I smiled. "He can't help himself."

"Such a devoted father." She tilted her head. "You're so lucky, Soleil."