Page 268 of Barinov

“I got it.”

Chapter 69

LEX

The Glasshouse Gallery - Manhattan, New York

Never been prouder in my fucking life.

88 days since we got our girl back.

Glasshouse Gallery split tonight’s showcase into three separate rooms.

Off to the right, some Brooklyn painter named Sloane is holding court in her own featured collection. Surrounded by hipsters and critics swooning over whatever minimalist geometric crap she threw on a canvas.

I don’t spare her a second glance.

Because Cade’s room is to my left.

And the place is fucking packed.

Sterile white walls, sleek track lighting, and concrete floors polished to such a high, glassy shine they reflect every damn canvas hanging around us. Buyers, collectors, and high-society snobs are crammed shoulder-to-shoulder just to get a glimpse of what my man created.

I wander through the room, taking my time.

Ten paintings.

Ten pieces of the man I love.

It’s hard as fucking hell not to just stare at Cade the entire time. He’s standing up at the front of the room in that tux looking like a goddamn masterpiece himself. Right now, he’s in deep conversation with a high-end buyer. He’s gesturing toward the canvas in front of them with that quiet, intense passion he only gets when he’s talking about this art.

As I watch, one of the Glasshouse curators weaves through the crowd, tapping Cade on the shoulder to introduce him to another heavy-hitter. Cade handles the conversation effortlessly, flashing a smooth smile that makes my pulse spike.

“Champagne?” a waiter asks me.

“God yes,” I mutter, ripping it off the silver tray and shooting it back as Cade is greeted by Khoza and Mac.

I force my eyes away before I end up marching over there and pulling him into a corner. I stop in front of the largest canvas in the room.

The Gallery allowed the artists to spotlight a piece they could title Home in the center of the room and of course, my man chose the best one. The one he did of me and him naked in bed with our girl between our bodies.

As I’m staring at it trying my best to keep Little Lex down, a gray-haired woman steps up beside me. She squints at the canvas while adjusting her pearl necklace.

“Oh, my,” she whispers to her husband, pressing a hand to her chest. “The raw emotion in this one, dear… I’d take it home tomorrow.”

I snort into my champagne flute.

Not a chance, granny.

Stepping back into the reception hall, I set my empty flute on a passing waiter’s silver tray and snag a full one without missing a beat.

My eyes lock onto Bella before anything else. She’s standing over by some ridiculous marble statue of some naked guy with a tiny leaf slapped over his dick, laughing with Roman and Luciana.

Rico made all three of the girls dresses for today’s festivities. He put Bella in a black strapless with an obvious Lex-Barinov-Approved thigh-high slit that should probably not be legal here, but who the fuck cares. He knows damn well how much I love seeing her legs.

Love that guy.

Her dark hair is pinned up to the side in one of those soft, gorgeous waves that expose the long curve of her neck.