Chapter 4

Nora's POV

The prestigious art gallery in Chelsea was packed with well-dressed socialites and influential figures.

Rowan had attached enormous importance to this solo photography exhibition. He had even given it a title: The Only Muse.

I stood alone in the darkest corner of the gallery, gazing up at the thirty-six enormous black-and-white portraits displayed in the center of the exhibition hall.

Every single one featured Vivian.

The camera had captured her smoking, gazing lazily upward, and even sleeping.

The meticulously controlled lighting and delicate compositions practically screamed the photographer's obsession with his model, even through the glossy prints.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and a spotlight illuminated the center of the stage.

The most anticipated piece of the evening stood there, concealed beneath an enormous black velvet curtain.

Rowan held a microphone, with Vivian standing naturally close against his side.

"Now, I'd like to present the centerpiece of tonight's exhibition: Surrender at Three A.M."

At Rowan's signal, the curtain slowly descended.

Gasps of astonishment rippled through the crowd.

In the photograph, Vivian was reclining on the sofa in his Brooklyn studio. She wore nothing but an oversized white shirt that clearly belonged to a man, its collar slipping halfway off her shoulder.

Her hair was tousled, and her face carried a lazy, flushed expression.

Art critics holding champagne flutes turned red with excitement.

"My God! The sheer erotic tension!"

"This intimate perspective, overflowing with possessiveness, is extraordinary. You could never capture a soul like this without being deeply in love with your subject, without wanting to possess them completely!"

Rowan looked down at Vivian with a tenderness I had never seen in his eyes before.

"Thank you, everyone. This photograph represents the pinnacle of my artistic career."

His voice was low and rich as he spoke into the microphone, sharing the inspiration behind his work.

"I remember that stormy night in Brooklyn so clearly. We were in the studio discussing art until the early hours of the morning. When she fell asleep on the sofa wearing my shirt, I captured this moment of beauty in its most raw and unguarded form."

Thunderous applause erupted from the audience.

Vivian gazed up at him, her eyes glistening and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

I stood in the shadows, staring at the enormous photograph as nausea churned in my stomach.

That stormy night in Brooklyn.

It had been our second anniversary.

Rowan had called me that night, his voice full of irritation, saying he would be spending the entire night in the darkroom developing film. He had strictly forbidden me from bringing the anniversary cake to his studio and disturbing him.

So this was the sacred creative retreat he had been talking about.

All that talk about discussing art. All those claims about inspiration striking when two artistic minds collided.

His lofty explanations were nothing more than a sophisticated disguise for their affair, dressing their betrayal in the respectable language of art.

That camera had been their accomplice.

"She stood by me through countless creative blocks. She is the source of all my inspiration and the one obsession I will carry for the rest of my life."

After delivering his heartfelt declaration, Rowan reached into his suit pocket and took out a vintage leather jewelry box.

Under the gaze of countless flashing cameras, he opened it and revealed a dazzling diamond necklace. With exquisite care, he reached around Vivian's neck and fastened it for her.

"Only you deserve all my work and everything I've poured my heart into," he whispered.

Tears spilled down Vivian's cheeks, and she threw herself into his arms.

The crowd erupted into even louder cheers and whistles.

I remembered our first year together.

Back then, his basement studio had leaked, destroying all his film negatives and equipment. He had become so despondent that he wanted to abandon photography altogether.

I had wanted to buy him the Hasselblad camera he had always dreamed of owning, so I worked three jobs a day to save enough money. I even sold the only keepsake my grandmother had left me, accepting far less than it was worth.

When I finally handed him the camera, my hands were covered in painful chilblains and cracks from washing dishes in the restaurant kitchen.

His eyes had reddened as he held my battered hands and kissed each of my knuckles.

"Nora, I will never let you down. My lens will always belong to you alone."

And now, in front of half of New York's art world, he was pledging absolute devotion to another woman.

Good.

I could finally let go of this pathetic, filthy relationship once and for all.

Without a word, I turned and walked away.

I climbed into the Uber I had already booked and headed straight for the airport.

I didn't receive Rowan's messages until I had boarded the plane and settled into my seat. Just as the flight attendant gently reminded everyone that we would soon be taking off, my phone began vibrating incessantly.

I lowered my eyes to the screen.

Every message was from Rowan.