Chapter 196

Iris

The brush glides across the wall, leaving a streak of blue in its wake. The mural I’m painting for the upcoming gala is almost complete—a riot of shapes and colors, the central form being a young girl with her arms outstretched, facing the glittering ocean in the midst of a pink and orange sunset.

Biting my lip, I take a step back to inspect the seashell I’ve just painted on the sand below. But I shake my head, frowning. It feels a little tacky, like the kind of thing you’d see in a beachy gift shop rather than on the wall of an art gallery.

“You know, when you said you wanted to paint something for the gala, I thought you meant a nice little piece to auction off,” Alice says with a chuckle as she saunters up behind me with two cups of coffee in hand. “Not a twenty-foot mural that takes up the entire west wall of my gallery.”

I glance over at her just as I’m about to paint over the seashell, then set my brush down and take the coffee with a grateful smile. “Go big or go home, right?”

“That does seem to be your motto lately,” she laughs.

She’s not wrong, of course. The gala has grown far beyond my initial vision. I knew it had to be big, but not like this. It seems like half the city is going to be in attendance tomorrow night; everyone is talking about it. Everyone is intrigued by the charity initiative, although it won’t be officially revealed until the actual event.

For a moment, I think that if they knew that I was actually behind this event, they might only come just to see me crash and burn. Again. But I’m glad I kept my name conveniently removed from it all, so people seem to be genuinely interested in the cause rather than the potential drama surrounding it.

“You’re not upset about the wall, are you?” I ask, suddenly worried that I’ve overstepped. “I can paint over it after the gala if you want.”

“Are you kidding?” Alice exclaims. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to Marsiel. An Iris Willford—or should I say, Flora—original, adorning the biggest wall in my gallery…”

I grimace at that and turn back to my work. With one hand still holding my coffee, I dip my brush into the white paint and begin to work over the damn seashell. “Alice, I love you, but I told you I don’t want this to be about me.”

“I know,” Alice says softly, touching my shoulder. “But you can’t deny your name carries weight in the art world. Especially now.”

Especially now. She means because of the scandal, the slap, the rumors about me being the “Jewel Killer.” People are more morbidly fascinated by my downfall and potential rise from the ashes than they ever were about my art.

“All the more reason to keep my name off the promotional material,” I insist with a quiet sigh.

Alice holds up her hands in surrender. “I know, I know. And we’ve respected your wishes. Your name isn’t on a single flyer or invitation. You’re just listed as ‘a local artist’ who contributed the mural.”

I nod, satisfied, and return to my painting. That’s how it should be. Even though the gala is primarily a way to get Arthur away from Veronica, that’s just the private part of it, the part only Ezra and my close friends and I know about.

To everyone else—and honestly, to me as well—it’s about raising money for a good cause. It feels good to work on something beneficial without making it a big public spectacle about me and my role as Luna—or lack thereof.

For the next few hours, I lose myself in the painting once more. Time slips away like butter as I add layer upon layer of color, building depth and texture. The girl in the mural seems to come alive under my brush. In a way, she reminds me of myself, and at times I feel as if I’m in the image with her, the cool ocean water lapping at my bare ankles.

Maybe I want to join her little world. Walk off into the sunset and never be seen again.

I think that would be simpler. But ultimately unrealistic.

Even so, working on this piece has been unexpectedly therapeutic. In the weeks since I agreed to help Ezra, I’ve spent most of my days here at Marsiel, working on the mural while Ezra handles the rest.

When Miles is at school and the apartment feels too empty, too haunted by memories of Arthur, I come here and paint. When the tabloids publish another outrageous story about me or Arthur and Veronica, I come here and paint.

When the doubts creep in about whether I’m doing the right thing, whether I even have a chance of saving Arthur from whatever hold Veronica has on him or whether I even want to, I come here and paint.

It’s become my sanctuary, my purpose, my way of channeling all the anger and hurt and fear into something positive. Something that might actually help other children find the same solace in art that I did as a child.

Finally, after a full day of painting nonstop, the mural is complete. The sun has long since gone down, the only light in the gallery that of the studio bulbs casting a spotlight over me. My limbs ache but in a pleasant sort of way as I climb down from my ladder and step back into the center of the space to take it all in.

“You know, this gala is going to be amazing. You’ve done an incredible job pulling it all together.”

I look up to see Alice standing there again, leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. Everyone else has gone home for the day, so it’s just us left. I offer her a small smile as she joins me at my side.

“All I did was paint a mural,” I murmur, returning my gaze toward the image.

“Don’t sell yourself short.” Alice tilts her head to look up at the massive piece. From here, it looks even more magnificent—as if the entire gallery itself opens up to the ocean, as if there is no wall there at all. “This was your idea, your vision. You did this.”

Not really. If it weren’t for Ezra practically begging me, I probably would still be wallowing in Arthur’s apartment.

“I just hope it helps,” I say softly. “The children, I mean. I hope they get something out of the art classes.”

“They will,” Alice assures me. “Art can be transformative. You of all people should know that.” She smiles, nudging my shoulder. “This gala is going to put Marsiel on the map, you know. The exposure alone will be worth its weight in gold.”

“I’m glad,” I say, and mean it. “Your gallery deserves the recognition. You’ve worked so hard for it.”

“We all have,” Alice says with a warm smile. She wraps her arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, and when I rest my head against her, she rests hers on top of mine. “That’s what friends do. We support each other.”

Her words warm me. In the midst of all the chaos and heartbreak, I’ve been reminded of what true friendship looks like. Alice, standing by me despite the scandals. Hunter, offering his expertise for the art classes without hesitation. Even Ezra, risking everything to help me.

Just then, the sound of heels clicking on the gallery floor interrupts us. We turn to see my mother striding toward us, which takes us both by surprise given the late hour—nearly midnight by now.

My mother hesitates, looking up at the mural. Her eyes widen as she takes it in, but to my surprise, she doesn’t comment on it; rather, her face looks shockingly ashen and not at all like herself.

“Iris,” she says, wringing her hands, “we need to talk.”