"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 hisptop, 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 preupied, 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 ufortable.


    Finally, the day before the exhibition, Iplete thest 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 artworking 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 minutester, 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 distanttely, I''m not even sure if he''s nning toe.


    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 ck dress, elegant but not shy. I want my art to be what people notice, not me. Thankfully, Cliff is avable 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 nce 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.