Page 135 of His to Hunt

My mother starts to protest, but my father places a restraining hand on her arm. His eyes meet mine, cold with a fury I've never seen before—or perhaps never recognized.

"You'll regret this," he says softly.

"No," I reply with absolute certainty. "I won't."

For a moment, I think he might argue further, might make a scene. Then his gaze shifts to Beckett, standing silent and watchful behind me, and something like defeat crosses his face.

"Come, Helen," he says to my mother. "Our daughter has made her position clear."

They leave without another word, my mother casting one last, lingering look over her shoulder before they disappear through the entrance. I watch them go, feeling something heavy and oppressive lift from my chest with each step they take away from me.

"Are you alright?" Genevieve asks quietly.

"Yes," I say, surprising myself with how true it feels. "I think I am."

The gallery has fallen silent around us, guests pretending not to have witnessed the confrontation but clearly processing what they've heard. I should feel exposed, vulnerable. Instead, I feel... light. As if speaking my truth aloud has finally set me free from its weight.

Beckett steps forward, offering me a glass of champagne without touching me. "Your night," he reminds me softly. "Your triumph."

I take the glass, our fingers brushing briefly. "Our triumph," I correct him, just as quietly.

Something passes between us in that moment—an understanding, a connection deeper than words can express. Then Avery appears at my side, looping her arm through mine.

"Come on, superstar," she says, grinning. "That curator from MoMA is practically begging for an introduction, and Genevieve is already negotiating price points with the couple from earlier."

I allow myself to be guided back into the crowd, into the buzz of appreciation and interest surrounding my work. But I'm acutely aware of Beckett's presence, always nearby, always watching, always letting me shine on my own.

As the evening continues, I move from conversation to conversation, discussing technique and inspiration, accepting congratulations and fielding offers. The confrontation with my parents has left me not drained but somehow energized, each word I speak feeling more authentic than the last.

This is my life now. My choice. My path.

And for the first time, I'm not afraid to walk it.

Hours later, as the last guests depart and the gallery falls quiet, I find myself standing before my final piece—the newest, completed just days ago. Unlike the others, this canvas isn't dominated by darkness or trauma. Instead, it shows two figures emerging from shadow into light, neither fully defined yet both unmistakably connected.

One stands tall, protective, strength evident in every line. The other, smaller but no less powerful, reaches toward the light with determined grace. Between them runs a thread ofgold—not a leash, not a collar, but a connection freely chosen by both.

"This one isn't for sale," Beckett says, coming to stand beside me.

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No. This one's ours."

He doesn't touch me, doesn't need to. The space between us hums with possibility, with potential, with a future neither of us could have imagined when this strange journey began.

"Ready to go home?" he asks after a moment.

I look around at the gallery—my gallery—at the evidence of my healing displayed on every wall. At the space I've claimed as my own through talent and determination and brutal honesty.

"Yes," I reply, meaning it completely. "I'm ready."

Fifty-Six

BECKETT

The penthouse isquiet when we return from the gallery, the city lights stretching out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows like a blanket of stars fallen to earth. Luna moves through the space with practiced ease, slipping off her heels and dropping her clutch on the entryway table as if she's always belonged here.

In many ways, she has.

I watch her from the doorway, taking in the graceful line of her back, the confident set of her shoulders, so different from the wary, guarded woman I first brought here. The gallery opening was a triumph—every piece admired, most already sold or reserved for prestigious collections. But more than the commercial success, what lingers in my mind is the moment she faced her parents.

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