Painted

Chapter 22

The soft morning light filtered through the blinds of Rebecca’s condo, but neither she nor Sarocha ended up sleeping much. The weight of what lay ahead had robbed them of rest, leaving them to cling to each other through the night, whispering reassurances that felt fragile in the face of the coming storm.

Rebecca stood by the window, already dressed in a crisp white blouse and tailored black trousers, her hands gripping a steaming mug of coffee. She stared out at the city skyline, her expression a mask of calm that didn’t reach her anxious eyes.

Sarocha approached her, fastening the last button of her blazer. Her dark hair was pulled back neatly, but the set of her shoulders betrayed her unease. She stopped beside Rebecca, placing a steadying hand on her lower back.

“You’re quiet,” Sarocha murmured.

Rebecca exhaled a humorless laugh, her gaze still fixed on the city below. “Trying to figure out how to walk into that boardroom without feeling like I’m walking to the gallows.” She turned to Sarocha, her voice softening. “What about you? Are you ready for this?”

Sarocha’s hand slid down to Rebecca’s, lacing their fingers together. “No. But I’m ready for us. Whatever happens, we have eachother."

Rebecca squeezed her hand, grounding herself in Sarocha’s unwavering presence. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You don’t have to find out.”

The clock on the wall chimed softly, marking the hour. It was time. With one last shared look, they left the apartment, their steps steady despite the storm waiting for them.

---

The museum boardroom was an imposing space, its walls lined with modern art and shelves stacked with historical texts. Around the long table sat the museum’s board of directors, a mix of polished professionals whose expressions ranged from neutral to outright disapproving. The room buzzed with tension as Rebecca and Sarocha entered, side by side.

The board chair, an older man with sharp eyes and a practiced smile, gestured to the seats at the end of the table. “Ms. Armstrong, Ms. Chankimha, thank you for coming. Let’s get straight to the matter at hand.”

Rebecca sat, her back straight and hands clasped tightly in her lap. Sarocha mirrored her calm exterior, though her gaze flicked briefly to the stern faces around them.

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” the chair continued, “the recent media attention surrounding your relationship has raised concerns—both within the museum and among our donors.”

Rebecca leaned forward, her tone steady but firm. “With all due respect, our relationship does not impact our ability to perform our roles or deliver on this project.”

A woman on the board, whose name tag read “Ms. Wichai,” raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It may not impact your ability, but it does impact perception. This project is a significant undertaking, with international eyes on us. The last thing we need is for the media to overshadow our work with gossip and scandal.”

Sarocha spoke up, her voice measured but resolute. “Perception is malleable. The focus should be on the value of the project, not on who we’re dating. Surely, as leaders in this field, you understand that public interest can be redirected if we manage it correctly.”

Another board member, a younger man, interjected. “Even so, the optics are complicated. Ms. Armstrong, your family’s name carries weight. That name is tied to this project, which makes this situation... delicate.”

Rebecca clenched her jaw, then forced herself to speak evenly. “I understand the expectations that come with my name. I’ve lived with them my entire life. But I refuse to let those expectations dictate my personal life. My relationship with Sarocha doesn’t compromise my commitment to this project.”