"I don't even have a wedding dress."

    "Mm."

    "I mean, we haven't even sent out invitations yet."

    "Right."

    "Like, I have this big diamond ring and I know it shouldn't come as a shock we're actually getting married, but I am shocked, you know?" 

    "Oh."

    "Like, you know, every bride freaks out before the wedding. But I thought I'd have a little more time to freak out. Right?"

    "Yeah."

    "This is crazy. This is really crazy."

    "Kind of."

    Muse sighed, sinking into the velvet cushion. The noon sun steadily trekked across the marble floors. She'd been staring at a particular piece by Artemisia Gentileschi for the past forty-five minutes―staring without seeing it at all. 

    She turned to the woman next to her. "Anyways, sorry for ranting about all this to you. You must be sick of hearing about my love life."    

     The woman, writing determinedly into the fresh white pages of a black leather journal, lifted her head.

     Something about her was oddly familiar.

     "My advice? Don't," she said.

     "Don't what?"

     "Get married."

     "I mean, I know I'm nervous, but that's not really the answer I . . ." Muse tilted her head a little. 

    What was it about this woman? Where had they met each other? Something about her glossy straight hair and dark brown skin. Something about the way she carried herself, shoulders a little slumped, head a little bowed―like smoke after a blown flame. As if someone had killed that light inside her.

    "Marriage is just not what it's cracked out to be," she said, averting her eyes.

    But Muse and Adrien were different. It wasn't a real marriage. They had an end date.

    Muse just didn't know if that made it better or worse.

    She'd decided to come to the art museum after Adrien had broken the news to her. The wedding wouldn't be tomorrow―Adrien had fought for a little more time (again, better or worse?)―but in two days. That gave them more time to get ready. Although, why Muse needed time to get ready for a fake wedding, she didn't know. It shouldn't matter to her. There were supposed to be no feelings involved.

     And there were no feelings involved, weren't there? 

     Adrien didn't seem to have any. And Muse didn't want it to be one-sided. 

     In this case, repression was key.

     "I haven't been to the art museum in a while," Muse decided to say. Changing the subject from the bleak marriage topic.

     "Because of the new owner?"

     Muse glanced at the woman sideways, who was once more sketching onto the paper, seemingly unbothered.

     New owner . . . 

    "No, I kind of had an accident here a while ago. Accidental vandalism of a naked man. Don't ask." Adrien's face flashed to mind: the steel in her pitch-black eyes, the way she'd held out a hand to help Muse up. Even when she could've backed away and left Muse to rot in the interrogation room. Even when she should've. "Wait, new owner? Was that in the news or something?"

    "It was a private affair. Very secretive. But I figured you would've known."

    "Why?"

    This time, it was the woman's turn to look confused. "The new owner of this museum is Adrien Vitale."

    Muse froze. That name would bear no importance to the ordinary person. And, for all this woman knew, she was just an ordinary person. During the entire rant, Muse had made certain of one thing: She hadn't mentioned Adrien's name. Hadn't told the stranger she was engaged to the Vitale heiress.

    They must have both realized it at the same time. Because Muse blurted out: "Do I know you?" and the woman said: "Don't marry her."

    Again, at the same time the woman said: "Yes," Muse said: "Why?"

    Muse opened her mouth to speak a third time, and then shut it and waited.

   The woman answered after a beat. "Sherry. Sherry Hansen." 

   "Hansen, like . . . ?" Grey Hansen? 

   Her eyes had never seemed more hollow, the veins beneath shadowed, nearly grey even in the golden glow of the museum's lights. "The one and only."

   "You're his wife," Muse said, losing her breath. Shit. She thought she had been ranting to a stranger. "I didn't recognize you without the . . ."

   They both glanced down at Sherry's stomach―where, weeks ago, there had been a swollen bump, so large it seemed she had been on the verge of childbirth.

   "You had your baby." Obviously.

   Sherry closed her eyes. "It's a boy. Grey Junior."

   "Are you . . ." Maybe it was insensitive―to ask if she was happy. 

   "Don't get married, Muse. She's just like the rest of them."

   "Them?"

   "Adrien grew up with Julien and Grey. I thought . . . at first . . . Grey was so sweet. He spoiled me. I didn't grow up rich. It felt nice, at first. Then we got married."

    "Does he hurt you?"

    "He doesn't hurt me physically. He'd never. But not because he's a good man, I think―because he can't have a wife with bruises. In other ways, he's just . . . not there."

    Sherry put down her sketchbook. Her eyes, when she faced Muse, were wide and haunted.

    "He told me, once, that it could've been anyone. I didn't get it at first. I thought about it for days. And then it hit me―that I was replaceable to him. He meant he could've married anyone, any woman he wanted. I think he wanted me to feel special. But . . . who says that kind of thing? And the way he said it . . ."

    "I don't understand. What do you know about Adrien?"

   "You and me," continued Sherry. "We're the same. We grew up rough. Nothing came easy―not relationships, not the money. Adrien might seem like the perfect wife now, and it might seem like she can give you financial security, but . . . I regret it. Marrying Grey. A thousand times over."

    "You had a child with him," Muse said, almost horrified. "If you hate him so much―"

    "You have to understand. There's no escape from this life. You will never, ever be free. They have the money and the resources. Divorce isn't an option. Grey would find me, anywhere."

    "Adrien isn't Grey."

    "I've heard her reputation, and she's worse. Please, Muse. Do what I couldn't and leave her. Now."

    The plane to Greece departed tomorrow at noon. The wedding would be held the day after. 

    But something in Muse's blood crystallized like ice. Anger, solidifying and sharpening. Why did everyone think they could tell Muse about how awful of a person Adrien was? How terrible of an idea it would be to marry her?

   "Adrien," she said, feeling her muscles clench, "is the kindest, most thoughtful person I've ever had the privilege to meet in my life. She sure as hell doesn't show it, but―"

   "But?" said a deep, masculine voice from behind them.

    Muse swivelled around. For a heartbeat―a fraction of a heartbeat―she thought Adrien had overheard her. The pitch-black eyes that met hers were all too familiar. But then she processed the face: the salt-and-pepper hair, the rugged handsomeness, the broad shoulders in a clean-cut suit. Julien Vitale.

    Julien Vitale. 

    The memory of him, trembling with barely restrained fury, surged to mind. His lips had been slashed together, a pointed line, as he'd spit out: "You." Staring into her soul. As if, given the chance, he'd reach inside and pluck it out. Drag his nails through it and shred it. "I want you fired."

    Muse forced herself to swallow. She felt Sherry slam the journal shut and grow stiff.

    He's only a man. Just an old man. Who shouldn't even be out of the hospital. Even if he looked like he'd never had a single heart attack in his life, let alone one this morning.

    "Hello, Mr. Vitale." Soon to be her father-in-law. Who let you off your leash? 

    "Muse. I wanted to talk to you about something." His gaze slid to Sherry. Distaste flickered, almost imperceptible, in those oily eyes. "Please excuse us."

    Sherry didn't need to be told twice. She clutched the leather journal to her chest, shouldered her bag, and hurried away without saying goodbye. Leaving the seat beside Muse free for Julien, who indeed took his opening on the plush velvet couch.

    Together, they stared straight at Artemisia Gentileschi's painting. A man was being beheaded by a woman in white. Muse had never wished for a weapon more in her life. 

    The silence was thick and venomous, but she refused to break it.

    "Don't you want to know what I have to tell you?"

    Muse lifted her shoulder. Curt. "Not particularly."

    Julien clasped his hands together. "Your prenup has been officialized. Do you still want to get married?"

     "This isn't about the money," Muse said without hesitation. Before realizing it was about the money―it was supposed to be about the money. 

      "I see," Julien said, as if that were all he had wanted to glean from the conversation. "Well, I'll see you in Greece then."

***

I actually hate him lmfao. And I made him.

From the moon and back,
Sarai