It was Gothic, chic, and enchanting.

Christmas hung in the air like an overripe fruit. The sweet scent of pastries wafted in the chilly London air, and white and red lights wrapped around the English capital like a bow. Tate Modern was a brown, boxy thing on the southeast side of London. It wasn’t as posh and beautiful as Tate Britain, but today, it looked perfect to me.

Poppy held my hand, and Papa draped an arm over my shoulder as we walked across Turbine Hall toward the exhibition room. The minute I entered the space, I spotted my piece. It was impossible not to. It had been placed in the center of the room, surrounded by the other works of art, most of them pushed against the white walls.

Bursting from the bowels of the gallery with pristine brilliance and vivid colors, his tin face stared back at me in challenge. The Indian yellow of his cape battled for attention with the ruby red of his bleeding crown of thorns. He was alive, deadly, and godly.

My Angry God.

My heart beat faster when I realized a cluster of people orbited around it, staring. Some seemed to read the little explanatory sign underneath:

Angry God/Assemblage/Lenora Astalis

Material: nails, wood, thorns, paper, fabric, metal, glass, plastic, hair, blood

From the artist: When I started working on this piece, I had no idea what it meant to me. I wanted to immortalize the depraved ferocity of a beautiful man willfully marching to his own demise. The name, Angry God, derives from “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” a sermon written by the Christian theologian Jonathan Edwards and preached to his congregation in Northampton, Massachusetts in 1741. It is said that Edwards was interrupted many times during the sermon by people asking, “What shall I do to be saved?”

What will you do to be saved?

Would you go so far as losing the love of your life?

“Come, come, the woman of the hour is here.” Alma Everett-Hodkins curved her wrinkly, thin fingers around my wrist and pulled me into the throng of people, all of them sophisticated-looking professionals in black.

“I noticed her rare talent when she was merely eight.” Alma grinned knowingly as my father and Poppy stood next to us, smiling proudly and cradling glasses of champagne. I would’ve killed for a drink, but I needed to remain professional and, unfortunately, sober. People asked me questions about the piece and gave me their interpretations of it. I answered dutifully, trying to cling to the moment, to be there, to experience the now, and to push Vaughn from my thoughts—at least for the duration of the evening. This was the height of my career, the peak I’d been waiting for. It wasn’t fair that he was going to steal it without even being here.

Without even trying.

Pope stood on the other side of the room next to his floor-to-ceiling painting, talking to a cluster of young artists. There were many pieces of art in the exhibition, but most people were standing around my statue. Pride overwhelmed me. Maybe I really was good after all.

I craned my neck, stupidly looking for Vaughn among the crowd of people, but he wasn’t here. It felt so fitting; it was hard not to hope he’d show up, like in the movies, storming in frazzled and lovesick, with a Hugh Grant smile and a stuttered-yet-charming monologue that would rip everyone’s heart out, mine included.

“Did you have anyone in mind when you sculpted the face?” asked a stunning, blue-eyed woman with a brown chignon, the tips of her hair dyed lavender pink. She cradled a glass of red wine.

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.