Page 97 of King Of Order

Galleria Gisela was bathed in the soft, warm, golden light of late morning, which streamed through the expansive windows.

Rio tracked beside me, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back as we entered the quiet show space.

Every time I entered the one place dedicated to the memory of my mother and her love for art, which had become mine, I got a sense of pride.

It was a space of elegance where modern lines met classic art, every detail thoughtfully curated by myself.

The space relaxed me, grounding me in a way nothing else could.

I noticed Rio glancing around, eyes sweeping over the exhibits, the subtle lighting highlighting pieces of my work that hung on the whitewashed walls.

‘Last time I was here, it was dark,’ he murmured, angering the space, peering closely at some of the modernist pieces I’d picked. ‘To see it in the light is impressive. You’ve done well, Chiara.’

He then wandered to one of my pieces, studying it close up.

It was a multicolored abstract painting of the female human form that was both haunting and captivating.

He leaned back and pointed to it. ‘Yours?’

I nodded.

‘It’s stunning and yet intriguing, thought-provoking,’ he drawled, surprising me. ‘Your exploration of the body in an energized sequence feels immediate and visceral. ’

I arched a brow at him, my heart tripping. ‘I thought you didn’t like modern art?’

He raked his eyes over me and then back to the canvas. ‘I do now.’

I don’t know why his approval meant so much, but it did.

It heated me as I smiled at him, and I strode toward my office, my face flushed.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been here, but it felt different today after everything we had been through, his validation all the more meaningful.

Reminding me that I was worthy, I was strong, and I was proud as fuck of everything I’d built on my own.

VALERIO

Chiara moved through the space she belonged in—calm, focused, on mission.

She gathered canvases, paints, brushes, and other craft supplies from her storeroom.

I helped her lug them to the back of my SUV.

‘How long have you taught these kids?’ I asked, more out of curiosity than anything.

‘A year now,’ she said, smiling. ‘Most of them have been through things you and I can’t imagine. Art helps them. It gives them a voice when vocabulary can’t.’

She paused, glancing up at me. ‘It saved me from myself.’

We carried the materials to the car, and I couldn’t shake the substance of her words as we drove to the class.

I’d seen the art in her gallery—the modernist pieces, abstract, full of emotion—and wondered if she was their creator.

‘Your work,’ I rasped, peeking over at her as she stared out the window. ‘Some of the paintings in your showcase are yours, aren’t they?’

She shifted in her seat, her expression tight. ‘Si. Some of them.’

‘They’ve sold for thousands,’ I said, more to myself than her, still wrapping my head around it. ‘You’re incredible, Chiara.’

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