Chapter 4: A Trip
Monday morning, ten sharp. I sat in the conference room at Henderson & Associates, my fingers drumming against the polished mahogany table. My lawyer, Rachel Martinez, shuffled through papers while Adrian's guy checked his Rolex for the third time.
10:15. Still no Adrian.
"Traffic's brutal this time of day," Adrian's lawyer offered, like that explained anything.
Rachel shot me a look. We'd been through this dance before with other clients. The late arrival, the power play, the whole show. "We can start without him if you'd prefer."
"Let's wait." I wanted to see how he'd walk into this room. Confident? Guilty? Like nothing had changed?
The door finally opened at 10:17. Adrian rushed in, tie slightly crooked, hair looking like he'd run his hands through it fifty times. "Sorry, sorry. Traffic was insane on Wilshire."
Right. Traffic.
"No problem," Rachel said, though her voice suggested otherwise. "We can begin with the property division overview—"
"Actually," Adrian interrupted, loosening his tie, "could I get a few minutes alone with Celeste first?"
I looked at him across the table. Same face, same eyes, but everything else felt different. "Whatever you wanna say, you can say it here. We don't really do private conversations anymore."
His lawyer cleared his throat. "Perhaps it would be beneficial—"
"No." I kept my eyes on Adrian. "We're way past that."
Adrian sat down heavily, running his hand through his hair again. That nervous habit he'd had since college. "This is all because of that photograph, isn't it?"
Oh, we're really gonna do this.
"How did you get it, Adrian?" I leaned forward. "That photograph was never part of our shared stuff."
He shifted in his chair, suddenly fascinated by his coffee cup. "You... you brought it when we got married. I thought it was just another piece from your collection."
"Another piece?" The words came out sharper than I meant. "That's a signed Ansel Adams original!"
"I know it's Adams," he said quickly. "But you never said... I mean, you didn't tell me it was special."
The lawyers exchanged glances. Rachel made a note on her legal pad.
I stood up, walked to windows overlooking the city. The view was supposed to be impressive, but all I could see was traffic and smog.
"My mom worked as Adams's darkroom assistant in the early eighties." The words came out quiet, but they filled the room. "She'd just immigrated from Guadalajara. Her English was terrible, but she understood light."
Adrian went completely still behind me.
"She spent three years learning from him. Mixing chemicals, timing exposures, watching him work." I traced patterns on the glass with my finger. "When she got pregnant with me, the art world basically showed her the door. But Adams... he gave her that print. Signed it himself."
I turned around. Adrian was staring at me like I was speaking a foreign language.
"She said it proved she mattered. Even if it was just for three years, even if she was just an assistant, she'd been part of something bigger."
"I..." Adrian's voice cracked. "I really didn't know. Why didn't you ever tell me this?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
"I did tell you." My voice stayed calm even though my heart was pounding. "First year, second year, third year... until I finally gave up."
Rachel cleared her throat gently. "Perhaps we should discuss the current situation?"
But Adrian was shaking his head. "When exactly did this arrangement with Evangeline start?"
I sat back down, folding my hands in my lap. "Good question."
"Last year," he said, not meeting my eyes. "During Venice Biennale. She introduced me to some European collectors."
"So this has been going on for a year?" The words came out flat. "A whole year of planning behind my back?"
"She said if we could provide some unique pieces, she'd connect us with serious high-end buyers." Adrian was talking faster now, like he could explain his way out of this. "Her client list is worth millions, Celeste."
"Unique pieces." I nodded slowly. "You mean my family's stuff."
"You have to understand, Evangeline's connections could change everything for us." His hands moved as he talked, gesturing at nothing. "This isn't just about one loan. It's long-term business strategy."
Us. Still with the us.
Rachel leaned forward. "We need to address Mr. Blackwood's unauthorized transfer of marital assets."
"It was temporary," Adrian's lawyer jumped in. "A loan for promotional purposes."
"If that photograph isn't back within forty-eight hours," I said, my voice steady as rock, "I'm filing for emergency relief."
Adrian's face went pale. "Celeste, you're being dramatic. This could hurt our reputation in the art world."
"Our reputation?" I almost laughed. "There is no 'our' anymore, Adrian."
The room went quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning. Adrian slumped in his chair like someone had let all the air out of him.
"Fine," he said finally. "I'll get your photograph back. But the gallery... we need to be realistic about division."
"Fifty-one percent controlling share." I didn't blink. "Non-negotiable."
"That's impossible!" He shot upright. "I have investor commitments, vendor contracts, overhead—"
"Then you should've thought about that before you started giving away things that weren't yours to give."
Adrian's lawyer whispered something in his ear. Adrian shook his head, then nodded, then shook his head again.
"We'll need time to review the financials," the lawyer said finally.
"Take all the time you need." I stood up, grabbing my purse. "But that photograph comes home tomorrow, or this gets ugly fast."
Rachel gathered her papers. "We'll schedule a follow-up for next week. Same time?"
"Works for me." I headed for the door without looking back.
"Celeste." Adrian's voice stopped me at the threshold. "This doesn't have to destroy everything we built."
I turned around one last time. He looked smaller somehow, sitting there in his expensive suit in that expensive office, surrounded by the wreckage of what used to be us.
"No," I said softly. "You already did that."
The elevator ride down felt like falling in slow motion. Forty-three floors of gravity and regret and the strangest sense of relief I'd ever felt.
I drove straight to Dad's rehab center, because some things mattered more than lawyers and galleries and men who couldn't tell the difference between art and assets.
I found him in the physical therapy room, working with resistance bands, his face scrunched up in concentration. When he saw me, his whole face lit up.
"Mija," he said, his words still a little slurred but getting clearer every day. "Surprise visit?"
"Just wanted to see my favorite guy," I said, kissing his forehead.
Watching him fight to rebuild what the stroke had taken away, I realized something. Some things were worth fighting for. Some people deserved protection. And Adrian had never been on either list.
I pulled out my phone and opened the airline app. New York had galleries, collectors, a whole art scene that didn't know Adrian Blackwood from Adam. Time to find out what Celeste Rivera could do on her own.