Chapter 74
Chapter 74
Chapter 74: “Whispers in the Gallery”
POV: Jackson
I helped Elizabeth down the last step outside the apartment. Her dress swayed gently as she moved, the same one she’d worn during her fitting, now finished with small details she’d quietly added on her own. She didn’t ask me what I thought of it. She didn’t need to.
“You okay?” I asked as I opened the car door for her.
She nodded, brushing her palm against the curve of her stomach. “Yeah. Just tired. And nervous.”
“It’s not a big thing,” I told her. “Just a quiet showing.”
“It’s still my first.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
The gallery wasn’t far, but the drive felt long. I think it was the silence between us, comfortable but heavy, like both of us were holding our breath. The last few days had been different. Since that day at the mirror, something in her shifted. She looked me in the eye more. She let me sit closer. She even asked me what tie I was wearing tonight. That small question did something to me.
When we arrived, the front of the gallery looked nothing like I imagined. There were no red carpets or flashing cameras, no massive banners with her name. Just a glass door, soft music playing inside, and a sign that read:
> Private Showing — Works by Elizabeth Warren
We walked in together, but I let her take the lead. This was her night. I stayed a few steps behind as people turned to look. Some smiled. Some whispered. One woman with a pearl necklace nudged her friend.
Elizabeth didn’t notice at first. She was looking around, trying to find where her paintings had been placed. There were maybe ten on the walls, most of them soft-toned and abstract. But I recognized them. I’d seen her working on some late into the night, head tilted, brushes scattered all around her.
One couple approached her. An older man in a gray suit and his wife.
“Are you the artist?” the woman asked, warm smile in her voice.
Elizabeth blinked. “Oh. Yes. I am.”
“We loved the piece near the window. The one with the empty cradle.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“You’re very talented, dear,” the man added. “This city could use more honesty in its art.”
She smiled, and I saw her shoulders relax.
I stayed back, watching her. There was pride swelling in my chest, but also something more painful. Regret. I hadn’t seen her this alive in a long time, and it hit me how much I’d taken from her by being so distant in the beginning. I had let my silence speak for me for too long.
A waiter passed by with drinks. I grabbed a glass of water for Elizabeth and a soda for myself. No alcohol tonight. Not with the way some of these people were looking at her.
That’s when I heard it.
Two women near the corner, both holding wine glasses, stood by a painting titled Undoing. One of them leaned closer and said under her breath, too loud for me not to catch it—
> “Isn’t that the Warren girl? The pregnant one who trapped Labonair?”
The other snorted. “That family always knew how to spin a story.”
They laughed. Whispered again.
And something inside me snapped.
I didn’t go over. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t make a scene. But my jaw clenched so tight it hurt. I turned, walked straight to the gallery owner, and pulled out my wallet.
“I’d like to purchase every single piece by Elizabeth Warren on display,” I said.
She blinked. “All of them?”
“Yes. Under separate names. And make sure they don’t realize it’s me. I want the records to show individual private collectors.”
She hesitated. “Sir, some of them already have interest—”
“Double the asking price.”
That did it.
When I turned back around, Elizabeth was still speaking with a couple near the back. She looked calm. She didn’t know what had happened.
I stayed in my corner for the rest of the night, watching her shine in her own quiet way.
\---
We got back to the apartment around nine. She kicked off her heels the moment we stepped inside.
“My feet hate me,” she muttered, collapsing gently onto the couch.
I handed her the water bottle I’d brought up from the car.
“You did good tonight,” I said. “People noticed.”
She gave me a sleepy smile. “Thanks for coming.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it.”
There was a pause.
“Jackson?”
“Yeah?”
She looked over, tilting her head slightly. “Did you buy my paintings?”
I blinked. “What?”
“I overheard the gallery manager talking on the phone. She said something about anonymous buyers paying double. And I know how you get when you're mad.”
I scratched the back of my neck. “I didn’t like what those women said.”
She laughed quietly, her head falling back on the cushion. “You’re ridiculous.”
I walked over and knelt in front of her, resting my hands gently on her knees. “And madly in love with you.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “You...”
“I mean it,” I said. “I don’t care what they say about you. About us. I know who you are, Elizabeth. You’re not some story they made up.”
She touched my cheek, thumb tracing my jaw. “You could’ve just told them off.”
“That wouldn’t have been enough.”
She smiled, and this time it wasn’t tired or forced. “You didn’t have to buy my work.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” I said. “Okay, I did. But also because they’re good. And I wanted a piece of your world in mine.”
Her eyes softened. She shifted, groaning a little as she moved her legs to the side and made space on the couch.
“Sit,” she said. “And stop making me cry. I’m already exhausted.”
I joined her on the couch, and she curled beside me. One hand resting over her stomach. My arm wrapping around her shoulders.
After a while, she whispered, “You really love me?”
I kissed the top of her head. “I’ve never loved anyone more.”
\---
The TV played something in the background, but neither of us paid attention. She dozed off not long after, her head on my chest, her hand still over her belly.
And I just sat there, holding her.
Thinking about how far we’d come.
And how much I still wanted to become the kind of man she deserved.