"Stilus mediocris" (Self-portrait with Beret and Gathered Shirt) by Rembrandt van Rijn (1630), stolen 2000, recovered 2005, value - $37 million

Chapter Thirty-Two

It wasn't a movie.

The entire room didn't immediately cease to be heard; sound wasn't sucked from eardrums, nor was it stolen from mouths like the Widow was stolen from these halls.

It was... slower.

It was the dropped jaw of her. Then him. Then another. And another. It was a wildfire of shock at my audacity; a stupor born from witnessing my boldness. The ripple was a silent mix of astonishment that was part admiration, and part incredulity, at my sheer insolence that had me showing my face. Yet, it was only a short hush. Brief, because it was soon interrupted by bewildered laughs and dumbfounded remarks. Mouths born to move did not fret in silence for too long.

Shock ricocheted off chandeliers a moment later when I started down the stairs. Scorn was a weapon they wielded with ease, and projectiles aimed for my back—but they hadn't learned that I'd already learned my own lesson once. I didn't need to be taught twice. I was ready to face the people I'd once called allies.

Carrie and Lena stayed at the top. It was my journey, and my journey alone, through the hall of judgement.

My dress trailed marble as I walked down the wide steps of Whitehill Museum and Art Gallery. The fabric slinking after my heels was a far cry from the chains formerly attached, and starkly different from what others had once tried to weave around my wrists.

But I had nothing tying me down anymore.

I strode with dignity down to my so-called friends, who'd cast me out and marked my sins with red; who'd jeered at my losses like they hadn't once worshipped my success. The traitor forged by wicked justice had returned to the castle, and the remaining citizens weren't sure whether to cower or start swinging. In their hesitation, I'd wreak chaos and wrench victory. With every step, a new whisper started, and another stone fell at my feet.

With every step, my chin rose higher, and another scarlet thread pulled me together.

With every step, I burned another bridge. I burned it all down—what still remained, what wasn't charred by my tossed matches or scorched by their cocktails turned Molotov. I stood in the ruins and I razed the remnants down to the ground, knowing they'd mark these stones as consecrated once I was done. The amount of loss we'd all suffered was impossible to forget.

No lies or mistakes had ever equated the destruction I'd endured.

They'd sentenced me a witch, now they'd meet who'd risen from the ashes. This wasn't a walk to the gallows. This was a walk back from the grave. My reputation had already been slaughtered, my name had already been trampled, my deeds had already been done—I had nothing left to lose.

But I had everything to gain. I had plenty to gun for. I had so much to curse. They were witnessing the reclaiming of a title; a cat strolling into a gilded cage, ready to hunt the same canary that'd mocked them.

And across the room, regal and magnificent, the kingdom's monarch raised a glass.

I saw those around her watch the movement with intrigue, like sheep monitored their shepherd, gauging her response for sincerity. But Geraldine never advertised her entire truth. They'd have nothing more to read even in the fine print; her alcoholic acknowledgment would be the only opportunity to decipher what lurked in her mind. Her Rosetta was too complex for those ogling her now.

I looked around the large room. I took in the crowd, the refinement, the beauty of the halls I'd missed. My eyes caught on the precious finds.

Simon stood by the door, flanked by Owen and Beck, solemn and guarding as they monitored the crowd. But like everyone else, his eyes were on me. His dark gaze was layered with wonder, respect, fascination, and something that inconceivably sparkled from across the room. It was something so brilliant, so rare; it outshone the riches on every neck and sleeve. I met his enthralled eyes for a moment before looking away. This was mine to conquer. I couldn't stare at the sun when enveloped by flames, nor could I make him a target for the twitchy archers around me. Their bowstrings were taut, and their suspicions were primed; they watched my every move with fidgety fingers.

The rest of the Whitehill family stood at the bottom of the stairs, civil and gracious like the dutiful hosts they were. It was the perfect family: Mr. Whitehill, Eliza, Mrs. Whitehill, August.

August, who moved to meet me at the bottom of the steps. August, in a trim navy suit and blushing tie, his cufflinks glinting under the lights as he offered me his hand. August, the heir to the throne, and the crown jewel of the Whitehill empire and its rapacious followers.

The whispers were too loud. His risk was too high—but now I was trapped. He'd left me no choice; walking away would cause more drama than accepting his offer. He knew it. He already had a smile. It was a smug expression I recognized from our history together, as it leaned more to a smirk than a grin, and matched the dare emblazoned across his eyes.

I should've known what would happen. He'd made a promise, and August never reneged on his oaths. It'd been made a week before, when he'd barged into my apartment, ripping open the curtains and forcing me into the light; the first time I'd seen him in weeks.

"Alright, I got mom and dad on the computer. Gramma should pop up any second." August hopped over the couch, landing on the cushions beside me with his laptop in hand. His parents smiled and waved from the screen, and I spluttered on my coffee, blindsided.

"Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Whitehill," I coughed, red in the face. I fumbled for assurances, rushing to address what I assumed the concern was. "I'm sorry, I didn't know August was doing this. Is this about the fundraiser? Don't worry, I'll stay out of the way as much as possible."

"I hope not!" Mrs. Whitehill immediately chirped, rejecting my promise. "You've always had such fun in previous years. You should try to enjoy yourself."

"It's not a bad idea to discuss this, Eleanor," Mr. Whitehill added, his demeanor serious and borderline grim. His wife was contagiously optimistic, but as usual, he kept his expectations grounded. "It'll give us a good opportunity to prepare you for what could happen."

I was already weary under the facade of acceptance; I was trying to pretend my smile was anything other than resigned.

"Don't worry. I know it'll probably be unpleasant after..." I faltered, cringing.

"Unpleasant?" Geraldine's voice joined the call. She appeared on the screen, beautifully framed by the mural in her home office. "I hope not. I'd like to avoid my party being anything of the sort."

I almost slipped up, and responded I probably shouldn't go then, but I didn't. Instead, I was silent, a mortal awkward before a deity. It didn't used to be that way—but things had changed. Choices had been made.

August jumped straight into business. "Gramma, I want Eleanor to be my date."

"You don't need my permission."

"I told him no," I clarified.

Mr. Whitehill puffed a half-sigh, tilting his head to the ceiling and muttering, "Oh lord, it's senior homecoming all over again."

Mrs. Whitehill lightly smacked his chest, shushing him with the smile of an amused mother.

Geraldine shrugged. "You don't need my permission to do that either, honey," she told me.

"Gramma, I need help convincing her it's not going to ruin anything if she's my date."

"It would," I firmly explained, "and I don't need a date, anyway."

"Of course not, but think about it!" August argued. "Everyone's going to think you crashed the party otherwise. This way they'll know I'm on your side."

"August," his mother warned.

"People are dicks, mom. She knows that, and she knows how they'll act when they see her. They've treated her like shit."

"Who raised you with that mouth?" Geraldine said, layers of tease and affection in her words. "Whatever asshole taught you that really should've watched their language around you!"

"Look, it's fine," I said. "I know we've all seen the articles and interviews, and everyone's heard the rumors. It's to be expected. People are angry about the Widow, and I don't see why I should drag August down with me, too. People will talk even more if I'm seen with him. We know they won't be kind. It's bad enough I'm going at all."

"No," August denied. "Being seen with a Whitehill will show everyone you have our support. That you belong here just as much as everyone else. I'm tired of this, El. It's the same old shit every day; they have nothing else better to talk about."

We'd bickered back and forth. We'd argued and fought. But his parents had finally urged me to listen to him, and I'd relented under the pressure.

Since then, I'd wondered if the call was meant to be an unspoken apology from them; an olive branch for not offering their support sooner in the war. It didn't matter. When I looked at them, all I could see was the people who hadn't had the gall to face me. I wasn't blinded by emotion; I knew I was found on the scene that night. I knew the museum needed to reassure the board and its donors it was making a change, and I knew I didn't deserve to stay—but they hadn't even come to tell me themselves. They hadn't honored the years of my life I'd dedicated to the museum, the long nights of work, the daily grind of driving myself into the ground. They hadn't given me proper due for all I'd sacrificed, all I'd done because of how much I loved the museum, the art, and their family. Instead, I'd learned I was disposable. Even during the call, Geraldine hadn't spoken much other than quips to her grandson. She'd hung up with promises to see us all at the event, and I'd stared at the screen, silently begging her to come back.

I reminded myself of my pruning. I reminded myself why I'd picked up the shears, why I'd razed the garden that housed the snake, why I'd stayed away. I reminded myself why I'd rot in the first place.

And I took August's arm when I reached the bottom of the stairs.

I heard the crescendo of judgement, the choruses of rumors, the crumbling ash of unsteady bridges. I walked in with my chin held high and a Whitehill on my arm. Bleak billows of smoke might surround the city, perhaps even eventually dissipate, but they'd always remember what we'd burned. They'd remember the fires both sides had set.

Eventually, faced with our unyielding stubbornness, August and I were swept into the crowd.

It took a few moments, but the room began to settle. The ogles and stares wouldn't; I knew they'd follow my steps until I left. There were too many eyes monitoring my movements, too many flinches if I neared the walls, and too many left dissatisfied over the lack of expected spectacle. August and I both kept our expressions serene, ensuring nothing was given away, but I knew our smiles only hid the gritting of teeth.

Something else was irking me about the man beside me. It pestered and nagged, unsettling me until it became an itch I fell to.

"August?" I asked.

He hummed as he grabbed two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter. He handed one to me, but he seemed to miss how I stared with narrowed eyes. He had no warning; right as he brought his glass to his lips, I pounced. "What happened with Lena?"

August choked on that golden liquid, hunching into himself as he coughed loud enough to earn another wave of reproachful looks from those around us. His eyes were watery and besmirched with red when he looked up in alarm. "What?"

"What happened with Lena?" I repeated lowly.

August forced a shrug, putting his now empty glass on a passing waiter's tray.

"Nothing," he rasped. He cleared his throat, and repeated himself, stronger the second time.

August led me through the crowd. He straightened his sleeves as we walked, surveying the room like nothing was amiss, but August was still a terrible liar. His voice was too tight, his eyes were too avoidant, and his shoulders were too tense. He could hardly look at me.

It wasn't the place to push, but accusation tumbled out against my better judgement. "What did you do?"

Anyone but August would think I was commenting on the wonderfully vintage Krug champagne, or the gorgeous bouquets of lilies placed around the room. My words didn't match my facade; they slipped through my mild demeanor, brandishing camouflaged knives.

But August could hear what others couldn't, so he stopped. Anger seeped into his words when he spun to face me, indignant and injured. "What makes you think I did something?" he demanded.

I glanced up before I answered, to the woman who still hadn't descended the stairs. She was watching the rippling scene below her, flanked by chattering acquaintances, but I knew she wasn't listening. Her eyes were on the man on my arm—and her gaze was too loaded to be anything but heartache.

I leaned into August, keeping my words to the breath of a murmur.

"When someone looks at you like that, it's not because it's terminal, August. And definitely not because something is doomed."

He gazed at me questioningly, but I only nodded to the floor above, guiding his attention to the woman he'd avoided since she'd entered. August only peeked for a moment; he turned back as soon as he caught sight. His abashment could be seen by the dusting of red on his cheeks, but something else could be seen within the gaping wound noticeable in his eyes.

I witnessed his disgruntled anger sizzle out, faced with the obvious truth I refused to stand down from. When his blue eyes reluctantly found mine again, they bore the same look she hid, desperate and hurting.

"August," I sympathized. "That look isn't because it's over."

"El—"

"It's because she loves you, and whatever happened is hurting her. I don't know whose fault it is, or if it was anyone's fault at all, but if it was yours... god, just don't be an idiot, August."

He stammered, too vulnerable, "We don't—I mean, we haven't—"

"You don't have to tell me if it's a secret," I promised. "She hasn't said anything, either. Just know that I want you two to be happy. You both deserve a happy ending, whether that's with each other or apart. But I'll admit, August, I really hope you guys figure it out. I think you and her could be great together."

He searched my eyes, but I meant it. I had no idea how they'd spent their time lately, whether they'd shared it together while I self-isolated, or pined across canyons of their own making—but I knew something was delicate between them. I'd known it for a while. A friend always did. I might be missing the details, but I didn't miss their longing looks and shy buzzing around each other.

August cleared his throat. He ran a hand through his hair, and took another look at the now-empty spot where Lena had been. His expression hinted a hopeful curiosity and drops of guilty terror. Swirls of red fought the blues, but I knew the purples he'd find would persevere.

Then, August squared his shoulders. He remembered where we were; I knew it. I could see it. He resumed his easy smile, and the subject was dropped.

For now.

We made our way through the crowd, chatting with liars and socializing with thieves, in an attempt to circle the vast room. Not everyone was willing to face me, nor was everyone adept at hiding their ridicule with shreds of synthetic kindness. Still, it was admittedly easier with August by my side. For the briefest of moments, I thought it wasn't so bad. I thought maybe the glares, stares, and torturous small talk would be the worst I'd have to face.

"Heads up, we got incoming," August murmured. My stomach dropped.

I glanced over, immediately noticing how August's carefully curated look had curdled from placidity into irritability. His easygoing stance was suddenly defensive, and I could practically see the troubled anger cascading from him in a pounding flood. I scanned the crowd to see who'd caused such a drastic fall of his mask, who'd instigated such a poisoning of his demeanor, but I didn't have to look far.

I never had to look far to find a snake in the garden.

"How long could we be a sad song
'Til we were too far gone to bring back to life?
I gave you all my best me's, my endless empathy
And all I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier
Fighting in only your army
Frontlines, don't you ignore me
I'm the best thing at this party
(You're losing me)"

- Taylor Swift, "You're Losing Me"