Chapter 10: The Exhibition
2316words
"Nervous?" Alexandre asked, appearing at my side with two champagne flutes. He looked devastatingly handsome in his tailored black suit, the formal attire somehow emphasizing rather than concealing the artistic soul I'd come to know so well.
"Terrified," I admitted, accepting the champagne. "It's one thing to know the illustrations will be in the book, quite another to see them displayed like this."
"They deserve to be seen this way," he said with quiet conviction. "As works of art in their own right, not merely accompaniments to text."
I sipped my champagne, studying the gallery space. White pedestals displayed the leather-bound first editions of *Les Misérables* alongside my original illustrations, allowing viewers to see both the published work and the art that inspired it. Claude Lefèvre had spared no expense—the exhibition catalog alone was a work of art, and critics from every major publication had been personally invited.
"The Minister of Culture just arrived," Alexandre murmured, nodding toward the entrance where Lefèvre was greeting a distinguished-looking man. "And the director of the Musée d'Orsay. Lefèvre has pulled every connection for this opening."
"Why?" I asked, genuinely puzzled by the scale of the event. "It's just book illustrations, not—"
"Not 'just' anything," Alexandre interrupted firmly. "What you've created transcends illustration. It's a visual interpretation that stands equal to Hugo's text." His gray eyes held mine intently. "You still don't see it, do you? The significance of what you've accomplished?"
Before I could respond, Lefèvre approached with the Minister of Culture in tow. "Ah, the artist herself! Minister Beaumont, may I present Mademoiselle Lily Bennett, the visionary behind these extraordinary illustrations."
The next hour passed in a blur of introductions, polite conversation, and carefully fielded questions about my artistic process. I found myself discussing my techniques with museum curators, defending my interpretive choices to literary scholars, and accepting compliments from collectors who spoke of my work with a reverence that still felt surreal.
Throughout it all, Alexandre remained nearby, smoothly intervening when conversations became too demanding or redirecting attention when I needed a moment's respite. His protective presence, never controlling but always supportive, struck me as yet another contrast to my first life with Tom, who had always positioned himself at the center of any social gathering.
"You're handling this beautifully," Alexandre said during a brief moment alone, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back. "The director of the Pompidou Center wants to discuss a possible acquisition of several originals for their contemporary illustration collection."
"The Pompidou?" I echoed, stunned. In my first life, I'd visited that museum countless times, never imagining my work might someday hang there.
Alexandre smiled at my expression. "Don't look so shocked. Your work deserves recognition."
"It's just... overwhelming," I admitted. "Six months ago I was just another art student. Now this."
His expression softened. "No, you were never 'just another art student.' You were always extraordinary—you simply needed the opportunity to prove it."
The warmth in his eyes made my heart race. In the month since our first kiss in his rain-darkened studio, our relationship had deepened into something that still thrilled and occasionally terrified me with its intensity. Alexandre approached our connection with the same passionate attention to detail he brought to publishing—thoughtful, deliberate, yet capable of surprising spontaneity.
"There you are!" Claude Lefèvre appeared suddenly, champagne glass in hand. "The critics from Le Monde and The New York Times are asking for you both. The Times is doing a feature on the renaissance of illustrated classics."
As we followed Lefèvre across the crowded gallery, I caught sight of a familiar figure near the entrance—tall, impeccably dressed in a designer suit, his confident smile unchanged from either timeline.
Tom.
My step faltered momentarily. Alexandre noticed immediately, his gaze following mine to identify the source of my discomfort.
"Harrington," he said quietly. "I should have expected he'd be here. The bank is one of the exhibition sponsors."
"It's fine," I assured him, though my heart had accelerated. "I just wasn't prepared to see him."
Alexandre's expression grew concerned. "Is there something I should know about your history with him?"
How could I explain that in another life, another timeline, I'd been married to Tom for fifteen years? That I knew exactly how his initial admiration would gradually transform into subtle undermining of my artistic confidence?
"No history," I said truthfully—in this timeline, at least. "We've only met briefly at the gala and that café. He's just... persistent."
Alexandre's jaw tightened slightly. "Do you want me to run interference?"
"No need," I replied, squeezing his hand. "I can handle Tom Harrington."
The interviews with the critics went smoothly, though I remained acutely aware of Tom's presence as he circulated through the gallery. I watched him from the corner of my eye—noting how he studied each illustration briefly before checking the price list, how he networked efficiently with other patrons, how his gaze returned to me repeatedly with calculated interest.
In my first life, I'd found his focused attention flattering. Now, understanding what motivated it, I saw only the strategic assessment of a man who collected beautiful things—art, properties, women—with the same discerning eye for potential value.
When the formal interviews concluded, I excused myself to visit the restroom, needing a moment alone to gather my thoughts. As I returned to the gallery, Tom intercepted me in the quieter hallway that connected to the main exhibition space.
"Lily Bennett," he said, his smile warm and practiced. "The star of the evening."
"Mr. Harrington," I acknowledged politely. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Tom, please," he corrected. "And of course I'm here. The bank has a vested interest in supporting emerging artists—especially those receiving such extraordinary critical acclaim."
He stood too close, his cologne—the same brand he'd worn in my first life—bringing back unwanted memories of shared closets and morning routines.
"Your illustrations are remarkable," he continued. "Much more... substantial than I initially expected."
The backhanded compliment was so typically Tom that I nearly laughed. In my first life, I'd accepted such statements as praise, not recognizing the subtle diminishment beneath the surface.
"Thank you," I said neutrally. "The Hugo project has been deeply fulfilling."
"I can imagine." His gaze was appreciative as it traveled over me, taking in the vintage-inspired emerald dress I'd chosen for the evening. "You look stunning tonight. Success clearly agrees with you."
"The work agrees with me," I corrected gently. "Creating without compromise."
Something flickered in his expression—surprise, perhaps, at my directness. "Well, the results speak for themselves. The bank is considering acquiring several pieces for our corporate collection." He moved slightly closer. "Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner sometime? I'd value your insights on which illustrations might best represent the series."
In my first life, this invitation had been the beginning—a business dinner that evolved into drinks, then dating, then a carefully orchestrated life that slowly suffocated my artistic voice. I felt the locket warm against my skin, a gentle reminder of the different path I was choosing this time.
"That's kind of you," I said firmly, "but any acquisition discussions should go through Durand Publishing. Alexandre can advise you on the collection far better than I can."
Tom's smile remained in place, but his eyes cooled slightly at the mention of Alexandre. "I was hoping for a more... personal perspective. Artist to collector."
"I'm not available for personal consultations," I replied, my tone pleasant but resolute. "But I'm sure the gallery director would be happy to discuss the artistic merits of each piece."
He studied me with new interest, as if recalibrating his approach. "You're different from most young artists I meet. Usually they're eager for any connection to potential patrons."
"I'm fortunate to have the support I need," I said, deliberately glancing toward the main gallery where Alexandre was visible in conversation with Lefèvre. "My work speaks for itself."
"Indeed it does." Tom's gaze followed mine to Alexandre, his expression calculating. "You and Durand seem... close."
"We share an artistic vision," I replied, neither confirming nor denying the personal nature of our relationship.
"Be careful there," Tom said, his voice lowering confidentially. "Alexandre Durand has a reputation for being possessive of his artists. Several promising careers have withered under his control."
The warning—delivered with seemingly genuine concern—was so manipulative that I felt a surge of anger. This was Tom's specialty: creating doubt, positioning himself as the reasonable alternative, the safe harbor.
"Thank you for your concern," I said coolly, "but I trust my own judgment."
"Of course," he backtracked smoothly. "I just hate to see extraordinary talent limited by exclusive arrangements. Your work deserves the widest possible audience."
Before I could respond, Alexandre appeared at my side, his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of my back. "Lily, the director of the Musée d'Art Moderne is asking about your technique for the Javert illustration." His eyes shifted to Tom, his expression politely neutral. "Harrington. Enjoying the exhibition?"
"Immensely," Tom replied with equal politeness. "I was just telling Lily how impressed the bank is with her work. We're considering several pieces for our corporate collection."
"Excellent," Alexandre said smoothly. "Claudine can provide you with the acquisition details. All sales are being handled through the gallery."
The territorial subtext beneath their cordial exchange was unmistakable. In another life, I might have found it uncomfortable or even flattering to be the object of such attention. Now, I simply found it revealing of both men's characters—Tom's calculating assessment versus Alexandre's protective support.
"If you'll excuse us," Alexandre continued, "the director is waiting."
As we walked away, I felt Tom's eyes following us. The locket warmed against my skin, not in warning but in affirmation. This small moment—choosing to walk away from Tom's carefully crafted charm, from the safe and predictable path he represented—felt significant, a conscious rejection of my first life's compromises.
"What did he want?" Alexandre asked quietly once we were out of earshot.
"Dinner," I replied honestly. "Under the guise of discussing art acquisitions."
Alexandre's jaw tightened, though his expression remained composed. "And?"
"And I declined," I said simply. "I'm not interested in what Tom Harrington offers—in any capacity."
The tension in Alexandre's shoulders eased slightly. "He's persistent. And well-connected."
"So are you," I pointed out with a small smile. "But that's not why I'm with you."
His eyes softened as they met mine. "No?"
"No," I confirmed. "I'm with you because you see me—really see me—as an artist and as a woman. Because you challenge me to create my best work without trying to reshape it into something more marketable or appropriate."
The vulnerability that flashed across Alexandre's face—so at odds with his usual confident demeanor—made my heart ache with tenderness. For all his success and authority, he still harbored the artist's fundamental insecurity: the fear that what he valued most in himself might not be enough.
"You continue to surprise me, Lily Bennett," he said softly.
Before I could respond, we were approached by the museum director, and the moment of intimacy passed. The remainder of the evening unfolded in a whirl of conversations, congratulations, and the heady realization that my work was being taken seriously by people whose opinions mattered in the art world.
Throughout it all, I occasionally caught glimpses of Tom watching me—his expression thoughtful, reassessing, perhaps recognizing that his usual approach wasn't working. In my first life, I'd been flattered by his persistent attention, interpreting it as genuine interest rather than the calculated pursuit it actually was.
Near the end of the evening, Lefèvre clinked a glass for attention and made a formal announcement: the exhibition would travel to New York, London, and Tokyo following its run in Paris. My illustrations would be seen internationally, introducing my work to collectors and critics around the world.
As applause filled the gallery, I felt a surge of emotion so powerful it nearly overwhelmed me. In my first life, I'd abandoned my artistic ambitions so gradually I barely noticed their disappearance—small compromises accumulating until I was creating pleasant, forgettable work that matched living room décor.
Now, standing amid my most honest, challenging work, receiving recognition I'd never dreamed possible, I understood with perfect clarity what the locket's gift had truly been. Not just a second chance at life, but a second chance to live authentically—to create without fear, to love without compromise, to become the woman I was always meant to be.
The locket warmed gently against my skin as Alexandre's hand found mine, our fingers intertwining naturally. Across the room, I saw Tom watching this small gesture of intimacy, his expression unreadable. For a moment, our eyes met, and I felt a strange sense of gratitude toward him—not for anything he'd done in this timeline, but for being part of the path that had led me here, to this moment of clarity and purpose.
Then I turned away, focusing instead on Alexandre's proud smile, on the illustrations that represented my truest artistic voice, on the future unfolding before me—a future I was creating stroke by bold stroke, choice by conscious choice.
The locket pulsed once more against my skin, its warmth spreading through my chest like liquid courage. This was the path I was meant to walk—not easy, not safe, but true. And for the first time in either of my lives, I was walking it with my eyes wide open, my heart fully engaged, and my artistic voice speaking its truth without apology or compromise.
