Outside the window, the scenery began to grow unfamiliar—quiet streets gave way to the glittering lights of the city center. We were moving farther and farther away from the direction of the cemetery.
A bad feeling surged through me. I was about to ask when the car came to a stop.
In front of me stood the massive glass façade of the New York County Museum of Art, its walls covered with a towering poster.
On it, Anya smiled radiantly in a flowing white dress. Behind her was the silhouette of that nude painting—the one that had destroyed my reputation. Printed below in bold letters were the words [Anya Heffernan Solo Exhibition].
“Erving!” My voice cracked as I turned to him in disbelief. “This isn’t the place for a funeral arrangement! You lied to me?!”
He unbuckled his seatbelt slowly, his earlier gentleness gone, leaving only a cold, matter-of-fact tone. “Anya’s exhibit is critical to her career. It could affect future business partnerships. You showing up would draw more attention.”
It felt like I’d just heard the cruelest joke in the world. Tears stung my eyes before I could stop them.