Page 37 of His Vow

I looked at the spreadsheet. The gap was enormous. The Hargrove grant didn't just fund Rafael's show — it enabled the gallery to take risks. Unknown artists. Ambitious exhibitions. Programming that didn't need to justify itself to a commercial bottom line. Without it, everything shrank.

"The gallery survives," Margaux said. She pointed at a column. "Operating costs are covered through existing revenue. But the second show…" She trailed off. Her finger moved to another number. "We can't do sixteen pieces. Not at the scale Rafael is planning. We'd need to cut the catalog, reduce the marketing, and possibly drop the venue capacity."

Behind her, through the doorway, I could see the butcher paper. The arrows. The Post-it notes. The layout for a show that was supposed to be twice the size of the first.

"Where's Rafael?" I asked.

"He just left the studio. He's on his way here."

I stood. Brushed off my knees. Walked to the main gallery and stood in front of the grandmother's kitchen. The flour. The hands. The light through the window. I put my palms against my face and pressed until the pressure steadied me.

Rafael arrived twenty minutes later. He walked in carrying a canvas under his arm — a new piece, still wet at the edges, a streetscape of a harbor he'd been working on for weeks. He saw my face, and the canvas lowered.

"What happened?"

I told him. I kept my voice steady, my hands at my sides. I told him the grant was gone, the foundation was dissolving, and the second show would need to be smaller than what we'd planned.

He set the canvas against the wall. Looked at the butcher paper on the floor. The arrows. The Post-it notes. The layout he'd helped design two hours ago. His hand moved to the back of his neck, his fingers pressing into the muscle. He didn't speak.

"We'll figure it out," I said. "The show is still happening. The scale changes, not the work."

He nodded. His jaw was tight. He picked up the canvas, tucked it back under his arm, and walked toward the door. He stopped.

"The work is ready," he said quietly. "You told me that. The work is always ready."

He left. The door closed. Margaux was behind me, her hand on my shoulder, squeezing once.

I pulled out my phone and called Rhys. Four rings. Voicemail. I typed a text.

Soleil

Hey. Can you call me when you get a chance? Having a rough day.

I waited. Five minutes. Ten. The screen stayed dark.

The third time in two weeks. I put the phone in my pocket.

I texted Nolan at 6:00 p.m.

Soleil

Can I see you tonight? I need to not think for a few hours.

His response came in seconds.

Nolan

Name the place.

I picked a restaurant three blocks from my apartment. Small, dim, a place with candles on the table and menus written on chalkboards. I wanted comfort. I wanted him.

He was already seated when I arrived, his jacket on the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled, a glass of water untouched in front of him. He stood when I walked in. His eyes moved over my face, reading it.

I sat across from him. He sat back down. The candle flickered between us.

"The Hargrove Foundation dissolved," I said. I folded my hands on the table. "The grant that funds our programming is gone. Effective immediately. Rafael's second show just got cut in half."

He was still. His fingers rested on the table beside his water glass. "What happened to the foundation?"