Chapter 190 Chapter 190 The Reveal
I slide my black Manolos onto my feet and glance toward the now empty side of the closet. The sharp pain comes back instantly, sudden and cruel. Hangers sit bare where his suits used to crowd together in dark expensive rows. No jackets draped over the chair. No watches scattered carelessly on the dresser. No trace of him except the ache he left behind.
I scoff softly at myself.
This is what I wanted.
He promised to always give me what I wanted.
The divorce finalized three days ago.
No fighting.
No screaming.
No begging.
Ivan admitted everything, signed the papers, and left.
Just like that.
He bought some absurdly over-the-top estate on the edge of Vegas. Guarded like a fucking fortress. Taller gates than his LA house, armed security, cameras everywhere. Better protected than royalty. Miroslav always says when you’ve been shot at as many times as Ivan has, paranoia becomes a lifestyle.
I slide the fitted black dress over my head and zip myself in. Sleek silk hugs every curve before falling elegantly to my ankles, the slit high enough to show leg every time I walk. Sexy but refined. It’s a work function after all.
The Snaz exhibit opens tonight.
The guest list is insanity. Billionaires, collectors, celebrities, critics, athletes, old money, new money. Half the city wants to buy Trevor Roberts before the rest of the art world catches up to him.
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
Mitch.
“Hey Mitch.”
“Another painting just arrived,” he says immediately. “Did you approve this one?”
My stomach tightens.
“Yes and no. Trevor was still working on it while I was there.”
A pause.
“Some odd instructions came with it.”
“Follow them,” I answer quickly. “I trust him.”
Another pause, then a low laugh. “I’m only doing this because I trust you.”
Fear creeps under my skin the second we hang up.
The painting.
My painting.
I suddenly wish I had forced Trevor to show it to me.
On my way out, I stop to hug the kids. Constantine barely looks up from his homework before wrapping an arm around my waist. Cat and Kat nearly tackle me together, babbling over each other about dance class and dessert.
They’re all in therapy now.
That was non-negotiable.
The divorce hit them too calmly at first, and somehow that terrified me more than tears would have. Children should react. They should scream or cry or slam doors. Mine adapted too fast.
I kiss each forehead and promise not to come home too late.
Nancy and Becka appear from the kitchen like the saints they are, already handling bedtime routines before I even ask. I honestly don’t know how I would survive without them. My live in nannies.
The drive to the gallery feels too short.
Downtown Vegas glows beneath the night sky, alive and electric. By the time I step out of the car, photographers already crowd the entrance.
The gallery itself feels strangely calm compared to the chaos outside. Staff rush around carrying champagne trays while Natalie barks orders at the art techs like a tiny terrifying general.
“Hey Elle!” she calls, instantly transforming into bubbly sunshine when she sees me.
Then I see it.
The covered painting.
A massive black silk cloth hangs over the tallest wall in the gallery.
“The instructions said it stays covered until every other piece sells,” Natalie says, lowering her voice dramatically.
I stare at it.
“Well then,” I murmur. “Let’s hope tonight goes well.”
I retreat to my office before anyone can stop me.
The muffled sound of music drifts through the walls while I pretend to review schedules on my laptop. Upcoming artists. Future collections. Travel dates.
Anything to keep my mind occupied.
An hour passes.
Then another.
My phone starts exploding.
Gemma.
Elizabeth.
Tiana.
All asking where I am.
Apparently half my friends are already out there drinking expensive champagne without me.
Before I can answer another text, Natalie comes sprinting past my office, overshooting the doorway before stumbling backward.
“We sold the last painting!” she gasps breathlessly. “Mitch is looking for you.”
My chest tightens.
Every painting? Already?
“You’re incredible,” she adds, grinning wildly.
I follow her toward the main floor.
The second my heels hit the marble, the entire gallery erupts in gasps.
My eyes instantly find Ivan.
Of course they do.
Six-foot-five, broad shoulders in a charcoal suit worth more than most cars, blond hair brushed back perfectly. Beautiful enough to ruin lives.
His stare crashes into mine so hard my stomach twists.
I immediately look away.
Mitch stands near the far wall looking pale as death. Making his red hair look even more red than normal.
I move toward him quickly. “What’s wrong?” I ask quietly. “You were looking for me?”
Without answering, Mitch grabs my shoulders and turns me toward the wall.
Holy fucking shit.
The entire room disappears.
Trevor painted me exactly the way I used to see myself before everything fell apart.
Powerful.
Untouchable.
Alive.
I’m stretched across the cerulean couch completely nude except for my wedding ring. My hair spills downward like dark waves, my expression sharp and fearless. The shadows and brushstrokes make me look almost unreal, like something dangerous pretending to be art.
Not soft.
Not fragile.
Not somebody’s wife.
Me.
Raw and unapologetic.
Trevor somehow painted every ugly beautiful thing I tried to hide.
The loneliness.
The rage.
The pride.
The hunger.
My throat tightens.
“Is that really you?” Mitch asks beside me, sounding genuinely stunned. “Because at the risk of sounding incredibly unprofessional…” he pauses, shaking his head slowly. “I want that in my office.”
Heat rushes to my face and a laugh slips out before I can stop it.
Several people nearby glance toward us.
Mitch smiles once, then disappears smoothly back into the crowd, already charming another collector.
“There you are,” Gemma says, appearing beside me. “Jesus Christ, he captured you perfectly.”
Alek stands beside her silently nodding in agreement.
Then I spot them.
Jax.
Elizabeth.
And Ivan.
All moving toward me together.
Gemma squeezes my hand once before stepping aside.
My pulse spikes.
I search the crowd frantically until I spot Trevor weaving through guests toward us, hands shoved into his oversized jeans like he doesn’t realize he just destroyed me emotionally in front of two hundred people.
They all reach me at the exact same moment.
And suddenly I can’t breathe.