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She hit send and turned off her phone.
She lay in bed for a long time, too restless to sleep. Eventually she was lulled by the sounds of traffic outside, welcome after the silence of John’s well-insulated suburban home.
Her thoughts drifted to Eric. Maybe, if they’d met under different circumstances, something might have developed between them. She sensed from the things he’d said during her brief training with him that his kink aligned more directly with hers—more about the D/s aspect of erotic pain than the whole Master/slave dynamic.
But he’d seen her at her worst—confused, frightened and completely out of her depth. He no doubt regarded her as someone to save or repair, not someone to love.
Which was fine, she reassured herself, as she had zero desire to leap into anything new. While BDSM was still in her bones, she’d had enough whips and chains to last her for quite a while, thank you.
If she returned to the scene, it would be with eyes wide open. No more following someone else’s dictates as to what she needed. She would make her own decisions from a position of strength. Next time, if there was a next time, when something didn’t feel right, she’d follow her gut.
But right now she would focus on her career. She was with a gallery!
And she had John Garfield to thank for that. He’d placed six of her best pieces with them, and she would always appreciate that, no matter what else had gone down between them. He’d taken a genuine interest in her work, and she’d been all too happy to let him handle things for her so she could focus on her art—and on him. But now she was ready to take back the reins.
She closed her eyes, imagining the night of the show opening. Champagne, the artistic elite milling about in their fine clothes, the critics with their eye out for the next big thing…
She would have to get something to wear. She would make a trip to La Boutique, an upscale consignment shop with a decent sales rack in the back. But first, she’d go to the Zimmer Gallery and get all the details.
“You got that right, Sheri,” she whispered into the dark. “Rowan Georgiou is back.”
The next morning, Rowan took the six train to SoHo, getting off at a station only a block from Zimmer Gallery. Though Sheri was taller than she, they were similarly proportioned. At her friend’s insistence, she’d borrowed a sleeveless houndstooth sheath dress that was a mini on Sheri, but came to just above Rowan’s knees. She’d done her makeup and pulled her unruly hair back at the nape of her neck with a borrowed silver barrette, going for what she hoped was a sophisticated look. She wore her trusty sneakers for the subway ride, but put the pair of black strappy tie leg heeled sandals she also borrowed from Sheri in her bag. Fortunately, they wore the same size shoe.
Once up the stairs of the subway station, she changed into the sandals, taking a moment to figure out how the leg ties worked along her calves. Finally satisfied, she walked down the block and stopped in front of Zimmer’s SoHo gallery.
There was a large sign in the window announcing an exhibit opening in two weeks. In bold letters set against a print of a beautiful, color-drenched abstract were the words:
Beverly Sanchez – Cadences of Color & Form
Beverly Sanchez was a phenomenal artist Rowan had admired ever since she’d seen her work at a much smaller gallery in Brooklyn not far from Pratt’s main campus. Her artwork formed a lovely harmony of composition and color that had always reminded Rowan of classical music, if it were made with pigment instead of sound.
Rowan gave an uncontrollable, excited squeal when she saw, in much smaller font at the bottom of the announcement:
Rowan Georgiou – Abstract Reflections in Shades of Blue & Gold
She, Rowan, was sharing a show with one of the most renowned abstract artists in the country! Even if her work was hidden in a closet, the reflected glory of a shared billing might be enough to get Rowan her own show one day, without any help from John Garfield.
“That’s me!” she wanted to shout to several passersby.
Instead, composing herself, she smoothed her dress and stepped inside. The space was all white—white walls and white floors. It would have been stark, but for the soft, buttery lighting, coupled with the natural light from several high casement windows. A quick glance around showed her the Sanchez pieces weren’t yet hung.
A rail-thin woman in her early twenties wearing what looked like a man’s tuxedo jacket over cream-colored silk palazzo pants clicked toward her on stiletto heels. She gave Rowan an appraising look.
“May I help you?” she asked, a quizzical smile on her perfectly made-up face, as if Rowan had clearly wandered into the space without a clue.
