Chapter 2

The Martin Gallery's VIP private dinner was held at a top-floor French restaurant in SoHo.

Warm yellow spotlights fell on fresh flowers and linen tablecloths; champagne glasses clinked with a crisp ring.

I was the axis on which the whole dinner turned. Checking the list, guiding sponsors to their seats, blocking ill-timed toasts for cornered investors. And at this moment, the absolute center of attention was the head table's center—Alex, effortlessly conversing with several top collectors, while Sienna, in a backless velvet gown, sat at his side, smiling as she poured his wine, occasionally tilting her head to murmur a few words in his ear, her intimacy flawless.

"Alex's female assistant is really capable—she keeps everything running in perfect order." An art critic who had just arrived, glass in hand, remarked casually to the gallery director beside him.

"Thank you for the kind words. But I'm Elena Hart, the foundation's project manager—this time I'm mainly helping the gallery with the partnership process." I smiled and handed over my card, while casually ticking off his name on the iPad in my hand. My tone was as even as if I were correcting a typo in a spreadsheet.

Two years ago, the same occasion with the same mistake would have shattered me.

I remember it clearly. At that spring reception two years ago, Sienna had likewise made a high-profile entrance on Alex's arm, while I was pushed to the edge of the press crowd. Midway through, I hid in the restroom, touching up the lipstick I'd bitten off while tears fell uncontrollably, my eyes red to the point of pain. That night at home, I desperately interrogated him, crying until I lost my voice, and he only scolded me with impatience for being "unpresentable." Yet even after being wounded to the bone, the next day I still stayed up with red eyes writing his crisis-PR press releases, cleaning up every humiliation for him.

Back then I foolishly believed that "if I only do well enough, endure enough, one day he'll put me first."

But now, watching Sienna not far away greeting guests with the natural air of a hostess, I only felt bored—not even a single hitch in my breathing. My soul seemed already to have left this shell, calmly watching two people lost in their performance from a god's-eye view.

"Bzz—"

The phone vibrated three times in a row. It was my colleague and best friend Maya, with a screenshot from Instagram.

【Maya: Has the gallery PR lost their mind? Or is this Alex's doing? Don't look—you'll have a heart attack.】

I opened the screenshot. It was a post just published by the Martin Gallery's official account. The photo caught a moment from the opening of the dinner: Alex with his head lowered, listening to Sienna speak, the light striking a hazy, ambiguous halo exactly between them.

The caption read: 【The artist and his muse. At the intersection of art and life, sharing every perfect moment. @AlexVale @Sienna_V】

In the comments, socialites and fans from the circle were already reveling, the screen full of "made for each other," "the perfect couple." This was no longer skirting the line—this was publicly crowning Sienna as his consort on the social stage.

I turned off the screen, picked up a glass of sparkling water, and walked toward the head table.

Alex had just finished a conversation. He turned, saw me approaching, and his gaze immediately dropped to the phone in my hand. He had clearly seen the post too. I knew his micro-expressions too well—his jawline tightened instantly, a flicker of defensive irritation crossing his eyes. He was waiting for me to explode again. He thought I would do what I used to: red-eyed, slam the phone down in front of him, demand to know why he'd allowed such humiliation.

He was wrong.

"The gallery's official account just posted a photo together. The copy has a misleading slant, and the comment section is trending the wrong way." I walked up to his side, slightly behind him, speaking calmly at the standard volume of a work report. "But the post is performing very well right now, and it's brought a lot of exposure to the preview. Do you want me to contact PR to delete it immediately, or keep it for topic marketing?"

Alex's movement froze dead.

The glass stopped halfway to his lips. He turned to stare at me in disbelief. The anticipation and defensiveness in his eyes were in an instant filled with enormous astonishment and incomprehension.

"Elena, what do you mean by that?" He lowered his voice, teeth clenched, with the irritation of being pricked. "Do you have to be so businesslike with me on an occasion like this? That was a PR mistake—I never even saw the copy! You don't need to make insinuating remarks to test me here. If you're uncomfortable, just say so!"

"I'm not making insinuating remarks, Alex." I looked him calmly in the eye, cutting off his emotional output with the fewest possible words. "And I'm not uncomfortable. This is just a PR option. Keep it, or delete it?"

"You—" He was bluntly stopped by my utterly unruffled attitude. The muscles in his face twitched faintly as he tried to find a trace of pain or a flaw of pretense in my eyes, but he found nothing. "Are you acting? Do you think this is fun? How long are you going to play this game!"

"If you haven't decided, I'll have PR keep it for now, and move on to the next item."

I ignored his accusation, turned, and walked off to coordinate with the next media guest about to arrive.

I didn't need to look at his face to know he must be furious beyond measure. He wasn't used to me not going crazy; he wasn't used to his punch landing in empty air. To others, Elena seemed a tolerant, almost pitifully humble girlfriend. But only someone standing very close—like Maya, glass in hand, not far away—could see that those eyes, which had once always followed Alex, now held not a trace of light. No outburst, because even disappointment felt superfluous.

As the dinner drew toward its end, most of the guests had dispersed.

Alex suddenly strode up to me, blocking my hands as I tidied the tablet. He stared at my unruffled face like a king eager to prove he still held absolute sovereignty, and issued an order in a tone that brooked no doubt.

"Next Wednesday, we're holding a family party to celebrate the new work entering the foundation." He stared fixedly into my eyes, word by word. "The venue is our apartment. You'll be in charge of drawing up the guest list, preparing the dinner menu, and hosting everyone."

He bit down hard on "our apartment" and "you'll be in charge."

"Okay. I'll have the shopping list ready tomorrow."

I didn't even look up at him. I just lowered my head and created a new task list in my notes.