The crowd, which had been murmuring among the champagne flutes, fell silent. Gabby stepped off the platform. She felt the weight of thirty pairs of eyes, but more than that, she felt the weight of Marcus’s expectation. She walked to the center of the empty floor, let the smoky gown fall to her ankles, and stood in her simple linen shift.
Not like a model. Like a woman remembering something painful and beautiful at the same time. She pressed her palm to her chest. She let her shoulders drop. She opened her eyes, and they were wet—not with tears, but with the threat of them. The kind of vulnerability that made strangers look away. Willey Studio Gabby Model Gallery 106
Gabby looked at the painting. It was raw, unfinished in the most perfect way. The woman in the painting was her, but more. Truer. The kind of truth you only see in reflections before you’re fully awake. The crowd, which had been murmuring among the
And at the center of tonight’s private viewing was , the model who had become the studio’s living muse. She walked to the center of the empty
She closed her eyes.
The gallery was dead quiet. Even the rain seemed to pause.