“That’s normal,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I actually did throw up during my first exhibition. Puked all over a server and a guest who happened to be one of Paris’s premier art collectors. I was mortified, but he was a good sport about it. Ended up buying two of my pieces that night.”
I chewed on my bottom lip. That was another thing. All the fellows’ photos were up for sale tonight. My cohort had turned it into a competition to see who could sell the most and therefore boast they were “the best,” but I would be happy if I sold one.
Knowing that someone, anyone, liked my work enough to pay for it sent a swarm of happy jitters through my stomach.
“I hope I’ll have as good a night,” I said, because I hadn’t sold anything yet.
The twinkle in Diane’s eyes intensified. “You already have. Better, in fact.”
I tilted my head in confusion.
“Someone bought all your pieces. Every single one.”
I almost choked on my champagne. “Wh-what?” The exhibition started an hour ago. How was that possible?
“Seems like you have an admirer.” She winked. “Don’t look so surprised. Your work is good. Really good.”
I didn’t care how good my work was; I was an unknown name. A newbie. Newbies don’t sell out of their entire collection that fast unless…
My heart thumped—in warning or excitement, I wasn’t sure.
I glanced frantically around the gallery, searching for thick brown hair and cool green eyes.
Nothing.
But he was here. He was my anonymous buyer. I felt it in my gut.
Alex and I had developed a new…well, I wasn’t sure if I could call it a friendship, but it was a step up from whatever we had when he arrived in London a year ago. He still waited for me in front of my flat every morning and walked me home after my workshops every afternoon. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we didn’t. He helped me practice my self-defense moves, assembled my new dining table after my old one broke, and served as a de facto assistant on some of my photoshoots. It had taken a long time before we reached that point, but we’d gotten there.
He was trying. More than trying. And while I’d regained a modicum of trust in him, something held me back from fully forgiving him. I could see how much it hurt him every time I pushed him away, but the wounds from his and Michael’s betrayals—while they were healing—ran deep, and I was still learning to trust myself, much less other people.
Josh, who’d graduated med school last month, had visited a few times, and I made Alex stay out of sight while he was in town. Josh was still furious with Alex, and I didn’t need them getting into a fistfight in the middle of London. Jules, Bridget, and Stella had visited too. I hadn’t told them about Alex, but I had a hunch Bridget knew something was up—she’d kept looking at me with a knowing glint in her eyes.
Microphone feedback rippled through the air, and the crowd quieted. The fellowship director walked on stage and thanked everyone for attending, she hoped they were having a good time, blah blah blah. I tuned her out, too intent on my search to pay attention.
Where was he?
Alex wasn’t one to hide in the shadows unless he didn’t want to be seen, and I couldn’t think of any reason he’d want to lie low tonight.
“…special performance. Please put your hands together for Alex Volkov!”
This was maddening. Had something—wait, what?
My head snapped up, and my stomach tumbled into freefall.
There he was. Black tuxedo, unreadable expression, his hair gleaming golden brown beneath the lights. There were almost two hundred people in the room, but his eyes found mine immediately.
My pulse thumped with anticipation.
What was he doing onstage?
I got my answer a minute later.
“I realize this is quite a surprise, as a live performance wasn’t in the program tonight,” Alex said. “And if you know me, you know I’m not famous for my patronage of the arts—or my singing skills.” Soft laughter rippled through the crowd, along with a few knowing looks. Alex waited for the chuckles to die down before he continued, his gaze burning into mine. “Whether it’s music, photography, film, or painting, the arts reflect the world around us, and for too long, I only saw the dark side. The seedy underbellies, the ugly truths. Photographs reminded me of moments in time that never lasted. Songs reminded me that words have the power to rip one’s heart out. Why, then, would I care about art when it was so terrible and destructive?” It was a bold statement to make in front of London’s art world, but no one heckled. No one so much as breathed. Alex had us all under the spell of his words. “Then someone came into my life and upended everything I thought I knew. She was everything I wasn’t—pure-hearted, trusting, optimistic. She showed me the beauty that existed in this world, and through her, I learned the power of faith. Joy. Love. But I’m afraid I’ve tainted her with my untruths, and I’m hoping, with all of my heart, that one day she’ll find her way out of the darkness and into the light again.”
The room rang with breathless silence at the end of Alex’s speech. My heart was pounding, pounding so hard I felt it in my throat. My stomach. My toes. I felt it in every inch of me.
Then he opened his mouth again, and my heart stopped altogether. Because the voice that came out and filled the room? It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.
It wasn’t just me, either—everyone stared at Alex with rapt fascination, and I was pretty sure a few of the women straight-up swooned.
I pressed my fist to my mouth as the lyrics flowed over me. It was a song about love and heartbreak. Betrayal and redemption. Regret and forgiveness. Each word tore me apart, as did the fact that Alex sang at all. No matter how much I’d cajoled or begged in the past, it was the one thing he’d refused to do.
Until now.
I understood why he’d refused. Alex didn’t just sing, he sang. With emotion, with beauty, with so much rawness it took my breath away. He bared his soul with each note, and for a man who thought his soul was irrevocably damned, the thought of doing that in front of an audience must’ve been unbearable.
Alex finished to thunderous applause. His gaze lingered on mine for one long moment before he disappeared offstage, and the crowd broke up into excited chatter and gasps.
My feet moved before I could think, but I only made it two steps before Diane stopped me.
“Ava, before you leave, there’s someone I want you to meet,” she said. “The editor of World Geographic is here, and they’re always looking for talented young photographers.”
“I—okay.” I looked around, but I didn’t see Alex anywhere.
“Is everything all right? You seem distracted.” Diane examined me with concern. “You’ve been talking about World Geographic all year. I thought you’d be more excited.”
“Yes, I’m fine. Sorry, I’m just a little overwhelmed.” Normally, I would’ve fangirled at the thought of meeting the editor of World Geographic, a travel and culture magazine famous for its stunning photographs and storytelling, but all I could think about was Alex.
“That was quite a performance, huh?” Diane grinned as she led me toward an older man with silver-streaked hair and a thick beard. Laurent Boucher. I recognized him immediately. “If I were twenty years younger…”
I forced a weak laugh.
“Not that it would do me much good. He seemed to only have eyes for you.” She winked at me.
Heat rose on my face, and I mumbled an incoherent response before we reached Laurent.
“Diane, good to see you again.” Laurent’s deep voice rumbled with a charming French accent as he air-kissed her. “You look lovely as always.”
“You’re always such a charmer.” Diane inclined her head toward me. “Laurent, I want you to meet Ava. She’s the fellow I was telling you about.”
“Ah, of course.” Laurent turned his piercing dark eyes on me. “I was talking to Diane about your exhibit earlier this evening. You’re quite talented—young still, and your work could use a little more refinement, but you have extraordinary potential.”
“Thank you, sir.” Between Alex’s performance and praise from Laurent freakin’ Boucher, this whole evening was surreal.