Chapter 5
Three hours.
One hundred and eighty minutes.
A handful of breaths, really—
and somehow enough time for my entire life to collapse or resurrect itself.
I stand in the middle of the gallery, fluorescent lights buzzing above me like nervous insects, staring at the canvas that was supposed to save me.
My masterpiece.
My comeback.
My proof that Renee Hart wasn’t dead yet.
Except now there’s a gash—
a jagged, violent tear slicing through the center of the painting like someone took a knife to my throat instead of my art.
I don’t scream.
I can’t.
My breath has already abandoned me.
All that’s left is a ringing in my ears and the trembling realization that I have exactly three hours to fix… this.
The coordinator, a woman with steel-gray hair and the emotional range of an unplugged toaster, clicks across the floor toward me.
“Is it salvageable?”
Her voice is flat.
Indifferent.
Like the fate of my career is just another item on her clipboard checklist.
“I—”
My throat closes.
I try again.
“I don’t know.”
She nods once, already turning away.
“Well, we open at seven regardless. Do what you can.”
Do what you can.
Right.
As if stitching together the remains of my identity is something I can do with a needle and a steady hand.
I kneel beside the painting, my fingers grazing the torn canvas.
The rip is fresh—too fresh.
It wasn’t an accident.
It wasn’t storage damage.
Someone didn’t want this piece on the walls tonight.
And I don’t need a list of suspects.
I only need one name.
Nova.
But I shove the thought down, because there’s no time for revenge, paranoia, or poetic self-pity.
Tonight isn’t about her.
Tonight is about me.
I pull my repair kit from my bag—fine brushes, adhesive, pigment samples, tools I haven’t used this desperately since art school. My hands shake as I set them out, the way surgeons must before operating on someone they love.
Because this canvas isn’t just a painting.
It’s every night I cried myself to sleep after Owen left.
Every betrayal, every humiliation, every moment I thought about quitting.
It’s Paris rooftops and cold mornings in Montmartre and the quiet, stubborn belief that I still had something left to say.
I lean closer, breath shallow, trying to coax the fibers back into place.
A soft tear escapes my eye and hits the canvas—
a tiny drop that blooms in the paint.
Perfect.
Emotional damage on top of literal damage.
Very professional, Renee.
The gallery staff move around me, hanging spotlights, adjusting placements, murmuring about VIP guests.
Their voices blur into a distant static.
My world has narrowed to the wound in front of me.
And the ticking clock.
2 hours, 27 minutes.
I press the canvas from behind, easing the edges of the tear together with careful fingertips.
The paint cracks slightly.
My stomach drops.
A breath.
Another.
Slow, steady strokes.
Color matching.
Layer blending.
It’s not perfect.
It won’t be.
But perfection is a luxury for artists who haven’t already been publicly humiliated by the art critic Julian Croft three months ago.
Right now, I’ll take survival.
When the tear begins to disappear—when the painting looks almost whole again—my vision swims with relief.
I sit back on my heels, paint-stained fingers numb, sweat prickling my spine.
One hour left.
I stand, wipe my palms on my jeans, and stare at the nearly restored canvas under the gallery lights.
It’s bruised.
It’s flawed.
But it’s standing.
Like me.
A staff member rushes by, nearly tripping on a cable, yelling that guests are already lining up outside.
My heart slams into my ribs.
This is it.
No turning back.
Tonight, I’m either reborn—
or ruined.