(Isobel's Point Of View)
Camille called that afternoon while I was still hiding in my room.
"You need to come home," she said without preamble. "Like, now."
"Why? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. But you got an invitation. A fancy one. Hand-delivered to your apartment."
I sat up. The room felt too small, the curtains too thin against the light. "For what?"
"Gallery opening tomorrow night. Some big French art foundation. And guess whose work is featured?"
My stomach dropped. There was a cold, hollow place under my ribs, as if someone had cut a neat circle out of me. "Mine?"
"Yours. Three pieces, apparently. Including that abstract one you did last month."
"How did they even—"
"Who cares? This is huge, Isobel. You have to go."
I pressed my fingers to my temple until small stars burst behind my eyes. "I don't know if I can."
"You're going. I don't care if I have to drag you there myself."
