Part 1: The Word
Charlotte's POV — 7:47 AM, Malibu
The word felt foreign in my mouth.
No.
I practiced it again, watching my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. The ocean stretched gray beyond the glass.
My phone buzzed. Mother. Third call this morning. Vogue wanted a reconciliation piece—"Charlotte Morgan and Thomas Ashford: A Love Story of Second Chances." Annie Leibovitz would shoot.
Six months ago, I would have said yes before she finished the sentence.
I typed: "Mother, I won't be doing the Vogue piece. I need time to figure out what I actually want."
My finger hovered over send. My heart raced. Why did one text message feel like jumping off a cliff?
Because you've never done it before, a voice answered. You've never said no to her. Not once.
I pressed send.
The phone rang within thirty seconds. I turned it off.
By noon, seventeen messages. The Morgan family crisis management system had been activated.
The private investigator's report sat beside me. No money laundering, no criminal empire. Just Thomas being exactly who he was—a man who saw marriage as a merger, love as a strategy.
A transcript from his club, two weeks ago:
"Of course I'm marrying Charlotte. Morgan Hotels, my developments—perfect alignment."
"But do you love her?"
"Love? This is business. I need a Mrs. Ashford who works a room, knows the right people, looks good in photographs. It's elegant."
The worst part? He wasn't wrong about me. Three months ago, I'd been that person too. Thomas was a solution, not a person.
I pulled out Mateo's letter from Paris:
I hope you found your way out of whatever cage you were in, the way I found my way out of mine... If we meet again, I promise to see you as you are this time, not as a projection of my desperate hopes.
Whatever cage you were in.
He didn't know how right he was.
Part 2: The Last Lesson
Mateo's POV — Same day, 9:13 PM Paris
Henri's hospital room smelled like antiseptic and old books. "Stop looking at me like I'm already dead," he croaked. "It's very depressing."
I tried to smile. "You told me artists should embrace melancholy."
"Melancholy, yes. Moping, no. Show me the letter. Did you send it?"
I showed him the photo of the envelope I'd mailed yesterday. He nodded approvingly.
"Now tell me about Morrison Gallery."
A solo exhibition in March. Prime wall space. Serious collectors. The kind of opportunity I'd dreamed about three years ago when I arrived in Paris, broke and desperate.
"I don't know if I should go back to LA."
"Because of the woman?"
"Maybe. Part of me wonders if I'm going back to see if she became the person I thought she could be."
"If you can save each other?" Henri's eyes were sharp. "Mon fils, you cannot save anyone. You can barely save yourself."
"You wrote that you hope she found her way out of her cage. But did it occur to you that perhaps she's happy in the cage? Maybe she's marrying the man her family approves of, and there's nothing wrong with that. Not everyone wants to be saved."
The words hit like a fist to the gut.
"You should go," Henri continued. "Your work deserves to be seen. But go for yourself. For your art. Not to see if Charlotte Morgan has become the woman you imagined."
"What if I see her there?"
"Then you'll see her as she is. That's all you can offer anyone, mon fils. The truth of who you are."I walked back through the rain and emailed Morrison Gallery:
I'm honored to accept. I'll arrive in two weeks to begin installation.
This wasn't about Charlotte. This was about finally having work worth showing. About proving to myself I was an artist, not just someone who wanted to be one.
If I saw Charlotte in Los Angeles, fine. But I wasn't going back to save her.
I was going back because I'd learned to save myself.
Part 3: Small Rebellions
Charlotte's POV — 4:17 PM, Same day
The small gallery in Venice Beach was nothing like the places I usually went. No white walls, no champagne. Just concrete floors, exposed pipes, and the smell of spray paint.
I felt completely out of place in my Armani blazer.
I stood in front of a painting by Maria Reyes, age seventeen. A woman's hands kneading dough, flour dusting dark skin. The technique was rough, but there was something true about it.
"You like it?" A young Latina woman in paint-stained jeans appeared beside me.
"I love it. How much?"
Her eyes widened. "It's not for sale. This is just a student show. I'm not a real artist."
"You painted this?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then you're a real artist."
We settled on $500. Not Morgan family money—this was from the pearl necklace I'd sold last week, the one Mother had been horrified to discover I'd taken to a jeweler.
Maria smiled as she wrapped it. "My teacher says I should paint more 'artistically.' But I just want to paint my mom's hands. Is that stupid?"
"No," I said, thinking about Mateo's letter, about Henri teaching him to paint truth. "That's the whole point."
That night, I hung Maria's painting in my bedroom—not the guest room with the supposed Monet, not the living room for visitors. My bedroom, where I'd see it every morning.
Then I opened my laptop and started writing. Not foundation emails. Not gala speeches. Just truth.
I don't know who I am without other people's approval. I don't know if I've ever made a single choice that was really mine.
But I'm going to find out.
My phone sat on the counter, still off. Eventually I'd face my mother, have difficult conversations, figure out what saying 'no' actually meant.
But not tonight.
Two weeks later, an envelope arrived:
Morrison Gallery cordially invites you to
TRUTH IN ORDINARY LIGHT
New Works by Mateo Delacroix
Opening Reception: March 15th, 7-10 PM
I stood in my kitchen, heart racing. March 15th. Three weeks away.
I didn't know if Mateo knew I'd be on the list. I didn't know if he'd remember me. I didn't know if I'd have the courage to go.
But I knew one thing: if I did go, I wouldn't go as Charlotte Morgan, the perfect daughter who said yes to everything.
I'd go as whoever I was becoming.
I placed the invitation on my refrigerator, next to a sticky note:
Practice saying no.
Small steps. But they were mine.