Chapter 6: The Gallery Event
2562words
I glanced down at the simple black dress I'd laid out on my bed—the same one I'd worn to the board meeting. "What's wrong with it? It's professional."
Marie rolled her eyes dramatically. "It's a gala at Galerie Lefèvre, not a funeral. Half of Paris's art world will be there." She pushed past me to rummage through my closet. "This is your debut in society as Alexandre Durand's chosen illustrator. You need to make an impression."
"I want my work to make the impression, not my clothes," I protested, though part of me—the part that had spent fifteen years in tasteful, forgettable outfits in Connecticut—knew she was right.
Marie emerged triumphant from the depths of my closet, holding up a dress I'd forgotten I owned—a vintage 1950s gown in deep emerald silk with a fitted bodice and flowing skirt. "This. With your grandmother's locket. Perfect."
I touched the fabric hesitantly. In my first life, I'd sold this dress at a consignment shop before moving to Connecticut, considering it too impractical for suburban life. "It's a bit dramatic, don't you think?"
"That's the point," Marie insisted. "You're an artist, not an accountant. Besides," she added with a sly smile, "don't you want to see Alexandre's face when you walk in wearing something other than practical black?"
Heat rose to my cheeks. "This isn't about Alexandre."
"Of course not," Marie agreed, not bothering to hide her disbelief. "Just like you haven't been working until midnight in his private studio for weeks. Just like you don't get that little smile when his name comes up."
"He's my publisher," I said firmly. "My mentor, if anything."
"Mmm-hmm." Marie laid the dress on the bed. "A mentor who looks at you like you're a puzzle he's desperate to solve."
I turned away to hide my flushed face, busying myself with my jewelry box. The truth was more complicated than I could explain to Marie. Yes, there was something growing between Alexandre and me—moments of connection that went beyond professional collaboration. But there was also the mystery of my grandmother's warning, and the strange way Alexandre had reacted to my locket.
And then there was Tom. The invitation had mentioned that Banque Internationale would be among the sponsors of the exhibition. Tom's bank. The bank where, in my first life, he'd been working when we met at a similar gallery event three months from now.
"Earth to Lily," Marie waved her hand in front of my face. "Where did you go just now?"
I forced a smile. "Just nervous about tonight. The collection announcement is a big deal."
---
Galerie Lefèvre occupied a converted 18th-century mansion in the 8th arrondissement, its elegant façade illuminated by strategically placed lights that made the limestone glow golden against the twilight sky. A red carpet led up the steps, where photographers captured arriving guests—artists, publishers, patrons, and celebrities who formed Paris's cultural elite.
Alexandre had arranged to pick me up, sending his driver to collect me in a sleek black car that now idled at the curb before the gallery. I smoothed the emerald silk over my hips, suddenly nervous in a way I hadn't anticipated. In my first life, I'd attended similar events, but always as Tom's wife, always careful to be appropriate rather than remarkable.
"Ready?" Alexandre asked, offering his arm.
He looked devastatingly handsome in a perfectly tailored black suit, his usual severity softened by the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. When I'd emerged from the car, his eyes had widened almost imperceptibly, his gaze traveling from my upswept hair to the vintage gown before returning to my face with new intensity.
"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, slipping my hand into the crook of his arm.
As we ascended the steps, flashbulbs popped around us. I heard murmurs—"Durand's new protégée," "the American illustrator," "the Hugo collection"—and felt Alexandre's arm tighten slightly against mine, protective or possessive, I couldn't tell which.
"Ignore them," he murmured close to my ear. "Tonight is about the work, not the spectacle."
The gallery's grand foyer bustled with elegant guests sipping champagne beneath a massive crystal chandelier. Claude Lefèvre stood near the entrance, greeting important guests with practiced charm.
"Alexandre!" he called, beckoning us over. "And Mademoiselle Bennett. Magnificent." His appreciative glance took in my appearance. "You look like you stepped out of Paris's golden age."
"Thank you, Monsieur Lefèvre," I replied, accepting the champagne flute a waiter offered.
"Claude, please," he insisted. "We're colleagues now." He turned to Alexandre. "The Minister of Culture has arrived. He's eager to hear about the Hugo project."
Alexandre nodded. "Of course." He turned to me. "Will you be alright for a few minutes? There are people you should meet, but politics must come first."
"I'll be fine," I assured him. "Go charm the minister."
As Alexandre moved away with Lefèvre, I took the opportunity to explore the gallery. The main exhibition featured contemporary interpretations of classical themes—modern artists engaging with mythology, literature, and historical events.
I paused before a large canvas depicting Ophelia's drowning—not the romantic Pre-Raphaelite version, but a disturbing, fragmented image that captured the character's mental disintegration.
"Remarkable, isn't it?" came a voice beside me. "Though perhaps not something you'd want hanging over your dining table."
I froze, the champagne flute nearly slipping from my fingers. I knew that voice—its particular cadence, its confident tone. I'd heard it across the breakfast table for fifteen years.
Tom.
I turned slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs. There he stood—younger than I'd seen him last, his face unlined, his dark hair without the silver threads that would appear in his forties. Handsome in his expensive suit, with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to moving in privileged circles.
Tom Harrington. The man I'd married in another life. The man who didn't know me yet.
"I'm sorry," he said, mistaking my shock for confusion. "Tom Harrington, Banque Internationale." He extended his hand. "I didn't mean to interrupt your contemplation."
I forced myself to breathe, to smile politely as I shook his hand. "Lily Bennett."
"American?" he asked, his interest visibly increasing. "What brings you to Paris?"
"I'm an illustrator," I replied, withdrawing my hand from his grip. "Working with Durand Publishing."
"Ah, the Hugo project," Tom nodded. "Word travels fast in these circles. Quite the coup for someone so young."
The familiar condescension in his tone—subtle but unmistakable—hit me like a physical blow. Had it always been there? Had I simply not noticed it the first time around, flattered by his attention?
"Age isn't always the best measure of ability," I said, more sharply than I'd intended.
Tom laughed, apparently finding my response charming rather than pointed. "Touché. I meant it as a compliment." His gaze traveled over me with appreciation that now felt invasive rather than flattering. "You don't look like the illustrators I usually meet. They tend to be more..."
"Bohemian?" I supplied.
"Exactly." He smiled, pleased with my understanding. "You look like you belong here."
In my first life, this moment—his approval, his assessment that I "belonged" in his world—had thrilled me. Now it made my skin crawl. I belonged here because of my work, not because I fit his image of what an artist should be.
"If you'll excuse me," I said, gesturing vaguely across the room. "I need to find my publisher."
"Of course." Tom reached into his jacket and produced a business card. "But perhaps we could continue this conversation another time? The bank is always looking for emerging artists to support."
I took the card automatically, the same card he'd given me in my first life—the one I'd treasured, the one that had led to our first date, our courtship, our marriage.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said noncommittally, slipping it into my clutch with no intention of ever using it.
As I moved away, I felt Tom's eyes following me. In another timeline, this moment had been the beginning of everything. Now it felt like closing a door on a room I never wanted to enter again.
I made my way through the crowd, needing air, space to process the encounter. A side door led to a small courtyard garden where a few guests had escaped the crowded gallery. I found an unoccupied bench beneath a flowering tree and sank onto it, drawing a deep breath of the cool evening air.
"Not enjoying the adulation?" came Alexandre's voice as he appeared beside me, two fresh glasses of champagne in hand.
"Just needed a moment," I admitted, accepting the glass he offered. "It's a bit overwhelming."
He sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body but not so close as to seem inappropriate. "You've made quite an impression. The Minister of Culture wants to see your illustrations."
"That's... unexpected."
"Is it?" Alexandre studied me over the rim of his glass. "Your work deserves recognition, Lily. You shouldn't be surprised when it comes."
We sat in companionable silence for a moment, the sounds of the gala muted in the courtyard. The locket felt warm against my skin, as it often did in moments of significance.
"I saw you speaking with Tom Harrington," Alexandre said finally, his tone carefully neutral.
I glanced at him, surprised. "You know him?"
"Our paths cross occasionally. The bank provides financing for some of our larger acquisitions." Alexandre's expression revealed nothing. "He seemed quite taken with you."
Was that a hint of jealousy in his voice? "He was just being polite," I said dismissively.
"Harrington is rarely 'just' anything. He has a reputation for collecting beautiful things—art, properties, women." Alexandre's jaw tightened slightly. "He approaches all three with the same calculating eye for investment potential."
The assessment was so accurate it made me wince. In fifteen years of marriage, I'd watched Tom evaluate everything—including me—in terms of value added to his life and image.
"I'm not interested," I said firmly.
Alexandre's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Good. He wouldn't appreciate what makes your work special."
"And what's that?" I asked, genuinely curious about his assessment.
"Its honesty," he replied without hesitation. "You don't create to impress or to conform to market expectations. You create to express truth as you see it." He turned to face me fully. "That's rare, Lily. Rarer than talent."
The intensity in his gray eyes made my breath catch. In that moment, I felt truly seen in a way Tom had never managed in fifteen years of marriage.
Back in the main gallery, Lefèvre had taken position on a small platform, microphone in hand. The crowd quieted as he began to speak about Durand Publishing's commitment to artistic innovation while honoring literary tradition. Alexandre guided me toward the front, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back.
I scanned the room automatically and found Tom watching us, his expression calculating as he noted Alexandre's proprietary gesture. In my first life, I'd never seen this side of him—the way he assessed people as assets, connections, or obstacles. Now it was painfully obvious.
"...and so it is with great pleasure that I announce our most ambitious project to date," Lefèvre was saying. "A complete reimagining of Victor Hugo's masterworks, illustrated by a remarkable new talent discovered by our own Alexandre Durand."
He gestured toward me, and suddenly all eyes in the room turned in my direction. "Mademoiselle Lily Bennett, would you join me?"
Alexandre gave me a gentle nudge forward. I ascended the platform, heart pounding as Lefèvre continued to extol the vision behind the project. A waiter appeared with a velvet cloth-covered object, which Lefèvre dramatically unveiled—a framed print of my illustration of Jean Valjean carrying Marius through the sewers.
Applause filled the room. I caught sight of Tom's face in the crowd, his expression showing surprise and reassessment. He hadn't expected this level of recognition, hadn't anticipated that the pretty young woman in the vintage dress might actually possess significant talent.
After the announcement, I was surrounded by well-wishers, critics, and gallery owners eager to see more of my work. Alexandre remained close, smoothly intervening when conversations became too demanding or redirecting those who seemed more interested in business opportunities than artistic discussion.
"Ms. Bennett," came a sharp voice that cut through the pleasant hum of conversation. "I must say I find your interpretation of Hugo rather... melodramatic."
The speaker was a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses and an expression of perpetual disapproval—Pierre Valmont, one of Paris's most notoriously harsh art critics.
"How so?" I asked, refusing to be intimidated.
"You emphasize emotion over form, sentiment over structure," he said dismissively. "It's a very American approach—all feeling, no discipline."
Before I could respond, Alexandre stepped forward. "Perhaps you've misunderstood the project's intention, Valmont. We're not creating academic illustrations but breathing new life into texts many consider fossilized by tradition."
Valmont sniffed. "Like that dreadful Moreau exhibition at the Pompidou? All shock, no substance."
"Sophie Moreau's work challenges our comfortable assumptions about classical narratives," Alexandre countered, his voice cooling. "Just because you find her perspective uncomfortable doesn't make it invalid."
"She desecrates masterpieces for attention," Valmont insisted.
"She reinterprets them for a generation that needs to see their relevance," Alexandre replied, an edge entering his voice. "Art isn't meant to be comfortable, Valmont. It's meant to be true."
I watched Alexandre defend an artist whose work he believed in, even one not connected to his publishing house, with growing admiration. His passion wasn't for profit or prestige but for authentic artistic expression.
As the evening progressed, I found myself repeatedly comparing Alexandre's approach to art with Tom's. When Tom joined a conversation about an emerging sculptor, he immediately steered the discussion toward investment potential and market trends. When Alexandre spoke about the same artist, he focused on innovation, emotional impact, and cultural significance.
The contrast couldn't have been starker. Tom saw art as a commodity; Alexandre saw it as essential cultural expression. Tom collected beautiful things; Alexandre championed authentic voices.
Near the end of the evening, I found myself momentarily alone, observing the crowd from a quiet corner. Tom was charming a group of patrons, his practiced smile never reaching his eyes. Across the room, Alexandre was deep in conversation with Sophie Moreau herself—a fierce-looking woman with cropped silver hair—listening intently to her explanation of her controversial work.
The locket felt warm against my skin as I watched them, understanding with perfect clarity what a different path I was choosing this time. In my first life, I'd been drawn to Tom's world of security and social approval. I'd allowed my art to become decorative rather than meaningful, safe rather than honest.
As I watched Alexandre passionately defend artistic integrity to a skeptical collector, I realized I was falling for him—not just for his handsome face or commanding presence, but for his unwavering belief in the power of authentic expression. For the way he saw me—not as an accessory or an investment, but as an artist with something meaningful to say.
The locket warmed against my skin, as if affirming this realization. This time, I was choosing a different path—one that demanded more courage but promised something Tom could never have given me: the freedom to be truly myself.
