Chapter 1: Seven Days
Maya's POV
He ended our marriage in twelve words—now he wants seven days of my time.
The invitation is sitting in my hands. Twenty minutes now.
Heavy white cardstock, gold embossed lettering, BlackCanvas's signature minimalist design—a black canvas with pixelated dots of light floating across it.
"Maya, this is our lifeline." Sophia's standing behind me, can barely keep the excitement out of her voice. "Five hundred thousand for the curation fee, plus all the exposure... we'd actually survive."
My gallery, Atelier Vance—three hundred square feet tucked into the least noticeable corner of Chelsea's art district. The walls are covered with my latest exhibition, "Fractures."
Twenty pieces. All about breaking and mending.
Shattered porcelain sewn back together with gold thread.
Broken glass reassembled piece by piece.
Torn photographs carefully glued back into place.
Every single piece telling the same story: some things break and never go back to how they were. But the cracks themselves can become something beautiful.
"Are you even listening?" Sophia nudges my shoulder.
My eyes drop to the last line of the invitation.
Curation proposal subject to personal review and approval by Julian Black. Seven-day review period required, with full curator availability.
Seven days.
Seven days with Julian Black.
My hands are shaking.
"Maya?"
"I'm thinking." I turn around, setting the invitation on the desk. "This collaboration... there'll be strings attached."
Sophia looks confused. "Like what? It's a normal business deal, right? BlackCanvas wants to do this tech-art week thing in New York, picked some galleries as partners—"
"But we're the only one that needs personal approval from Julian Black himself." I cut her off. "Sophia, do you know who Julian Black is?"
"Of course." Her eyes practically light up. "Silicon Valley legend. Built an AI art platform worth a billion dollars before thirty. He's on the Forbes 30 Under 30—"
"My ex-husband."
Sophia's voice disappears.
I close my eyes. The memories come flooding back.
Three years ago. That night.
Lincoln Center. Chloe Monroe's dance premiere.
Julian had promised to come with me. "Art matters to you," he'd said. "So it matters to me."
I'd worn a black cocktail dress. Julian helped me with the zipper in the back, clumsy but gentle. It was a year into our marriage, the first time he'd volunteered to come to an art event with me.
I thought it was a good sign.
Thought our transactional marriage was slowly becoming something real.
The opening was stunning. Chloe Monroe lived up to the hype—her body moved like poetry, every gesture telling a story.
During intermission, I turned to share my thoughts with Julian.
His seat was empty.
I waited five minutes. Ten minutes.
The lights dimmed. The second half started.
He still wasn't back.
After the show ended, I saw him.
Through the glass door to backstage. Julian standing in the hallway, Chloe crying in his arms.
He was stroking her back with this tenderness I'd never seen before.
They were talking, but I couldn't hear them.
I could only watch.
Watch my husband comfort another woman with a gentleness he'd never shown me.
We didn't speak on the way home.
Once inside, I kicked off my heels, poured myself a glass of water, then turned to face him.
"I think we can end our contract early."
Julian froze for a few seconds. Something crossed his face—surprise? Pain? Or just... unexpected?
Then he slipped back into that businesslike calm.
"If that's your decision." His voice was steady, like we were discussing the weather. "I'll have my lawyer draw up the papers."
That was it.
Three years of marriage. Twelve words and it was over.
"Maya?" Sophia's voice pulls me back. "You... you were married to Julian Black?"
"Transaction." I correct her. "To save Vance Gallery. He needed the stable married guy image for his investors. I needed cash. We both got what we wanted."
"And then?"
"Then we got divorced." I pick up the invitation. "So now you see why this collaboration is complicated."
Sophia's quiet for a second. "But we need this. Maya, without a major project, we can't even cover rent next month."
She's right.
I don't have a choice.
"Fine." I breathe in deep. "Accept it. Tell BlackCanvas I'll do the review."
The next morning at ten sharp, Julian shows up at the gallery door.
Two years.
He's changed.
More mature. Sharper features. Wearing that signature black turtleneck—the Silicon Valley entrepreneur uniform—jeans, white sneakers.
Simple. But every piece is top-tier quality.
His eyes are sharper than before, like a surgical blade that can dissect any problem.
"Ms. Vance." He uses my last name, voice polite but distant.
The same guy who used to text me at 3 a.m. saying "Can't sleep. Missing you" won't even say my first name now.
"Mr. Black." I match his distance. "Come in."
He walks into the gallery. His gaze lingers on the "Fractures" exhibition for a few seconds, but he doesn't comment.
"Let's get started." He opens his laptop, sets it on the conference table. "I only have seven days."
Only seven days.
He says it so casually, like seven days means nothing to him.
But for me, seven days in the same space as Julian Black—every minute will be torture.
"Alright." I sit across from him. "Here's my preliminary curation proposal—"
I unfold the exhibition board I prepared. The theme is "Art and Algorithm," blending traditional artwork with digital interactive installations.
"We could place something here—" I point to a section on the board.
Julian reaches for the corner of the board to get a better look.
His fingers brush mine.
Just for a second.
We both pull back like we've been shocked.
The air freezes.
I look down at the board, pretending nothing happened. "Like I was saying, this area—"
"Got it." Julian cuts me off, voice tight. "This proposal... has potential. But it needs adjustments. Tomorrow I'll bring my team for data analysis."
"Data analysis?"
"Yes." He closes his laptop. "Art needs scientific evaluation too."
The discussion lasts three hours.
Professional. Efficient. Cold.
Just like a business meeting.
At six in the evening, Julian gets ready to leave. He packs up his files, stands, walks toward the door.
I think he's going to leave without another word.
But he stops at the doorway. His back to me.
A few seconds of silence.
Then he says, "Your 'Fractures' exhibition... it's good."
My heart skips a beat.
This is the first thing he's said all day that wasn't about work.
"Thanks." I try to keep my voice steady. "See you tomorrow."
He leaves.
Doesn't look back.
Sophia pokes her head out from the storage room. "Oh my god, Maya! Julian Black himself said your exhibition is good! Do you know he never compliments art? People in tech say he thinks art can't be quantified, so it's not worth his time to evaluate."
I'm looking out the door. Julian's car is still parked on the street.
He's sitting in the driver's seat, not starting the engine, just staring down at the steering wheel.
He looks... exhausted.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "Can't quantify it."
Like everything we used to have.
Those real moments that existed outside the contract.
Can't quantify them. Can't get them back either.
