The photo burst had not finished echoing when the room resumed its polished noise.

A board wife with diamond studs cornered me near the damaged-wing study and spoke about acquisition as if the canvas were a minor fund. Someone from the cultural trust asked whether a percentage of sales might route into their youth atelier program. I heard myself agree to a private viewing next week. A man in a velvet jacket said the word *important* three times and once *donation*, then waited to be thanked. I thanked him. My face held.

All that could stay in my head was what was happening. Alena did plan a ruin me with...