Chapter 70

Iris

My face burns hot as the fans stare at us, their cameras in hand. I glance at Hunter, who looks just as stunned as I feel. For a long, awkward moment, there’s nothing but silence.

“Please?” the girl asks, shaking her phone slightly. “Your relationship is so cute!”

“I—we’re not—” I stammer, pulling Miles closer to my side.

Hunter clears his throat. “I’m sorry, but we’re just friends. The rumors about us aren’t true.”

The women’s faces fall in obvious disappointment. One of them tucks her phone away with a pout. “But the articles said—”

“The articles were wrong,” I cut in firmly. “Hunter has been kind enough to support my art career, that’s all.”

“Then who is the father of your child?” another woman asks bluntly, nodding toward Miles, who is now half-hiding behind my legs. “Everyone’s saying you two have been hiding your relationship for years. Unless there’s another man…”

My stomach twists uncomfortably. This is exactly what I’ve been afraid of—Miles being dragged into this mess, becoming the subject of gossip and speculation. I thought I’d gotten away from it with the situation with Arthur, but I was wrong.

“That’s really none of your business,” Alice suddenly interjects, stepping forward. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we need to get going.”

The women look disappointed but reluctantly leave. As soon as they’re out of earshot, I exhale heavily.

“I am so sorry about that,” Hunter says, running a hand through his hair. “This is getting out of control.”

“It’s not your fault,” I tell him, even though my heart is still racing

We part ways shortly after, with Alice promising to call me later. The entire way home, I can’t shake the feeling that even more gossip will surface online within hours, along with new speculation about the mysterious man in my life who isn’t Hunter. It’s only a matter of time before someone connects the dots to Arthur.

When I arrive home with Miles, I’m surprised to find Arthur’s shoes by the door. He’s rarely home this early in the afternoon. Miles runs ahead of me, excited to see him.

“Daddy!” he calls out, racing into the living room.

I follow more slowly, feeling a strange sense of dread settle over me. I’ve barely seen Arthur in days. He’s been out of the house pretty much every waking hour since he allegedly ended his contract with Selina, and every time I see him, it feels more awkward than the last.

He’s sitting on the couch with his laptop open, but he closes it when Miles bounds into the room. He scoops our son up with a smile, but something stiffens in his expression when he sees me standing in the archway. There’s tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

“Hey, little wolf,” he says, ruffling Miles’ hair, and the fact that he picked up on my nickname for Miles makes my heart twinge slightly. “Did you have fun at the park?”

Miles nods enthusiastically and launches into a detailed account of his playground adventures, completely oblivious to the strange heaviness in the air. As Miles chatters away, Arthur’s eyes find mine over our son’s head once more, and something in them makes my heart stutter.

That’s when I notice the stack of papers on the coffee table. The contract. The one that’s supposed to be ending his fake engagement to Selina.

“Miles, why don’t you go wash up before dinner?” I suggest once there’s a pause in his monologue.

He scampers off without argument, leaving Arthur and me alone. I nod toward the papers.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Arthur sighs, leaning back against the couch. “Yes.”

I move closer, perching on the arm of a nearby chair. “Has it been canceled yet?” I try to keep my tone casual, but there’s a thread of hope running through it that I can’t quite disguise.

“It’s still in the works,” he says, and something in my chest deflates.

“What’s taking so long?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “I thought you said it would be simple.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens. “It’s complicated, Iris. There are… factors I didn’t anticipate.”

“Like what?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and in that hesitation, I feel the distance between us growing wider.

“Legal issues,” he finally says with a wave of his hand. “Contractual obligations that need to be fulfilled before the termination can be complete.”

I want to believe him, but there’s something… off about his explanation. I remember the rumor articles and wonder if he’s seen them. If he thinks there’s something going on between Hunter and me.

“Arthur, about those articles—”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” he interrupts, standing up abruptly. “I have a lot of work to do tonight.”

I watch him gather the contract papers and his laptop, heading toward his office without another word. The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds like a gunshot in the sudden silence.

The next few days pass in much the same way—Arthur distant and preoccupied, me throwing myself into finishing my artwork for the exhibition. I paint like a woman possessed, channeling all my confusion and hurt into my brush strokes.

The theme “Soul Ties” takes on new meaning as I create pieces that explore the invisible bonds between people—the ones that stretch and strain but never quite break. In each painting, there are subtle elements that represent my ties to Arthur, to Miles, even to myself. It’s the most personal work I’ve ever done, raw and honest in a way that sometimes makes me uncomfortable.

Finally, the day before the exhibition, I complete the last piece. I stand back, exhausted but satisfied, knowing I’ve poured everything I have into this collection.

As if on cue, my phone pings with a message from Hunter: “How’s the artwork coming along?”

I take a quick photo of my studio, canvases leaning against the walls, and send it to him.

He responds almost immediately: “They look amazing, even from this distance. You’re going to blow everyone away.”

A few minutes later, another message arrives: “Would you like me to attend the exhibition with you? For moral support. No pressure either way.”

I stare at the screen, conflicted. Part of me knows it’s not a good idea, given the rumors. But another part is desperate for someone to be there, someone who understands what this opportunity means to me. Arthur has been so distant lately, I’m not even sure if he’s planning to come.

Without thinking too much about it, I type back: “That would be nice. Thank you.”

The night of the exhibition arrives, and I’m a bundle of nerves. I’ve chosen to wear a simple black dress, elegant but not flashy. I want my art to be what people notice, not me. Thankfully, Cliff is available to watch Miles while I’m gone, and once I don my Flora disguise, I’m ready.

Inside, the gallery has been transformed. The lighting is perfect, highlighting each piece exactly as I’d hoped. My collection has been given a prominent space, and several people are already gathered around, discussing my work quietly.

“Iris, this is extraordinary,” Hunter murmurs as we walk slowly through the exhibition space. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

A warm glow of pride spreads through me. I glance over at my star piece, which I’ve titled “Red Thread”. It’s an image of a hand tangled in a thin red thread. The thread wraps so tightly around some of the fingers that they’re beginning to turn purple.

In some spots, the thread cuts straight into the skin, beading red blood along the surface of the palm—specifically where the “life line” is. The thread eventually moves off the canvas altogether, indicating that it’s connected to an unseen, unknown force.

Unseen and unknown by the viewer, at least.

Just then, the gallery director approaches, beaming. “Flora, your work is causing quite a stir. The committee members are very impressed.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling a flutter of hope surge in my chest. Could I actually win this residency, even against all of the other amazing artwork here tonight?

The director moves on to greet other guests, and Hunter offers to get me a drink. As he walks away, I stand alone before “Red Thread”, taking it in one last time. The severity of the thread cutting across the palm almost seems to make my own palm ache, and I can’t help but press my thumb into the spot.

But no matter how nice the event is, it feels… empty. Looking at the painting of the red thread, I feel a profound absence where Arthur belongs. He should be here tonight, by my side, but he’s not. Because even if we weren’t so distant, he still couldn’t be seen with me in public.

Hence the red thread trailing off the canvas, out of sight, where no one but me knows where it leads.

Suddenly, a hush falls over the crowd near the entrance, and I turn instinctively toward the sound. My heart sinks as I see them—Arthur and Selina, entering the gallery…

Together.