He sinks into his chair, fingers drumming once on the polished surface before running both hands through his hair. I've never seen him this hesitant, this careful with his words. My stomach tightens.
"It started with complaints," he finally says, voice low. "Someone anonymously sent building management that interview clip. Not just sent it—packaged it. Edited it. Highlighted certain portions."
The air thins in my lungs. "What interview clip?"
But I already know—Jessica Westwood's perfectly timed character assassination, her wounded innocence and careful implications. Elliot's expression confirms it.
"The clip was professionally done," he continues, each word dropping like a stone into still water. "Too clean, too strategic to be random. Someone wanted maximum impact."
He pauses, watching me, gauging how much more I can take. The hesitation itself is terrifying.
"And?" I prompt, my fingernails digging half-moons into my palms.
Elliot leans forward, elbows on his desk. "This morning, I received a call." His voice drops further, as if the words themselves are dangerous. "From the insurance company."
My heart stutters. Insurance companies mean liability, risk, money. The three things galleries fear most.
"They're threatening to drop our coverage," he continues, each word more devastating than the last, "due to what they called the 'heightened risk profile' your exhibition now represents."
The room tilts sideways, floor shifting beneath my feet. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
"They can't—"
"They can and they are." His expression tightens. "They're concerned about potential protests, property damage... They've given us an ultimatum: either pause your exhibition or face premium increases that would effectively shut us down."
"Pause?" The word tastes bitter. "You mean hide."
"Temporarily relocate," he corrects, but his eyes betray him. "Until the media circus dies down. Until your work can be seen for its true merit, not as scandal bait."
"And what about the exclusive event next week?" My voice rises, panic edging in. "The collectors, the critics—they're coming to see my work featured in the main gallery, not tucked away in some hallway like a dirty secret."
Elliot winces, his gaze dropping to his desk. "I'm... looking for another date. In the future."
The words hit like a physical blow. "Another date." I repeat it flatly. "So you're canceling. After all your promises, all your talk about my talent, my voice—you're just... canceling."
"It's not cancellation, it's postponement," he insists, but the distinction feels meaningless. Whether hidden in a back hallway or locked away entirely, the result is the same—my voice, my truth, smothered before it can be heard.
"That's not all, is it?" I press, watching his face.
Elliot sighs. "Marcella Vázquez is threatening to pull her installation if we proceed with your exhibition as scheduled. Says she 'won't have her work associated with tabloid fodder.'"
The blow lands like a physical strike. Marcella Vázquez—the celebrated sculptor whose endorsement can make or break emerging artists. Her pulling out would devastate the gallery's reputation.
"The building management has also received complaints from other tenants," he continues, each word heavier than the last. "They're worried about disruptions, negative publicity affecting their businesses. They're pressuring me to 'resolve the situation.'"
The room spins as understanding dawns. In my gut, I know exactly who's behind this. The Saints. Always the Saints, wielding their influence like a scalpel—precise, devastating, and impossible to prove.
My legs give out and I sink into a chair, bile rising in my throat. Fifteen years later, and history repeats itself with terrifying precision. My art, my dreams, my future—all of it crumbling because I dared to step out of the shadows they cast.
"I'm so sorry, Bella." Elliot's voice cracks with genuine pain. "I've tried everything—called in favors, offered to increase security. But with the insurance threat and Marcella pulling out..."
"You're silencing me." The words fall like stones between us. "Hiding me away because I've become inconvenient."
"No." He kneels beside my chair, taking my trembling hands in his. "I'm protecting your work until it can be properly seen, not overshadowed by scandal. This isn't cancellation—it's strategic retreat."
"Your work deserves to be seen, Bella." His grip tightens on my hands. "The way they light up the gallery... I've seen nothing like it. That's why we need to wait—find the right moment when people will actually see the art, not just the controversy."
A bitter laugh escapes me. "Doesn't matter how good they are if no one gets to see them."
