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“Funny how you didn’t have a conscience a few weeks ago,” she says, ignoring my offer to help her financially. That’s another thing about my sister—she’s as independent as she is stubborn. Asking for help is a sign of weakness. Taking help is an act of desperation.
I’m hopeful that with Ethan’s mom being so generous and willing to step in, she might loosen her reins a bit. Only time will tell.
“You’re right,” I say. “I didn’t have one then. I was only thinking of you in that moment and no one else. I deeply regret that . . . which is why I’m coming clean to him.”
“And how, exactly, do you foresee this little conversation going?” Her eyes are wild, full of a cocktail of unrestrained emotions.
“No idea. But I’d rather be honest and risk losing him than break his heart so that you can get a promotion.”
Turning, I head down the hall toward my room. After a long day at the gallery, the last thing I want to do is stand here and bang my head against the brick wall that is my sister. I know from experience that she can argue with the best of them, rarely backing down until she gets what she wants.
But my mind is made up.
I’m halfway to my room when Margaux shoves past me, her shoulder brushing so hard against mine she nearly knocks me off balance. She doesn’t apologize; she simply disappears behind her bedroom door, slamming it closed. A moment later, music blasts from inside her room, her way of literally tuning me out.
Either way, I don’t let it get to me.
I know I’m making the right choice.
And the thing about Margaux is she’ll eventually get over this. It might not be tomorrow or next week or even a year from now. But she won’t hate me forever.
I only wish I could say the same for Roman.
There’s no telling how he’s going to take this news.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ROMAN
I pull up my old Halcyon email account while I wait for Antonio to arrive at the studio. There must be hundreds, maybe even thousands, of unread messages. I delete them all before composing a single message to a select handful of local galleries, informing them that “Halcyon” would like to have a small exhibit in the coming weeks.
It feels ridiculous, even now, writing in the third person, pretending this entire charade isn’t as comical as it is insane. When Emma and I first dreamed up this little side gig, it was nothing more than a passion project. She saw how unfulfilled I was working for the family business and suggested I find a creative outlet doing something that brought me pure pleasure. Something to feed my joy-starved soul. Something for me and only for me.
Under the influence of sweet wine and edibles, we dreamed up my Halcyon alter ego, carefully planning all the ways it could be mysterious and anonymous. But what began as a joke quickly took on a life of its own, growing into something more than either of us bargained for. I was never looking for fame, money, or recognition. And with the freedom anonymity could provide, I could continue painting for the fun of it. There was never any reason to stop . . . until there was.
I press send on the email, slide my phone into my pocket, and lock up my studio—but not before stealing one last glimpse at the piece I finished an hour ago: one solely inspired by Margaux.
If it never leaves this building, if it never hangs on someone’s wall, then at least it exists.
That’s all that matters.
In my early Halcyon days, Emma and I would hole up here every weekend. I’d hold marathon painting sessions while she curated playlists and ran out for coffee and bagels in the mornings and pizza at night. That was always our thing—it was sacred, and I’d never re-create that with Margaux. But one of these days, when the time is right, I’ll tell her the truth about Halcyon and how everything came to be.
If she’s anything like I think she is, she’ll understand why I didn’t tell her. The value of my work almost completely hinges on the fact that I’m anonymous. It gives the art more of an edge, an air of mysteriousness that only adds to its value and demand. If all of that were to go away, hundreds of people would lose millions of dollars.
I can’t, in good faith, screw the very collectors who padded my pocketbook all those years ago. The idea that these multimillion-dollar paintings might suddenly be worth hardly more than the canvas they’re painted on makes me sick to my stomach.
“How was it, kid?” Antonio asks when I climb into my back seat a few minutes later. “How’d it feel to get back at it, eh?”
