Angry God

I turned to look at her and smiled. “What makes you ask that?”

“The cut of the cheekbones.” She motioned with the hand that held the wine in the statue’s direction. “The high brows, wide forehead, strong chin—it is symmetrical to a fault, more than King David. Almost godly in its beauty. I find it hard to believe a man like that exists.” She tapped her lips now, musing. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I would definitely remember if I’d met her before.

“Oh, he does,” I said, running a finger along the cold, metallic side of his face.

“I know.” She turned to me fully now, searching my eyes. “He’s my son.”

We both froze in our spots as I processed the information. My body prickled hotly, and my heart began to pound.

“Emilia?” I gasped.

She wrapped her arms around me, as if hugging were the most natural thing two strangers could do. I struggled to keep myself in check, knowing my tears were already planning their grand appearance. I had so much I wanted to ask her, yet somehow, I couldn’t find my voice.

Once we disconnected, she cupped my cheeks and smiled down at me. She had a lovely smile. Not only because it was aesthetically attractive, but because her goodness shone through it. I could see why Baron “Vicious” Spencer was so madly in love with her. Rumors about the way he worshipped her, how he’d built a cherry-blossom garden for her in their backyard, had traveled throughout higher society in Todos Santos. She had this quality about her that made people do crazy things to please her—an invisible hold.

“How are you?” she asked.

I couldn’t lie.

“Worried. Is he okay?” I dropped my voice so people around us couldn’t hear.

Some moved to other pieces in the exhibition, but most waited patiently for us to finish talking so they could speak to me. I found the situation bizarre. The entire point of making art was so I didn’t have to explain it.

She smiled, but said nothing. She pulled me behind the assemblage so we couldn’t be seen or heard.

“Lenora, you’re about to be showered with proposals from gallery owners in approximately two minutes, but I wanted to be the first to offer you a spot in my gallery in Los Angeles. You don’t have to answer now, of course, but I would be very excited to work with you. And I would like to take this opportunity to thank you again for all you did for Vaughn.”

I swallowed. “Is he going to be there? In Los Angeles, I mean?” I eyed her.

I hated that I was desperate, that I still cared. No. Scratch that. I hated that he was all I cared about. At this moment, I didn’t consider the merits of working in her gallery because it was prestigious or huge or offered a lot of work experience, God forbid.

Emilia shook her head. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Love is a trickster. It has a way of twisting you, doesn’t it?”

My head hung low. “Yeah.”

“The pain fades, eventually.”

“How do you know?”

“Once upon a time, I felt it, too.”

I squeezed her hand in mine. “All right. I’ll think about it. Thank you.”

She kissed my cheek and walked away.

The rest of the evening was a blur. I had business cards shoved into my hands, people asking for my number, my email, my price. By the time ten o’clock rolled around, my legs were trembling with exhaustion.

I leaned against Poppy for support, plucking a heel off for a moment and massaging my foot on a wince when she turned to me and said, “Papa called you a cab. Hurry up, now.”

“A cab?” I frowned. “Why?”

“He’s taking Pope for a drink to close up a deal.” She cocked her head toward the two of them, arching a meaningful brow. Dad and Pope were standing next to each other, shaking hands and laughing. I grinned. I was so happy Pope was going to stay close by, that we wouldn’t become glorified strangers who sent each other the occasional Christmas card. I looked back to her.

“What about you? Are you coming with?”

She scoffed. “Hard pass. After Pope has a drink with Papa, I intend to have something else with him, so I’m tagging along.”

“Are you serious?” My eyes widened.

“As a heart attack. Have you seen him? He is gorgeous, and he did a lot of growing up while we were in California. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not, you slag.” I laughed.

She shrugged and strutted back to them. I shook my head. Rafferty and Poppy. Who would have thought?

In the cab, I let my mind wander to the fact that Pope had once touched me in a way I wasn’t sure Poppy was going to appreciate. I shot her a quick text saying there was something I needed to tell her, and perhaps she should hold off on the shagging session with my best friend.