The Vera Vogue Gallery shimmered like a jewel box tucked between glass towers, its entrance lined with velvet ropes and flickering uplights that turned the white façade golden.
Clara stood beside Julian on the carpeted steps, cameras clicking in a steady rhythm like rainfall. He had warned her about the press, but the sheer volume of lenses and murmured name-dropping still left her momentarily breathless.
Julian didn't offer his arm. He simply slowed his stride to match hers. It was his version of comfort, and she was learning to read those small signs.
She wore navy tonight. Not black. Not red. A silk gown that brushed the floor with each step, modest in cut but regal in how it caught the light. Harper had insisted on it. Her hair was swept up, a few soft strands framing her face. A delicate silver chain circled her neck.
Julian, beside her, was effortless in a tailored charcoal suit. His cufflinks bore his mother's initials. It was the only personal item on him tonight.
Inside, the gallery hummed with polite conversation and champagne glasses. Curators in dark suits murmured over canvases. Socialites studied titles while sneaking glances at Julian and Clara.
"Everyone's watching," she whispered as they passed a wall of sketches.
"Let them," he said, his tone low.
A large canvas dominated the central room. It wasn't signed, but a gold placard beneath it read:
Untitled (Julian, age six)
Charcoal on handmade paper. Artist: Margaret E. Blackwell.
Clara stopped.
The portrait was raw, less refined than the others. A child's solemn face drawn in bold strokes. Wide eyes. A mouth caught in neither a smile nor a frown. It looked like a child who had already learned how to hide.
"Did you know this one would be here?" Clara asked quietly.
Julian said nothing for a moment. Then nodded.
"She burned most of her early work. This one must've survived somehow."
Clara took a step closer. The detail was astonishing. The boy in the portrait clutched something in his hand, half-hidden beneath his sleeve.
"A coin?" she guessed.
Julian's voice was quiet. "A charm. My grandfather gave it to me before he passed."
Behind them, a soft voice broke the silence.
"Fascinating, isn't it? She never showed it to anyone while she was alive."
Clara turned.
Vivienne Ashcroft stood beside the wine station, her gown glittering like frozen champagne. She held a flute delicately, her red lips curled in polite curiosity.
"I always wondered what it looked like," she continued, her eyes flicking from Julian to the portrait to Clara. "Now I know."
Clara didn't answer.
Julian spoke instead. "Vivienne."
She smiled at him. "Don't worry, Julian. I'm here to support your mother's legacy. Not interfere with your… arrangement."
Clara felt the chill in the air, subtle but unmistakable.
Vivienne took a small sip and tilted her head. "Do you think she'd be pleased to see you here with someone new?"
Julian's posture stayed calm, but his jaw shifted slightly.
"She would be pleased I came at all," he replied. "She always wanted me to stop running."
Vivienne laughed once. Not cruelly, but not kindly either.
"Well. Some things change, I suppose."
She turned and melted into the crowd.
Clara exhaled slowly.
Julian didn't comment. Instead, he moved them toward a quieter section of the gallery, past smaller pieces—fragments of landscapes, unfinished figures, studies of hands and still life.
"She always painted unfinished things," Julian said softly. "She said completion wasn't the point. Trying was."
Clara looked up at him. His expression was unreadable again. The cool mask had returned.
But when she reached out and lightly touched his sleeve, he didn't pull away.
And when the photographer for the gallery stepped forward and asked for a shot of the couple by the portrait, Julian didn't hesitate.
He turned to Clara, gave her a quiet glance of permission, then placed his hand gently at the small of her back.
The cameras clicked.
And for the first time that night, Julian Blackwell smiled.
Not for the press.
Not for the legacy.
But for the woman standing beside him.
The gallery's back corridor was quieter. The art here was subtler, framed sketches and oil studies from Margaret Blackwell's later years. The lighting was dimmer, shadows stretching between spotlit pieces.
Clara lingered in front of a series of three unfinished canvases. Brushstrokes hinted at blooming trees, but none were filled in. They looked like memories paused before becoming real.
Behind her, Julian took a call in hushed tones. Something about a board decision. Something about Lang trying to reschedule a vote.
Clara let him drift away. She wanted to be alone for a minute.
That was when a hand tapped her arm.
She turned, startled.
A girl stood in front of her. Barely nineteen. Dressed in all black. A gallery intern badge hung from a lanyard around her neck. Her face was pale and serious.
"You are Clara Wynter, right?"
Clara nodded, unsure. "Yes."
The girl looked around once, then pressed something into Clara's hand.
"Someone asked me to give this to you. She didn't want to be seen. She left before the event started."
Clara looked down. A white envelope. Her name written in fine cursive.
No return address.
Before Clara could ask more, the girl gave a stiff nod and disappeared down the corridor.
Clara moved to a nearby bench and sat down, the envelope cool in her hand.
She hesitated.
Then opened it.
The letter inside was handwritten. A little smudged. As if the writer had cried while writing it.
I used to follow your articles. Quietly. When you wrote about your mother's stroke, I cried. Because mine had one too.
Then you disappeared from the blog.
Then I saw your wedding picture. You looked tired. But happy.
I hope that's real.
I used to be a fan of Margaret Blackwell. She taught me, once, during a summer workshop. She never mentioned her son.
But she painted him all the time. Even when she was tired. Even when her hands hurt.
She said she wanted to keep something good alive.
I hope you help him find what she never could.
Please be careful. Some people want you to fall.
But others are quietly cheering for you. Like me.
Clara folded the letter slowly, a strange warmth blooming behind her ribs.
When Julian returned, she did not tell him about the note. Not yet.
He sat beside her, brushing invisible lint from her shoulder, his touch oddly tender.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
She nodded. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"Whether your mother would have liked me."
He did not answer right away. Then he said, "She would have respected you."
"That's not the same as liking me."
Julian looked at her. His eyes softer than usual.
"It is in my family."
They sat in silence a while longer, their backs to the art, their faces toward each other.
And in that moment, Clara knew something had changed. Not loudly. Not suddenly.
But enough.
Enough to make her stay a little longer.
Enough to make her believe that something fragile might survive, even in a house that had only ever known silence and legacy.