Page 55 of Absolution
Abigail swells with fury. “All my life, you’ve said that. It might as well be the family motto. You all say it, just to keep each other close enough to inflict pain where it hurts most—over and over again. It’s a nest of vipers, and I got out of it.”
“You’re being a nasty little bitch. How dare?—”
My hand shoots out, and I end the call.
Abigail blinks and looks up at me in surprise.
My hands shake slightly when I cup her cheeks. “I couldn’t listen to that for one more second,” I rumble. “Back in England, I made a promise not to kill any of your family members. If I’m going to keep that promise, I can’t hear another narcissistic word from your mother.”
She places her hands over mine, urging me to hold her. “I got what I needed. Thank you for hanging up on her. I didn’t need to hear any more either.”
She presses a sweet kiss to my taut lips, and slowly, I soften at her tender treatment.
When I first met Abigail, I thought she was soft. Weak. Easy prey.
I’ve never been more wrong about anything in my entire life.
19
ABIGAIL
One week later
My teeth worry at my lower lip. “Do you think this was a mistake? Should I have waited for everything to settle down a bit before opening?”
Dane steps in front of me, his bulky body blocking the anxiety-inducing view of the small crowd outside. Through the glass frontage of my gallery, I can see at least three dozen people gathered on the sidewalk.
Two long fingers curl beneath my chin, lifting my gaze to his. “The caterers are almost finished setting up,” he informs me calmly. “But I can send them away if you want me to. I can go out there and tell people that the event is postponed. Whatever you need from me, say the word.”
I search his deep green eyes for signs of worry, but I’m the only one feeling anxious.
“What if they’re all here because of the article?” I ask, strained. “I want tonight to be about my art, not about my trauma.”
I’d anticipated some local interest in my story when I leaked the recording of my mother’s confession to a journalist, but for the last two days, I’ve been dodging calls from national news networks requesting interviews. My mother’s shocking callousness coupled with my uncle’s heinous abuse seems to have hit a nerve with people online, and the original article is going viral. Add in the rotten entitlement and privilege of a dying American dynasty, and the scandal is attracting more attention than I was prepared to deal with.
“The why doesn’t matter,” Dane insists. “Maybe they’re curious because of the article, but they will see your brilliance, and your art will become the focal point. And if anyone wants to ask you an inappropriate question, I’ll be right by your side all night to make sure they don’t dare.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t want the success of my gallery opening to be because ofhim.”
Dane’s eyes flash. “Your success belongs toyou, Abigail, not your uncle. Those people are here because of your bravery.”
I take a deep breath, finding calm in his staunch support. Then I nod. “I can do this. But I have one thing I need to do before we unlock the door.”
I take his hand in mine and lead him toward the center of the gallery, where I have a large painting covered with a cloth.
He cocks his head at me. “Don’t you want to wait to unveil this one? You can build some anticipation for the end of the night.”
“No. This one is for you.”
I tug the cloth free, revealing the scene I captured for him. For us.
Lighting forks over white capped waves, and the horizon darkens in blue gradients to a rich navy shade at the horizon. Red rose petals float in the foreground, whipped up by the incoming tempest. The hint of a gossamer veil flits at the rightedge of the canvas, and the elegant curve of a violin peeks above the frame at the bottom left corner.
His jaw goes slack for a long moment, then tightens with unmistakable hunger. His fingers clamp around mine, dragging me closer to his side. He’s staring at my art as though it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, and I drink in the perfection of his covetous stare.
“It’s not for sale,” I tell him. “But I wanted to show everyone how much I love you.”
My love for him is fiercely beautiful, as powerful and awe-inspiring as the storm. Maybe a little terrifying in its intensity. Definitely dangerous.
