Chapter 75 Rhythm
The gallery was quiet, only the faint sound of her brush against canvas filling the space. Morning light filtered in through the tall windows, painting the floor in pale gold, and Lena had been at it for hours without realizing how much time had slipped by. Her hand was speckled with paint, her hair loosely tied back, and there was a small, satisfied ache in her shoulders from leaning too long over the easel.
Finally, she set the brush down, stretching her arms until her joints popped, and reached for her phone lying face down on the worktable. She hadn't planned to check it, it was meant to be a quick break, but as the screen lit up, the first thing staring back at her was the photo.
Her and Ethan.
It was one of those candid shots, He was angled slightly toward her, his expression unreadable to anyone else but familiar to her now, sharp, watchful, softened only in the smallest detail. And she was beside him, caught in mid-turn, almost smiling.
Her chest warmed before she could stop it. She found herself brushing her thumb lightly over the screen as if the image was something delicate, worth handling with care. For a long moment, she just stared, the memory of that evening slipping back in pieces.
Eventually, curiosity pushed her further. She tapped the photo, opening it, and scrolled down. The comments were already flooding in, a stream of words moving too fast to catch all at once.
The warmth didn't last long.
She doesn't even fit in.
Another nobody trying to climb up the ladder.
Doesn't she know she's out of her depth?
Gold digger vibes all over her.
Her breath caught. She scrolled faster. More comments. More bile. An endless stream of strangers dissecting her clothes, her smile, her background, people who didn't know her, deciding what she was, who she was, why she was standing beside Ethan Sinclair at all.
He can do better.
She's after his money.
Pathetic.
Lena's fingers went cold. She read and reread, as though maybe she had misunderstood, but the words only grew sharper the longer she stared. She pressed a hand lightly against her chest, as though she could steady the uneven beat of her heart.
For the first time, the silence in the gallery felt heavy, almost suffocating.
The photo that had warmed her only moments ago now felt like it was mocking her, staring back with all the noise of those voices behind it.
She didn't know what to say, didn't even know what to think. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen, reading and rereading the same lines until they blurred. Ever since she had married Ethan, people hadn't failed to remind her she didn't belong in his world. No matter what she did, it was never enough.
There could be one kind comment, warm, encouraging, a small thread of hope, and then a hundred cruel ones drowning it out. The ratio was always the same, and it always stung.
Her throat tightened as if words might come, but nothing did. Only silence. Only the dull thud of her own heartbeat in her ears.
With a sharp exhale, she dropped the phone onto the table, the screen dimming out of sight. She sighed, long and heavy, annoyance lacing the sound as she leaned back in her chair. The gallery was still around her, but now it felt lonelier than before.
Lena tried to steady herself with another breath, but her chest still felt tight. The brush waiting at the easel no longer called to her the way it had that morning. She couldn't focus, not with those words still echoing in her head. Gathering her things, she decided to retreat to her room, somewhere quiet.
She stepped out of the gallery and into the corridor, her footsteps soft against the polished floor. The silence followed her until she reached the edge of the grand foyer, then she froze.
A low hum of voices filled the space, breaking the usual stillness of the house. As she descended the first step, the sight before her stopped her in her tracks. A dozen people were scattered across the room, seated in small groups, their tones clipped, businesslike. Suits, files, coffee cups balanced on knees, the scene looked more like a boardroom than Ethan's home.
Lena's eyes widened. She had grown used to the house's cold emptiness, its echoing halls and the quiet rhythm of the maids moving discreetly in the background. To find it suddenly alive with so many strangers was jarring, almost surreal.
Her hand tightened on the railing as she hesitated, caught between retreating and stepping forward.
Lena's instinct was to turn back the way she had come, slip upstairs unnoticed and shut the door on the noise. But she was too late, eyes had already shifted toward her.
"Mrs. Sinclair!" one of the women called warmly, rising slightly from her seat.
The name startled her. For a moment, she almost didn't recognize it as hers, and when she did, it sat oddly in her chest, heavy and unfamiliar. She forced a small smile, lifting a hand in a shy greeting as several others echoed the address, their voices laced with polite enthusiasm.
"Good morning," she murmured lightly, nodding here and there, hoping it would be enough. Her plan was simple: keep moving, reach the staircase, vanish. She'd almost made it when a woman with neatly styled hair and a sparkling bracelet stepped forward, catching her before she could escape.
"Oh, Mrs. Sinclair, just the person I hoped to see," the lady said brightly, linking her arm as though they were old friends. "We're in the middle of planning for Ethan's upcoming birthday. This year, we've decided the celebration should be right here, at his house. Can you imagine? It will be the event of the season."
Lena blinked, caught off guard. "His birthday?" she repeated softly, as though testing the words. She realized she knew so little about how he celebrated, or if he celebrated at all.
"Yes, of course! The date is already marked on every calendar that matters," the woman continued with a laugh, lowering her voice as though sharing a delightful secret. "And naturally, we'll need your input as the hostess. After all, nothing can be finalized without Mrs. Sinclair's approval."
Lena's polite smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she managed to hold it steady, her thoughts scattering. Hostess? Approval? The weight of expectation pressed against her before she even had the chance to respond.
Lena's smile tightened, but she kept it in place. They were all watching her with expectant eyes, and she knew admitting she didn't know a thing about Ethan's birthday would only feed into the whispers she'd seen online. She couldn't give them that. She was his wife, after all.
"Yes... of course," she said lightly, nodding as though she had been part of the discussion from the beginning. "That sounds... wonderful."
The woman beamed, clearly pleased. "Exactly what I thought! A house like this deserves to be shown off on such an occasion. Imagine the press coverage, the photographs, it will be magnificent. And naturally, your touch will make it all the more elegant."
She finally summoned the courage, drew in a quiet breath and said, "If you'll excuse me, I I promised myself I'd check in on something before breakfast. But I'll leave you all to it, everything sounds... wonderful."
"Of course, Mrs. Sinclair, we'll carry on. We'll keep you updated with the details."
Lena nodded once more, then turned toward the staircase. Her steps were steady but quicker than before, her chest loosening only when she'd reached the upper landing, the murmur of voices fading behind her.