Read Chapter 19: The Gallery Sting

The gallery was all white walls and cold light, polished concrete underfoot, the murmur of wine-warmed voices bouncing off high ceilings. Marcus stood near the bar in a charcoal suit that fit him too well, his eyes tracking the room with the lazy precision of a man who had done this a hundred times. He looked like a guest. He was anything but.

Evelyn felt his gaze land on her as she moved through the crowd on Oliver's arm. She kept her smile in place, the one she wore for premieres and press junkets, the mask that made her untouchable. Oliver's hand rested at the small of her back, light but possessive, and she fought the crawl of her skin.

"Your piece is here, you know," he said, leaning in close enough that she caught the sharp, clean scent of his cologne. "The one from your last run. I bought it."

She blinked. "You bought my portrait?"

"The one where you're looking over your shoulder. Like you're expecting someone." He smiled, and there was something hungry beneath it. "I've always thought that was the real you. The one who knows she's being watched."

Her step faltered. Marcus shifted two feet to his left, almost imperceptible, but she saw it. A reminder. He was here.

"Thank you," she managed. "That's... very generous, Oliver."

"Not generous. Honest." He guided her toward a corner of the gallery where a single canvas hung under a soft spotlight. It was her, yes—the portrait from her final West End show, oils capturing the half-turn of her body, the tension in her jaw, her eyes fixed on something beyond the frame. Something unseen.

Oliver's voice dropped. "I keep it in my study at home. Sometimes I look at it and wonder what you're thinking. What you saw."

"Just a stagehand, probably," she said lightly. "Or a cue light."

"No," he said. "You were scared. I don't think the audience ever noticed, but I did."

The words hit her like cold water. She turned to face him fully, searching his expression for the joke, the tease, the flirtation she had steeled herself against. There was nothing playful in his eyes. Just certainty.

"You weren't in that production," she said carefully. "You were in rep at the other theatre. You never saw that show."

"I read the reviews. Saw the photographs." His smile widened. "The photographs tell more than the reviews, Evelyn. The way you're holding your shoulder. The way your lips are pressed. I've studied them. All of them."

A cold certainty settled in her spine. Marcus was moving now, not toward her but around the perimeter of the room, giving the signal to the two plainclothes officers nursing sodas by the fire exit. The undercover posted at the front door adjusted his earpiece.

She needed to keep him talking. "That was a difficult run," she said, forcing vulnerability into her voice. "I had some... trouble around that time."

"I know," Oliver said softly. "I know about the letters."

Her heart seized. They had never spoken about the letters. The police had sealed the file, and her team had scrubbed the press coverage. No public statement had ever mentioned them.

"What letters?" she asked, her voice a whisper.

"The ones that said you would never be safe. The ones that quoted your own lines back at you." He stepped closer, crowding her against the edge of a display plinth. "I thought you must have felt them. Every word I wrote, I needed you to feel them."

The gallery noise faded to a dull thrum. She could see Marcus in her peripheral vision now, cutting through the crowd with the patient inevitability of weather. Oliver noticed nothing. He was lost in her, in this moment he had been building for months.

"You sent the roses to my dressing room," she said, a statement, not a question. "The black ones."

"The night you opened in the thriller. Yes." He tilted his head, almost tender. "You wore that red dress. I thought, she'll understand now. She'll know it's me."

"And the note in my script last week. 'The last act is where I find you.'" Her voice was steadier than she felt. "That was you too."

"You found it." He brightened. "I wasn't sure you would. I was so careful about your—"

"Evelyn." Marcus's voice cut through, close now, direct. "Step back from him."

Oliver's face flickered, confusion replacing the reverie. He turned, his hand still on her back. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Marcus Cole," Marcus said, his voice flat and cold. "Head of Ms. Hart's security. And you're under arrest."

The two plainclothes officers were suddenly there, badges out, hands firm. Oliver went rigid. "What is this? Evelyn, what is this?"

"You've been stalking her for eighteen months," the older officer said, pulling his arms behind his back. "We have your handwriting samples. Your prints on the notes. Your purchase history for the roses."

"Evelyn." Oliver's voice cracked as they turned him, hands now cuffed. "I did it because I love you. Because no one else—"

"Because you're sick," she said, and her voice was quiet, carrying no mercy. "Because you made me afraid to go to work. Because you made me afraid to be alone. That's not love, Oliver. That's theft."

He was still calling her name as they walked him out through the back, past the dumbstruck faces of patrons who had watched the whole scene unfold like a piece of performance art. The gallery owner fluttered in Marcus's direction, sputtering something about bad publicity, and Marcus fixed her with a look that silenced her instantly.

Evelyn stood alone in the spotlight of her own portrait. Her reflection stared back at her from the canvas, the woman captured mid-turn, caught between running and standing her ground. She had wanted to believe the threat was faceless, distant, a nameless pressure at the edge of her life. But it had been right beside her all along. Rehearsing with her. Laughing at her jokes. Buying her drinks and touching her shoulder and telling her she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

Marcus returned, his hand brushing her elbow. "You did well."

"Did I?" She looked up at him, and he saw the shake in her hands before she hid them in the folds of her dress. "He sat next to me for three weeks. I taught him lines. I told him about my childhood. He was there, and I never once—"

"You weren't supposed to suspect." Marcus's voice was low now, the hard edge gone. "That's how they operate, Evelyn. Trust and closeness. That's the weapon. You weren't the one who failed."

She looked at the portrait one last time. The version of herself she'd once thought was merely over-wrought, dramatic, an actress playing up the paranoia of her role.

"What happens now?" she asked.

"He'll be processed. The restraining order from the other woman becomes a pattern of behavior. He won't be out for a long time." Marcus hesitated, then added, softer, "You're safe now."

She wanted to believe him. She stood in the middle of the gallery, the light hot on her face, the eyes of the remaining patrons still on her—some sympathetic, some hungry for gossip. The portrait stared back. The woman in the painting still looked afraid.

Evelyn realized, with a hollow ache, that she didn't blame that woman anymore.

"Take me home," she said.

Marcus took her hand, and for a moment, neither of them moved.