My phone vibrated on the desk again.

It was an email notification.

The digital invitations had been sent.

Within ten minutes, the first RSVP arrived.

It was from Clara Bennett.

*I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Emily,* the confirmation read.

I stared at the screen, a cold knot tightening in my chest.

Clara believed she was coming to watch me fail.

She believed I was still the quiet wife who painted in the shadows of Daniel’s penthouse.

The second RSVP arrived five minutes later.

Daniel’s assistant had accepted on his behalf.

I sat on the wooden stool, watching the morning light creep across the wooden floorboards.

The paintings hung in a neat row against the exposed brick wall.

They looked like headstones.

On Wednesday, Marcus returned with two large crates of lighting equipment.

We spent the afternoon adjusting the track lights so each canvas was starkly illuminated.

The rest of the room remained in deep shadow.

“It looks like a courtroom,” Marcus observed, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Good,” I said. “That is the intention.”