Chapter 7 Spotlight

Chapter 7 Spotlight
The room swallows Rafael back up, and I’m still standing there with a glass in my hand like an NPC who forgot her script.
Luca is the first one to move.
“Three,” he says quietly.
I blink. “What?”
“Seconds.” He lifts a brow. “You held your breath for three seconds after he left. Your new record is only five, remember?”
I hiss under my breath. “You seriously need a new hobby that doesn’t involve counting my breathing.”
“Unfortunately, my hobby is currently standing in front of me in a blue dress that’s way too sexy for me to focus on anything else,” he replies easily.
I almost smile. Almost.
“Come on.” He pats my back lightly. “The auction’s starting soon. Daniel said the next room is ready. You can pass out in a chair if you want, way more aesthetic.”
“If I pass out, make sure the angle is good,” I mutter. “I don’t want to wake up and find out my photo went viral with a double chin.”
We move through the crowd. Spotlights drag shadows across the marble floor, jazz still spilling through the air, glasses clinking softly. I walk. My body follows orders, but there’s a thin gap between bone and skin. Like everything’s half a second late.
Numb. That’s the closest word for it.
Luca steers us into the next room, set up like a chic mini auction: neat rows of chairs, a small podium at the front, a screen showing slides of the artwork, a bar table at the back with champagne and mineral water. A few collectors are already seated, holding little numbered paddles or just leaning back, chatting.
“Back row?” Luca points to a corner near the bar.
“Back row, always,” I say. “So if I bolt, the damage is minimal.”
“You and running,” he whines, half joking. “We really should bring that up in our future couples therapy.”
I nudge his heel with my foot. “First of all, we do not have couples therapy. Second, if we did, you’d be the one who needs it.”
He laughs, then pulls my chair out for me. Gentleman. Damn him.
I sit. Satin slides cool over my thighs. The room is a little darker than the main hall, the lights focused on the podium and the screen. Behind me, I can hear the bartender working on drinks.
“Drink?” Luca leans in. “Give your hands something to do besides crushing the chair.”
“My hands are relaxed,” I protest automatically.
Luca’s gaze drops to my fingers clamped around the sides of the chair like a roller coaster safety bar. My fingers are rigid, knuckles white.
I loosen my grip, fake a yawn. “Okay, maybe a little tense. Fine. Get me champagne, please. The cheapest one, so if I spill it I won’t be devastated.”
He shakes his head, a small joke tugging at his mouth. “If you spill it, I’ll tell them it’s part of the performance art.”
He heads for the bar. I reset my breathing, one in, two out, like the meditation app I never actually use. On the screen, Charity Auction – Evening Lot glows. The other artists’ names appear one by one. I read without really absorbing any of them.
Luca comes back with two flutes. He sets one on the little table beside my chair and puts the other in my hand.
I only realize my hand is shaking when the glass taps lightly against the rim and the sound is too loud in my own ears.
Luca steadies the base of the flute for a second. “Hey,” he says softly. “Slow down. We’re not chasing anyone.”
“It’s just low-blood-sugar hands,” I say quickly, shrugging. “I only ate one canapé that looked like a green sponge. It was probably styrofoam.”
He looks at me for a moment, a beat too long to be casual. His gaze moves over my face, down my neck, then back to my eyes. He’s known me long enough to tell the difference between hungry and triggered. But he’s kind enough not to smack me with that precision.
“We can go home if you want,” he says. Quiet but firm. “They’ve already put in the first refusal, right? The money still hits your account even if you don’t sit here and watch people bid.”
“I don’t bail on events with a free buffet,” I answer quickly. “That would violate a core life principle.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “So you’re staying for the edamame canapés.”
“Exactly. And for Gemma’s happiness, since she’s definitely stalking the gallery’s Instagram from home.” I take a sip of champagne, a little steadier now. “I’m fine, Lu. It’s just… a lot of people, a lot of lights, a lot of zeros. My brain’s still loading.”
He doesn’t entirely buy it, but chooses to back off half a step. “If you start talking to yourself, I’m dragging you out.”
“I always talk to myself,” I say. “It’s called witty inner dialogue.”
“And sometimes it leaks out of your mouth.”
Fair.
Two people pass by in the side aisle. A blonde woman glances over, gives me a small smile. “Maya, right? I love your piece with the window.”
I nod politely. “Thank you, Ms…?”
“Caroline,” she says.
“Nice to meet you, Catherine.”
She blinks. “Caroline.”
“Right. That’s what I said.” I smile wider.
She laughs awkwardly, then excuses herself. Once she’s far enough away, Luca shoots me a narrowed look.
“You did that on purpose?” he asks.
“What?”
“There is no way you misheard a name twice in three seconds. You usually have people’s names memorized after one handshake.”
“I’m just testing how much tolerance they have for human error,” I answer flatly. “Besides, my brain’s overloaded. The altar, the patron, the whole rich-people circus. Names can wait.”
He exhales, but this time he doesn’t laugh. His hand brushes my knee, a light pressure. “You sure you’re okay?”
I roll the glass between my fingers, champagne bubbles clinging to the side. “You just watched me survive meeting your boss, who also happens to be a rich collector. I’m not fragile, Luca.”
Not an answer. Not what he asked. But close enough to shut the door on it.
Luca studies me for a few more seconds, then gives in. “Okay. But if you laugh weird one more time, I’m dragging you out of here.”
“I always laugh weird,” I protest.
“This is different.”
I don’t get a chance to argue, because Daniel appears, almost jogging toward us. His hair is a little messy, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
“Ms. De Cruz,” he says, slightly out of breath. “Sorry to interrupt. Mr. Moreau has a small favor to ask.”
Luca answers before I can. “She’s not about to be part of some sacrificial ritual, right? Because we haven’t signed any waivers.”
Daniel gives a tight smile. “No, of course not. It’s just… before the auction starts, we usually ask one of the artists to say a few words about the highlight piece.” His gaze shifts to me. “Tonight, he’d like you to speak a bit about The Altar.”
My stomach drops half a floor.
“‘A bit’ as in what?” I ask. “Seven sentences? A two-hour TED Talk?”
“Two to three minutes,” he says quickly. “Very short. Just a little insight for the bidders.”
Of course.
I glance at Luca. He lifts one shoulder, his face caught somewhere between you’ve got this and this is a terrible idea.
“And if I say no?” I ask Daniel.
“We… would understand,” he replies politely. “But Mr. Moreau would be very grateful if—”
“I’m kidding,” I cut in. “If you’ve already slapped ‘reserved’ under a rich patron’s name, the least I can do is give a little dramatic monologue. Let’s do it.”
Daniel visibly relaxes. “Thank you. Five more minutes. I’ll come get you from the front of the room, yes?”
“Sure.”
He hurries off again.
As soon as he disappears behind the rows of chairs, Luca leans in. “You don’t have to—”
“Luca,” I cut him off, eyes fixed straight ahead. “I already painted the darkest room in my head and hung it on a public wall. Talking about it for two minutes is the easy part.”
“If you say so.”
I stand. My knees wobble a little. Luca stands too, automatically smoothing my dress, his fingers tugging the top so it falls just right at my waist.
“If I start saying stupid things, laugh,” I tell him. “So everyone else laughs and assumes it’s jokes, not a breakdown.”
He brushes my cheek with the back of his hand, quick, almost reflexive. “You don’t know how to be stupid. That’s your problem.”
I huff out a small breath. “Thank you, I guess.”
Daniel calls from the front, giving me a little signal. I start walking, my heels tapping against the wooden floor. The sound is too clear in my head, like a metronome ticking down.
Up front, a small podium waits with a slim mic, the spotlight soft around it. Moreau is already there, smiling out at the crowd as they begin to take their seats. I don’t see Rafael at first glance, but I can feel him, like a hot point in an air-conditioned room.
Moreau pats my shoulder as I come up. “You look stunning,” he says warmly. “Saturday-night blue suits you.”
“Thank you. That’s all unpaid labor from my personal stylist,” I reply, glancing back at Luca. He just lifts his glass at me like a toast from afar.
Moreau steps up to the mic. The jazz music fades down. The room lighting softens a notch.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice rolls out, calm, practiced. “Thank you for spending your evening with us at the gallery. Before we begin this little auction, I’d like to introduce one of the artists whose work has prompted the most questions tonight.”
A ripple of light laughter moves through the room.
“The Altar,” he continues, “has been noted by more than half our guests as ‘the painting that made me stop the longest.’ So I thought it would be a shame if we didn’t hear directly from its creator… Ms. Maya De Cruz.”
Polite but solid applause rises up. I step forward, smiling, pressing my palm briefly to my waist to steady the small wave of nausea climbing up.
The spotlight shifts. The mic stands a few inches from my mouth. The air in the room changes; the whispers thin out.
Between the rows of heads, I finally find him.