Chapter 139

Iris

I take a deep breath, fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve as I stand just outside the gallery doors. The space is already packed with people—way more than I expected. Through the glass, I can see photographers, journalists, and what looks like at least a hundred guests milling about with champagne flutes in hand.

“You okay?” Arthur asks, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back.

“There are so many people,” I whisper, and a knot forms in my stomach just from saying it out loud. “I thought it would just be the usual art crowd, maybe a few extra because of… well, us.”

Arthur grimaces apologetically. “I may have underestimated the media interest. Your debut made quite an impression.”

I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I want my art to be appreciated for what it is, not because I happen to be mated to the Alpha President and am apparently a long-lost Willford heiress.

“They’re here to see your work,” Arthur reassures me, as if reading my thoughts. “The buzz might get them in the door, but your talent will keep them here.”

I nod, trying to believe him. My final piece is positioned at the far end of the gallery, impossible to miss. Around it are arranged my other works from the residency, a collection that traces my artistic evolution over the past year. Looking at them all together, I can see how much I’ve grown, how my style has solidified while remaining distinctly mine.

The moment Arthur and I enter the space, dozens of cameras go off all around us. My name is called from all different directions, and I plaster on the smile I’ve been practicing for occasions like this.

“Miss Willford, how does it feel to have your first major exhibition?”

“Iris, over here! Look this way!”

“Alpha President, are you proud of your mate’s accomplishments?”

Arthur handles the press with ease, answering a few questions concisely while gradually moving us deeper into the gallery, using his authoritative presence to make the crowd move for us. I stick close to him, although I have to admit, these sorts of things are becoming a little less overwhelming these days.

Emphasis on a little.

“There you are!” A familiar voice cuts through the noise, and I turn to see my residency director from Abbott, hurrying toward us. “The critics are loving your work, especially the final piece.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” she confirms with a smile. “Now come, there are some people I want you to meet.”

For the next hour, I’m introduced to gallery owners, critics, and collectors. I try to focus on their comments about my technique, my use of color, my compositional choices—anything that suggests they’re seeing me as an artist, not just as a political figure.

Most of them seem genuine in their interest, asking questions that show they’ve actually looked at my work. But there’s always that undertone, that hint of curiosity about my personal life that has nothing to do with my art.

I’m in the middle of explaining my process to a well-known critic when I spot them over his shoulder—Arthur’s parents.

I haven’t seen them since before my debut, and I’m not prepared for the way my stomach drops at the sight of them. Last I saw them, they were at my party. Arthur told me that he didn’t believe the kiwi incident was intentional, but apparently they did say some… not so nice things about me the next day that I’d rather not think about.

“Excuse me,” I murmur to the critic before moving away.

I make my way through the crowd to Arthur, who’s engaged in conversation with some city officials. He spots me approaching and immediately excuses himself.

“Your parents are here,” I say quietly.

Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up. “Here? Now?”

Before he can say more, his mother’s voice cuts through the noise. “Arthur! There you are, darling.”

We turn to face them, and I feel my stomach drop. It’s not because of their usual cold gazes—I’ve grown used to those, even expect them now—but the fact that those looks of disdain are… gone.

“Mother, Father,” Arthur greets them with a polite but curt nod. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Well, we couldn’t miss our daughter-in-law’s big night, could we?” his mother says with a wide smile that leaves me feeling unsettled. It’s like seeing a dog baring its teeth.

“Iris, darling.” His father turns to me with a similar look of affection that makes me sick. “Congratulations on your exhibition. The gallery is packed.”

“Thank you,” I reply tersely.

“We’ve been looking at your work,” his mother continues. “You’re quite talented, Iris. I particularly liked that landscape with the misty mountains.”

I blink in surprise. She’s actually looking at my art? “That’s… thank you. It’s a view from one of the hikes we took on vacation.”

“Lovely,” she says. “We were thinking, actually, that we’d like to purchase one of your pieces. Something to display prominently in the foyer of our home.”

For a moment, I’m too stunned to respond. These are the same people who once looked at me like I was something they’d scraped off their shoes. The same people who tried to separate Arthur and me, who tried to convince Arthur to take Miles away, who were embarrassed by my existence, who never showed the slightest interest in anything I did.

And now, suddenly, they want to buy my art? To display it “prominently” in their home?

The realization feels like a slap to my face. They don’t care about my art. They care about who I am now—a Willford, a legitimate member of high society, someone who can now provide them with something they want.

“I’ll… have to check which pieces are still available,” I manage to say.

“Of course,” Arthur’s father says. “Price is no object, naturally.”

I’m saved from having to respond by my residency director again, who approaches to inform me that it’s time for my speech. As I move toward the small podium at the front of the gallery, I take a few deep breaths to compose myself again.

Standing behind the podium, I look out at the sea of faces. Some I recognize—Alice and Hunter giving me thumbs up from the back, my parents and Caleb standing together near the wall, a few of the teachers I interviewed. Most are strangers, though.

I pretend I don’t see Leonard and Wendy in the crowd.

I clear my throat and begin the speech I’ve prepared, talking about my journey as an artist, the themes I explore in my work, and my new initiative to support arts education in underserved communities. As I speak, I gain confidence, passionate about this cause that means so much to me.

“Art saved me when I was a child with nothing,” I tell the crowd. “It gave me a voice, a purpose, a way to process my experiences. Every child deserves that opportunity, regardless of their background or circumstances.”

I’m just getting to the part about my plans for the future when there’s a sudden commotion at the entrance. Cameras start flashing even more frantically than before, and heads turn away from me, drawn to whatever—or whoever—has just arrived.

My heart sinks a little as I recognize the tall, slender form of Veronica gliding into the gallery. She’s stunning as always, dressed in a designer gown that hugs her curves deliciously. Her signature red lips curve into a gracious smile as she regards the photographers.

I force myself to continue speaking, but I can feel the attention dividing between me and the woman who just walked in. It’s not that Veronica is doing anything wrong—she’s just being Veronica, beautiful and charismatic and impossible to ignore.

But in her presence, I can’t help feeling… lesser. Plain. Ordinary. All the insecurities I thought I’d left behind come rushing back. Next to her grace and poise, I feel like an awkward imposter.

I finish my speech to polite applause, although I notice several people aren’t even listening anymore, too busy trying to get closer to Veronica. As I step down from the podium, Arthur is immediately at my side.

“You were amazing,” he says with a warm kiss on my cheek. “Your speech was perfect.”

By the time the exhibition officially ends, I’m exhausted but satisfied. Despite the unexpected competition for attention, my art was well-received, and several pieces have sold.

Most importantly, I’ve made connections with people who are interested in supporting my arts education initiative. I intend to donate everything I’ve earned tonight to the Eastside Elementary school, although I’m a little worried that the funds might not be used for the art program.

As the last of the guests trickle out and the gallery staff begin to clean up, Arthur pulls me aside.

“I know you’re tired,” he says, “but the night’s not over yet.”

I tilt my head, a smile curving my lips. “Oh? Have more plans for me, Mr. President?”

Arthur smirks at my innuendo, but shakes his head as he wraps his arm around my shoulders and guides me away. “Not like that,” he says. “Not yet, anyway.”

He leads me outside, where a sleek black town car is waiting for us. “I just so happened to rent out Skyline, that restaurant overlooking the city, for us,” he says as the driver opens the back door.

I shoot Arthur a confused look as we both slide into the backseat. “Skyline?”

Arthur nods. “We have to send off your big residency with an afterparty, don’t we?”