Page 90 of Shattered

That did it.

The tears came quietly, spilling over before I even realized they were there. Not from sadness. From being seen. From realizing someone had believed in me long before I believed in myself.

I was still brushing them away when footsteps approached.

The curator I’d met years ago at a museum opening paused when she saw me, recognition blooming into a warm smile.

“Delia Santoro,” she said. “I’ve been waiting to finally meet you here.”

“Hi, Caroline. Sorry, I didn’t know you were here.”

“I work here.” She looked at Axel. “I see you finally brought her to her room.”

“Everyone knew about this?” I turned to Axel, who wore a sheepish grin.

“Axel’s been calling it Delia’s gallery since we opened. He drove the design team crazy making sure every detail was perfect.” Caroline studied me. “Have you been painting? We’ve been waiting for the day to see your art here.”

I looked at Axel again, still overwhelmed by everything, then I turned to Caroline, “Some. Recently.”

“May I see?”

I pulled up photos on my phone with shaking hands. The raw emotional pieces I’d been creating. Processing my mother’s death through color and chaos.

Caroline scrolled through them in silence. Studied each one carefully. Finally looked up. “This is stunning work.”

She handed back my phone. “We’re curating an emerging artists showcase in three months. Would you consider submitting?”

My heart stopped. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. This caliber of work deserves to be seen.”

I looked at Axel. He was trying not to smile. Trying to look neutral. Failing spectacularly.

“Yes,” I said before fear could talk me out of it. “I’ll submit.”

That night at Axel’s penthouse, I couldn’t stay still.

I paced from the windows to the couch and back again. “I can’t do this,” I said for what had to be the seventh time. “I’m calling Caroline. I’ll tell her I changed my mind.”

Axel looked up from where he was leaning against the counter, watching me like this was mildly entertaining. “You’re not.”

“I’m serious. Putting my work out there means people get opinions. Loud ones. On the internet.”

“They’ll have opinions no matter what,” he said calmly.

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s reality.”

I stopped pacing long enough to glare at him. “Being seen means being judged. Possibly rejected.”

He tilted his head, considering me. “You survived our first week of living together at your place. You’ll survive this too.”

I scoffed. “You’re comparing art critics to living with you?”

“According to you, I was very difficult to handle.”

That earned a reluctant smile, which only annoyed me further. “You’re enjoying this.”