Chapter 8 - The Ghost in the Gallery
Evelyn stood beside a massive seven-foot canvas dominated by sweeping arcs of midnight blue and iridescent copper. She wore an emerald-green velvet wrap dress that swept to her ankles, her bare shoulders straight and confident, laughing warmly as she spoke with a distinguished silver-haired man holding an exhibition program.
Beside her, Nathan and Sophie stood proudly, chatting with guests and pointing out subtle details in their mother's paintings.
Thomas felt the breath leave his lungs entirely.
Seeing her on the glossy page of a magazine had been a shock; seeing her in three dimensions, alive with light and uninhibited confidence, was a physical blow to his sternum. Her laughter sounded different—lighter, unburdened, ringing across the gallery with a rich, genuine resonance he hadn't heard in fifteen years.
For twenty minutes, Thomas stayed in the shadows near the entrance, watching her move through the room. She commanded every conversation effortlessly. People didn't treat her like someone's wife; they treated her like the centerpiece of the entire evening.
When the crowd began to thin around eight o'clock, Sophie was the first to spot him.
Her smile vanished instantly. She whispered something to Nathan, who turned sharply toward the door, his eyes hardening into flint. Nathan took a step forward, ready to intervene, but Evelyn caught the tension in her son’s posture and followed his gaze.
Her hazel eyes met Thomas’s across the gallery floor.
She didn't gasp. She didn't drop her champagne flute. She didn't turn away in tears.
She simply paused, placed a gentle hand on Nathan’s forearm to keep him calm, excused herself from the couple she was speaking with, and walked toward Thomas with measured, graceful steps.
The click of her heels against the polished concrete floor seemed to echo in Thomas’s ears.
"Hello, Thomas," she said softly, stopping three feet away.
Her perfume was different. It wasn't the lavender hand cream from the local pharmacy. It was something rich, subtle, and sophisticated—sandalwood and bergamot.
"Evelyn," Thomas managed to choke out, his voice cracking with emotion. "You... you look extraordinary."
"Thank you," she answered, offering a polite, distant smile that carried the exact warmth one gives to an acquaintance met at a train station. "Did you come up from Chicago for business?"
May you like
The casualness of her question was more devastating than a slap. She was treating the man who had shared her bed for twenty-two years like an old colleague who happened to be passing through town.
"I came for you," Thomas said, taking a desperate half-step forward. "I saw the magazine. I drove up through the blizzard just to see you."
