My Husband Pushed Me Off the Balcony

Marcus Hale made the introduction on a Wednesday afternoon in a conference room that smelled like leather and desperation.

"Carroll Enterprises has expressed interest," Marcus said. He didn't look at Donovan when he said it. He looked at the window. "Preliminary only. They want to meet."

Donovan straightened in his chair. "When?"

"Tomorrow night. The Met gala. Carroll's sponsoring it. Their representative will be there." Marcus slid a cream-colored invitation across the table. "You're expected."

Donovan picked up the invitation. Heavy card stock. Gold lettering. *An Evening with Dust: The Reveal.*

"An art thing," Marcus said. "Some anonymous painter finally showing their face. Half of Manhattan will be there. Including everyone who matters at Carroll."

Donovan set the invitation down carefully. "I'll be there."

Marcus nodded. He stood. He paused at the door. "Donovan—"

"What?"

"Wear the navy suit. Not the black one."

The door closed.

Donovan sat alone in the conference room and stared at the invitation. The name meant nothing to him. *Dust.* He'd heard it before, maybe. In passing. Kehlani used to talk about artists sometimes. He never listened.

He picked up his phone. Googled the name.

The results made him blink.

*Dust — Anonymous Painter — Works Sell for Eight Figures at Christie's — Identity Unknown for Fifteen Years.*

He scrolled through images. Dark canvases. Gold slashes. Something about them made his chest feel tight.

He closed the browser.

He had more important things to think about than art.

---

Vivienne Park stood in the center of The Met's Temple of Dendur and watched the lighting crew adjust the spots.

"Higher," she called. "I want her lit like a revelation, not a press conference."

The spots shifted. The stage glowed.

Vivienne smiled.

She had been planning this for three years. Ever since Kehlani had walked into her gallery in Chelsea with a portfolio under her arm and eyes that looked like someone had spent a long time teaching her not to take up space.

Vivienne had looked at the first canvas for thirty seconds before she understood two things: this woman was the most talented painter she'd seen in a decade, and someone was hurting her.

She'd signed Kehlani on the spot. She'd built the Dust myth piece by piece—anonymous sales, private auctions, carefully planted rumors. She'd made Kehlani rich without anyone knowing her name.

And now, finally, she was going to make her visible.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Remington Carroll: *She's ready.*

Vivienne typed back: *Good. So am I.*

She looked at the stage. Tomorrow night, the entire art world would be watching. Half of Manhattan's financial elite would be in the room, courting Carroll money.

Including Donovan Stone.

Vivienne's smile sharpened.

She hoped he choked on it.

---

Sasha stood outside Stone Industries' glass tower and stared at the revolving doors.

She'd been standing there for twenty minutes. Security had already walked past twice, watching her.

She pulled her coat tighter. It was Burberry. She'd bought it three weeks ago on Donovan's card. Before he'd frozen the accounts. Before he'd had her escorted out like trash.

She'd tried calling. Sixty times, maybe. He never picked up.

She'd gone to his club. They wouldn't let her past the front desk.

She'd sent emails. Texts. A handwritten letter she'd paid a messenger to deliver.

Nothing.

She pressed her hands against her stomach. There was no baby. There had never been a baby. Just a lie she'd told because she thought it would be enough.

It wasn't.

Nothing was.

A black town car pulled up to the curb. Donovan stepped out. He was on his phone. He didn't look at her.

Sasha moved forward. "Donovan—"

He walked past her like she was air.

"Donovan, please—"

Security stepped between them. A hand on her arm. Firm. "Ma'am, you need to leave."

"I just need to talk to him—"

"Now, ma'am."

She looked past the guard. Donovan was already inside. He hadn't looked back.

She let them walk her to the sidewalk. She stood there until her hands stopped shaking.

Then she pulled out her phone and opened Instagram.

Kehlani's account was private now. But Sasha had screenshots. She scrolled through them slowly. The apartment in Brooklyn Heights. The studio. The man.

Always the man.

Tall. Beautiful. Young. His hand on Kehlani's waist. His smile in her hair.

Sasha zoomed in on his face.

She'd seen him before. Somewhere. She was sure of it.

She opened a new browser window. Typed: *Kehlani Sullivan boyfriend.*

Nothing useful.

She tried: *Young model Manhattan Kehlani.*

Still nothing.

She stared at the phone until the screen went dark.

Then she opened her contacts and scrolled to a name she hadn't called in months.

The phone rang twice.

"It's me," Sasha said. "I need a favor."

---

Donovan stood in front of his closet and stared at the navy suit.

Marcus was right. The black one looked like a funeral.

He pulled the navy off the hanger. Laid it on the bed.

The penthouse was too quiet. It had been too quiet for weeks.

He walked to the living room. Stood in front of the bare nail on the wall.

He'd tried to remember what the painting looked like. He couldn't. He remembered the colors, maybe. Blue. Gold. Something dark in the middle.

He'd never asked Kehlani where she got it.

He pulled out his phone. Opened the folder of photos he hadn't looked at in weeks.

Kehlani. First year. Paint on her forearm. Laughing.

He stared at her face.

Tomorrow night, he'd meet the Carroll representative. He'd pitch the bailout. He'd save the company.

And maybe—maybe—he'd find a way to fix the rest of it too.

He closed the photo.

He went back to the bedroom.

He laid out the navy suit and told himself tomorrow would be different.