When I stepped back and looked at the sign, Nadine’s Gallery & Café, a wave of nervousness and disbelief washed over me. The painted letters gleamed under the morning sun, framed by the soft scent of fresh pastries drifting from the café kitchen behind me.
For a second, I thought my knees might give out from the sheer relief of it.
“Do you think people will come?” I asked, hugging my arms around my waist. My mother, who was standing beside me, snorted under her breath.
“Oh, they will come,” she said firmly, her hands warm on my shoulders. “How could they not? They’ll come for your art, and they’ll stay for your pastries.”
Niccolo appeared behind us then, balancing three cups of coffee in his hands. “Correction: they’ll stay for my coffee,” he said with that teasing grin I’d come to lean on. “And they’ll come because they finally get to see you shine, Nadine.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help the shy smile that slipped through. When the first customers started to trickle in, my heart raced so fast I thought I might faint right there in front of the pastry case.
A few people wandered through the small gallery space, pausing to study my paintings – the brushstrokes that held every ounce of my pain, my hope, my freedom.
–
At first, I stood behind the counter, too shy to move, but Niccolo nudged me gently. “They’re here for you, you know. Go on, show them what you’ve built.”
So I did. I walked from piece to piece, answering questions, sharing stories behind each painting.
People sipped coffee by the big sunlit windows. I overheard them saying they’d never seen anything like this – a space that felt warm, real, like stepping into someone’s soul.
My mother stayed the whole day, beaming at every customer like she’d painted every piece herself. Niccolo was everywhere at once, wiping tables, charming guests, making sure I didn’t collapse from the flurry of excitement.
By the end of the day, when we locked the doors, I sat on the gallery floor, exhausted but buzzing. “I can’t believe this is real,” I murmured, resting my head on Niccolo’s shoulder.
“It’s real,” he said, pressing a kiss to my temple. “And tomorrow, it’ll be even better.” The next few days blurred into a rhythm I’d never known. I could have spent mornings opening the café with fresh bread, the aroma of roasted beans drifting through my gallery walls; afternoons spent helping customers pick out prints to hang in their homes.
People kept coming. Some bought entire collections. Others came just for the coffee, for comfort.
And every time they did, they carried away a piece of me – loss. It felt like life.
– but for once, it didn’t feel like a
At night, when Niccolo and I curled up on the couch, I’d whisper to him, “Is it bad that I’m
Chapter 15
waiting for something to go wrong?”
He’d hush me every time, pressing his lips to my forehead. “Nothing’s going to go wrong.
Not this time.”
I wanted so badly to believe him.
One afternoon, a few weeks after opening, I found myself alone in the gallery for the first time. My mother had gone home to rest, and Niccolo was out finalizing last–minute wedding details a suit fitting, or maybe a cake tasting he insisted on doing himself because, “If you trust me with coffee, you should trust me with cake.”
I sat at my easel near the big front window, the hum of the espresso machine a comforting echo in the empty shop. I’d just dipped my brush in a swirl of amber paint when the bell above the door chimed softly.
My heart lifted. “I’m sorry, we’re closed for today,” I said, not turning around right away. “But if you’d like to inquire about a painting, I-”
I paused when I felt a strange shift in the air – the hush of footsteps moving too quietly behind me. Slowly, I turned.
A man I didn’t recognize stood by the window, his hands tucked into the pockets of a heavy coat. He looked like any customer until he didn’t.
Something about the way his eyes darted around the room made the hairs on my neck stand on end.
“Can I help you?” I asked, my voice trembling despite my best effort to keep it steady.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the faint metallic scent on his breath, something like copper and chemicals. My pulse hammered in my ears.
“I said we’re closed,” I tried again, stepping back. The man just tilted his head, almost like he was pitying me.
“It’s nothing personal,” he murmured, so soft I barely heard him. Before I could react, I saw his hand pull something from his coat. He pressed the nozzle and-
A sweet, chemical mist filled my nose. I gasped, stumbling back, but the room spun out from under me. My brush clattered to the floor.
I tried to scream, but my voice stuck in my throat as my knees hit the wooden floorboards. My fingers clawed at the ground, trying to pull myself upright, but everything went black.
Niccolo’s name caught on my lips before I sank into the darkness.
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Chapter 16
