Epilogue Part One

EPILOGUE PART ONE

6 MONTHS LATER

"Julianaaaa, are you done with that feature yet?"

Mei's whine fails to break my concentration, as my fingers race across my keyboard. Each keystroke is silky smooth, and for once, my laptop doesn't disturb anyone around me. Granted, there's no one else here, aside from the museum handlers carrying bubble-wrapped art pieces into the storage room. Even so, they don't hear a peep from this baby.

And I do mean baby. This right here is the newest, most precious piece of tech I own. The Sentinel M5000. Sleek, ultra lightweight, with a sixteen-inch monitor, it makes my old laptop look like a relic from another era, and don't get me started on the processing speeds.

Well, actually, I couldn't rattle off all the technical details, apart from my personal experience running my programming suite since purchasing the laptop last month—which is, The Sentinel is fast. Real fast. Anything far beyond that is outside my wheelhouse.

I'm a programmer, not an electrical engineer.

Jeremy, on the other hand, lit up like a kid on Christmas morning when he first saw the laptop, before launching into an exhaustive monologue about its specs. How many gigabytes of RAM it had, the storage capacity of its solid-state drive, the motherboard's build quality—all of which I was already aware of and could easily keep up with…

Until he broached the topic of the Central Processing Unit. Then he lost me, because my dearest brother, the over-enthusiastic engineer on Silicon Avenue that he is, didn't just gush about how fast it was, but delved into the reasons why it's fast—on an anatomical level. Circuits, thermal management, cache memory, boring boring boring, something about a Nano-Z chip unveiled at a tech conference last year, yada yada yada, even faster than the old generation, and whaBAM!

My new laptop earned Jeremy Brooks's stamp of approval.

"Hellooooo?" A palm waves in front of my monitor, blocking the view of my code. "Earth to Juliana."

"Huh?" I snap to attention, finding Mei folding her arms, a clipboard dangling from one hand.

Even though I arrived at Ascension Museum and Gallery over an hour ago, I'm still surprised by Mei's outfit—a knee-length, neutral-gray dress that conceals her dragon tattoo paired with two-inch heels and modest makeup. It's like she slipped on someone else's skin.

Who knew being a gallery assistant at a top New York City museum came with such a strict dress code? Isn't art all about self-expression?

Mei huddles close, her waist brushing my shoulder, when another pair of handlers passes through the tight space, grunting and wheezing as they balance a tall sculpture between their fingertips.

"Put that over by the wall in storage section C," she orders, earning nods from the sweat-beaded workers. "Not on the ground, like you guys did with the Baroque lounge chair, but on its respective conservation pedestal, away from employee foot traffic. Might I remind you that your laziness nearly cost the three-hundred-year-old chair a leg, and I'm not about to be blamed for it a second time."

More grunts.

She swivels back toward me, huffing a grand sigh. "Gosh, you'd think it was their first day on the job. For once, can't they just—"

Like a sixth sense, Mei's gaze snaps elsewhere, latching onto a similarly dressed girl exiting the storage room. Seemingly a few years younger than us, she carries a vase bursting with an impressive bouquet of lilies.

"Where are you taking those?" Mei's voice booms across the room.

The girl stops halfway out the door, a scowl souring her lips. "To the Main Gallery."

Shaking her head, Mei gestures toward another exit. "Angie, I told you yesterday, only orchids go in the main showroom. Lilies are for the East Gallery."

When silence crackles between them, I get the feeling the two have a longstanding history of conflict.

"Does it really matter?"

Mei taps a pencil to her clipboard, lifting a brow. "It does to our artist."

Tension coils in the air, much too thick for my liking, before the girl rolls her eyes and pushes off the doorframe, letting the door slam on its hinges. She breezes past our table, glaring at Mei. "In case you forgot, we have the same job title. You're not my boss."

"I am today."

She grumbles, loud enough for us to hear her slew of curses.

"And I better see roses in the West Gallery!"

Angie practically kicks open the door to the museum's East Wing, its weight crashing shut louder than the first.

"Fucking undergrads," Mei mumbles below her breath.

I stifle a laugh, diving back into my code.

"What's so funny?"

Darn it. "Nothing, nothing… Just that you're running this gallery like a no-nonsense hall monitor. Seems you're taking a liking to management."

"Ohhhh, no. I know what you're implying. Before you start comparing me to Meghan, I'll have you know I've been busting my butt since six a.m. Arranging transportation. Vetting caterers. Polishing frames and all the bulbs in their overhanging spotlights. Making sure the moving crew was on their A game. Assigning deinstallation duties…"

From the corner of my eye, Mei counts on her fingers, emphasizing each task. Not that she needs to. I know this showcase is just as important to her as it is to me. Not only is tonight her first time flying solo since taking her new job, but she's still in the midst of completing her PhD. Apparently, this will look good on her—already sparkling—resume before graduation.

"Hey now." I cut her rambles short. "I've helped my fair share. Maybe I'm not the one who waltzed in here at the crack of dawn, but I scrubbed those floors, didn't I? And cleaned the windows out front?" Mei's smirk widens, realizing my point. "You're not Meghan. Not even close. Anyone could—and will— see how much effort you put into preparing the showcase."

Her shoulders relax. "Thank you, Juliana. I really needed to hear that. My new boss may be an improvement over our old one, but she's still type A. She'll notice any slip-up."

"Well, there aren't any," I say truthfully, noticing her fingers tapping along her clipboard, itching to skim through her checklist for the fifteenth time. I touch her arm to calm her nervous twitching. "Seriously, I mean that. Your preparation was obvious the entire time I helped—which I would continue to do until the doors open, but my stomach took over. I'm starving."

Her eyes meet my empty sandwich wrapper at the same time mine do. "Uhh, I mean, I was hungry," I correct, letting my laptop steal my focus yet again. "And work was calling me—specifically, this feature."

Mei smiles, looking over my shoulder. "Which is…?"

"The whisker whirlwind."

She snickers. Not how most people do, but in a way that says God, I love your brain. She's asked me before how I think of the feature names. My answer is always the same—I have no idea. They just come to me, usually at night while I'm trying my hardest to fall asleep. How pesky, right?

Plus, if truth be told, I'm not even that familiar with cats. We had one growing up, for a short time, while my grandparents were moving in-between apartments. His name was Ruffus, a big orange tabby who took great pleasure in shredding your toes at night if they poked out from the comforter. But that purring menace aside… my feline history is fleeting, so I'm unsure where to credit my source of clever kitty lingo.

Though, that doesn't mean I haven't thought of adopting a cat. I would've years ago, if my old apartment wasn't too cramped and didn't allow pets, and as for my new apartment, well… let's just say, it's not the monthly pet fee holding me back, rather that the adoptions would be a couple's decision and our kitty would be destined to be a pampered, penthouse pet, because…

I don't really sleep at my apartment much. Or at all.

Turns out, when it comes to Hayden, I'm terrible at taking things slow—to which he has zero complaints. I lasted maybe a month in my own apartment. Two weeks into my lease, I slept over at his place, then again, a couple of nights later… then I left my toothbrush in his bathroom and my hairbrush… then my groceries were "accidentally" delivered to his address instead of mine…

And the rest is history.

A scalding, sizzling-hot history.

It's something I can't afford to think about right now— especially the other night—not with my best friend standing beside me, who can read the naughty thoughts in my eyes like some scandalous gypsy mixed with a gossiping hairdresser. It doesn't matter if she slipped on that modest dress, she's still the same old Mei. Hungry for all the details.

"It's alright." She balls up my sandwich wrapper, swishing it into a nearby trash can. "You've helped plenty, trust me, especially last night with the movers. Honestly, I know you insisted, but you shouldn't have lifted a finger today. Tonight is your boyfriend's showcase, after all."

I smile, pride blooming from my center, as I recall the museum's art technicians sweeping across the penthouse last night, bubble wrapping and hauling Hayden's paintings and pastels with meticulous care. They gathered most pieces from the studio, plucking others straight off the apartment walls, amassing a collection that's as impressive as it is massive. To the extent that I haven't even seen every piece yet, and they'll fill all three of the museum's galleries.

Unlike Hayden, there's no doubt in my mind bidders will be in a frenzy over his artwork. In their eyes, he's a debut artist with a never-before-seen collection. That makes every piece even more valuable, once they're received well—which is a given.

Tonight— Hayden's night—he doesn't need to charm any critics. His talent will speak for him, starting in… I glance at the clock in the corner of my monitor. Twenty minutes, until the doors open.

Nerves crackle beneath my skin.

Gosh, I can't imagine how Hayden feels. I'd be with him now, if it weren't for his weekly dinner with his brother falling on today, a mere hour before the showcase. I would've urged him to cancel, but I know how important their recent bonding is to Hayden… And how much my boyfriend loves to be fashionably late.

Avoiding the daunting gaze of the clock, I submerge myself in work, click-clacking away. "I'm almost done with this feature," I tell Mei. "Don't worry, I won't miss a thing, not for the world. I'll be in that gallery from the second the doors open until they close."

"But they already did."

My fingers stall along the keyboard as my gaze looms up to her. "Huh?"

She blinks rapidly, her sass prevailing without her false lashes. "The doors—I told Angie to open them early." My heart skyrockets into my throat. "It's not an uncommon thing the gallery does, if we notice a big line outside. The West and East wings are still undergoing final touches, but… based on the crowd I saw forty minutes ago, I assume she opened the main gallery by now."

"What?!" I burst to my feet, slamming my laptop shut. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?!"

"Well, I tried, but the movers and the flowers and…"

Anxiety twists my gut into a pretzel as I hurry past her, each step toward the storage room's main exit pumping blood in my ears, louder and louder, drowning out her words, until…

All that blood simmers on a long sigh.

Oh, thank goodness.

Ambient lighting and soft chatter fill the Main Gallery, despite the impressive crowd milling about the space. Artsy types, adorned in flowy dresses, patterned scarves, and layered jewelry, others adhering to a more edgy style, flaunting leather jackets or ripped jeans, all conversing and gazing up in wonder at paintings I've admired many times before, plucked from the penthouse I now call home.

"It's amazing, Mei," I say, when she comes up next to me. "You did a spectacular job."

Eyes narrowing, she surveys the gallery, noting the caterers weaving through guests, balancing trays of champagne-filled flutes and hors d'oeuvres. "Good, it seems Angie listened, after all." She points to the orchids decorating the front entrance and scattered throughout the showroom.

I gesture toward the center of the gallery, where three moveable dividing walls stand, attached to the coffered ceiling. They're arranged in a zigzag pattern with ample space between, creating more room for paintings and natural paths for visitors to walk through. Mei must've ordered the museum handlers to roll them in while I was working.

"I love how you positioned the partition walls. They're placed perfectly."

"You really think so?"

I nod, watching warmth color Mei's features.

"Thanks." She gives me a side hug, wary of the clunky clipboard still in her hand. "I couldn't have managed without your support today."

Yes, you could've, I nearly say, but instead offer a tender smile, knowing my best friend wouldn't accept such flattery.

For a while, we just stand in the doorway, shoulder-to-shoulder, admiring the scenery. Pride swells within me while I watch more people usher through the front doors, despite the showcase being ten minutes shy from its official start time, and art enthusiasts engage in deep conversation over Hayden's work.

Another minute passes, and an alluring melody drifts above their chatter, growing more prominent…

I listen closely to the rich sound, a harmonious blend of high notes and lower ones sustaining the elegant chords, and I'm about to compliment Mei on her soundtrack choice, until I spot the man in an all-black suit dancing his fingertips across the keys, light and effortless.

I gaze in awe, savoring the classical tune and the profound energy emanating from the grand piano. Onlookers crowd around, gawking in surprise, except for the woman in a shimmering blue dress, already leaned over the piano's lip, resting a chin on her fist and gazing longingly like the song is just for her. And by the looks of their matching corsages, it really might be.

"Wow… where'd you find him? Carnegie Hall?"

Mei follows my stare. "Actually, my friend from another major gallery who referred him to me mentioned he performs there from time to time. Guess he started picking up showcase gigs, too. He played at one she hosted a few weeks ago, but this is his first time here. His name is…" She hums, rolling her lips. "Damien— yes, I believe it's Damien. I hired so many professionals for this, I can't possibly remember all their names. My boss handles payroll, thank God."

I hmph, raising an eyebrow to the dramatic crescendo echoing throughout the showroom, which elicits a round of applause and a cautioning glance from his partner.

"Well, that Damien fellow is doing one hell of a good job."

Fortunately, the East Gallery opened moments ago, drawing the attention of numerous guests and alleviating some of the congestion in the crowded main room. I plan to follow, perhaps when Hayden decides to show up to his own event, but for now, I mosey around the Main Gallery, a glass of champagne in hand, enjoying the music and studying the paintings.

I'm not sure how long it's been since this particular one caught my eye. It's my first time seeing it, probably because it was hidden in a large stack of canvases in the studio at home. Without Mei as my artistic liaison, I stare up at the large canvas, appreciating the bright colors, the delicate brush work, and—

I lose my train of thought, as a familiar voice drifts from the other side of the partition wall.

"...and did you text Sofia to see where she's at? The doors opened fifteen minutes ago."

Lauren.

I peek through the opening between the walls, catching sight of her fiery red locks. She studies another painting beside a woman I instantly recognize—the one in a blue dress who sports a corsage that matches the pianist's. A unique shade of lilac, the flowery bundle wraps around her wrist above a gobsmackingly large engagement ring. The only one I've ever seen that rivals Lauren's.

Returning to my own painting, I can't help but eavesdrop.

"I think I sent her five already," the other girl says.

"And no reply? Weird. I wonder what the holdup is."

"Pffft, please. You already know the answer to that. Her and Ross can't keep their hands off each other. I'm sure they're doing it right now, as we speak. Maybe sneaking a quickie in the cab ride over here."

"Oh my god, quit it!" Lauren hisses, unable to stifle her laughter. "Not here."

I smile, surprised by the playful side of my family's otherwise serious lawyer.

Whenever I picture her in my mind, she's usually inside a courtroom, arms folded, staring down Warren's fleet of defense attorneys. Specifically, in civil court when the judge ruled in my favor two months back and ordered the defendant to immediately pay me restitution for his blatant acts of plagiarism.

A staggering thirty million.

Yes, million. Not thousand.

I still feel slightly nauseous, just thinking about it.

In the words of Hayden, watching his father crumble in his chair was in the "top five most satisfying moments of his existence." I'm sure he ranks Warren's little boardroom incident higher on said list—or maybe when Sylvia raked in half his net worth all those years ago, despite him being so young at the time.

But little does he know, none will top his father's impending criminal court sentencing. According to Lauren, he's royally screwed and will most likely never again walk these New York City streets in his lifetime, not with all the women stepping forward, voicing their own allegations against Warren. Accusations stretch back decades, sharing indisputable similarities, and took place at Kingston Entertainment, golf clubs, luxurious resorts, spas, and casinos.

Anywhere Warren touched, he was a plague. And these women—their strength and their stories—are a united front, a wave of overdue retribution, spearheaded by Lauren and triggered by my mother.

"You know I'm right, Lauren."

"Okay, fine. They're most definitely getting busy—that's why she's not texting back. But I can't be the only one still shocked over our girl finally settling down. Obviously, Damien's letting it slide and Ross is her boss and all, but… how have they not gotten caught at work? It's gone on for months."

"Come on, Lauren. It's Sofia, we're talking about. She knows how to fly under the radar."

They both hum in agreement, their tones hinting at well-kept secrets. Whatever the heck that's about.

Silence clouds the air around them, until Lauren's voice splices clean through. "Speaking of Damien, it seems he's backed off a bit. It's much quieter than when I first arrived. What, did he get tired?"

"You're kidding, right? Damien's fingers never get tireeee—" A gasp rings from the opposite side of the wall, and I clamp down on my lip hard, barely managing to hold back a laugh. "I-I mean… I didn't mean…"

"Jesus Christ," Lauren curses. "Yeah, you better rephrase that statement. That's a little TMI regarding a family member."

"I only meant… it was me. I told Damien to take it down a few notches."

"Did you, now?"

"Mhmmm."

In near-perfect unison, their heels clack against the ground, heightening my awareness. As they round the partition wall, I furrow my brow in concentration and study the painting before me, acting as though I've been lost in thought—certainly not eavesdropping. My artsy trance proves easy enough, except…

Aside from the soft music, I didn't realize it was this quiet. Nearly everyone is in the East Gallery.

"I told him he was getting carried away, like always," Lauren's friend continues. "Which is fine at Lincoln Center or Carnegie Hall, but not at an art showing, especially not one with ties to his cousin's clients. I said tonight was more about visual art."

Lauren chuckles, the sound growing louder.

Shit, shit, shit. I whip my head this way and that, in search of a solution that doesn't exist, until I just accept my fate and stare up at the exquisite painting, nursing my champagne.

"Wow, I'm sure he just loved hearing that. You telling him—" Lauren cuts off, stopping abruptly as both women cross into my peripherals. "Juliana?"

Acting confused, I turn my head.

"I knew that was you."

"Oh, hey, Lauren!" I plaster on a smile, praying she can't read my embarrassment. But who am I kidding? She's a lawyer. Of course, she can.

Her face mirrors my own. "So, uhh. Did you hear all that?"

"Oh, alright…" My shoulders deflate. "Maybe a little."

Her friend chuckles awkwardly. "Oops."

Thankfully, Lauren is quick on the rebound, acknowledging her favorite pieces so far, complimenting my dress and Hayden's unmatched talent, and introducing me to her friend, Hannah.

"I'm Juliana." I outstretch my hand, meeting her friendly, chocolaty-brown eyes, before she bypasses the handshake altogether and catches me in a hug, squeezing tightly.

"It's so nice to meet you!" Hannah retreats with a broad smile, keeping at a familiar distance. "So, your boyfriend painted all these?"

I nod, catching Lauren's smirk at my fidgety state.

"That's amazing! I'll have you know, I already placed bids on three different pieces." My eyes bulge. "Although, a girl who works here—Angie is her name, I think—told me I was outbid on all of them."

"Oh my gosh…" Excitement steals a breath from me. "Hayden will be ecstatic." When he gets here!

"I counter bid, of course. Still waiting to hear back. By the looks of it, there may be some deep-pocketed collectors here, but I'm not leaving without five pieces, at least. Maybe six or seven, depending on my mood."

Catching a glint of Hannah's engagement ring, looped snug beside a matching wedding band, I don't doubt her words. That diamond's not a rock, more like the tip of a mountain.

Not to reinforce the starving artist stereotype, but... she must be the wealthy spouse.

Lauren shakes her head, concealing a grin. "Gee, Hannah. How many paintings do you own? Damien's going to lose it if you shove another one above your mantelpiece. Don't think he's forgotten our antics at my family's last auction—you nearly gave him a heart attack from how much you spent."

"Yeaahhhh…" She scratches her neck. "You're not wrong."

I pipe up, "If it helps, remind him that half the proceeds are going to charity."

As soon as the word charity leaves my lips, both of them freeze and exchange another one of those mysterious, secretive glances. I swear I catch competitiveness gleaming in their eyes.

Clearing my throat, I glance at Hannah's corsage. "So, you came with the pianist?" I ask, stating the obvious.

"Yes, he's my husband," she says, blushing as though she's talking about a crush.

"Who's also my cousin," Lauren adds, and suddenly, the whole finger-tiredness thing makes more sense.

Yikes.

When the music switches up, I angle my head, finding a woman seated at the piano's bench instead, playing a violin. Not far from his instrument is the pianist, who laughs with a man who frankly looks out of place in the gallery.

It's not that he doesn't wear his expensive suit well—quite the contrary, actually—but the sheer size of him and the abundance of tattoos. They crawl up the sides of his neck, adorn the backs of his hands, peeking past his cufflinks, and—

Hold up. Isn't that…? I squint, making out the corsage pinned to his suit lapel, then look to Lauren's wrist, finding an identical match. No. Frickin'. Way. That's Lauren's husband? Now I see why Jeremy thought he was intimidating. Even so, doubt still lingers, until I catch the way she ogles him.

"Well, uhh… he's a super talented musician," I tell Hannah, before stating that her husband should consider taking the gig full time, if he hasn't already, which the duo finds amusing for some odd reason.

Secrets, so many secrets.

When another bout of silence spreads, Lauren tips back her champagne glass, gulping down the rest. And it's then I realize Hannah doesn't have a flute—something Mei would deem a crime. Apparently, art critiquing is at its finest while mildly intoxicated.

"Would you like something other than champagne?" I ask her. "My friend's running the showcase, and I think I saw some red wine in the back. I could go snag you a glass."

Hannah waves a hand through the air. "No need to trouble yourself. Thank you, though."

"You sure? It'd only take a minute."

Her teeth press into her lips. "Well, truth be told, I would love some wine, but..." She glances down, and my eyes follow hers to her stomach, where she brushes a hand, revealing a faint bump. "We're expecting."

"That's amazing!" I exclaim, almost covering my mouth in surprise. Did I really need to be so loud? But the two share a look that welcomes my enthusiasm. "I would've never guessed. You're hardly showing. How far along are you?"

"Just twelve weeks."

"So exciting. Do you know the gender yet?"

"It's a boy. The name is still up for debate. Damien likes Ethan, and my vote's for Caleb."

Despite barely knowing the woman before me, I'm filled with an inexplicable giddiness, as is Lauren, who gazes at her best friend with the same affection I reserve for Mei. "My cousin will see it your way, Hannah, no doubt."

"You think so?"

"One hundred percent."

"We're ready—we're so beyond ready—but it's just happened all so fast. I'm still trying to process, yet I'm so excited. Meanwhile, Damien's already planned out the nursery and bought half his wardrobe, all by the end of the first trimester. Isn't the guy supposed to be the one who freaks out? Or am I just…"

I sigh peacefully, eavesdropping once again, but this time, Hannah's voice is oddly comforting and natural, almost as if this is far from the last time I'll hear it. Lauren's, too, as I slip back into the conversation with ease, losing myself in a discussion that seemingly steers itself.

Until camera flashes on the opposite side of the partition walls steal my attention, illuminating the showroom's entrance and drawing the crowd out of the East Gallery. One by one, we gravitate toward the commotion, but I hesitate on my approach, already anticipating what I'll see before I round the corner.

A vision that evokes proud tears.

Hayden, receiving the recognition he deserves.