They arrived at the exhibit just as the evening lights cast a warm glow over the city. The venue, a high-end gallery tucked into the art district, was buzzing with laughter, camera flashes, and the clink of glasses. Expensive cars lined the driveway, and paparazzi fluttered like moths around every notable guest.
Andrew stepped out of Nova's car, adjusting the tuxedo she had insisted on having tailored for him. The fit was perfect, the material high-quality—but he still felt out of place. As he glanced around at the luxury and poise that surrounded him, his shoulders tightened slightly. This world was not his.
Nova, radiant in her off-shoulder dress with a dramatic slit, stepped beside him and looped her arm through his with a confident smile. "Relax, you look amazing," she whispered.
"I feel like a mannequin in a store I can't afford," he muttered.
She laughed softly. "Well, good thing I'm the owner of the store then. Just keep standing there and looking hot. That's all I ask."
Inside, the exhibit was a masterpiece of its own. Nova's paintings were displayed along pristine white walls, each one lit with precision. There were abstract pieces, portraits, and emotional explosions of color—her soul bared in acrylic and canvas. Guests murmured in admiration, some nodding thoughtfully, others snapping photos to post online with hashtags like #NovaVolkovExhibit and #ArtGoddess.
As they moved through the room, Nova felt the familiar gaze of her father boring into her date.
Nikolai Volkov stood tall in his tailored black suit, his arms crossed, his emerald eyes never leaving Andrew.
Andrew tried not to fidget, but the stare made him feel like he was about to be interrogated.
"Ignore him," Elara whispered to Andrew as she slipped up beside him, wearing a flowing midnight-blue gown that perfectly highlighted her baby bump. "He's just trying to figure out how you breathe so he can threaten to take that away. But he's a big softie. Just don't let him see you sweat."
Andrew nodded awkwardly. "Right. I'll try."
Nova smirked at her father. "You can stop glaring, Dad. He's not going to run off with the family secrets."
"He better not," Nikolai said without looking away.
As the evening went on, Nova mingled with critics, buyers, and fellow artists. Andrew kept close, smiling politely when spoken to but mostly observing quietly. He didn't know this world, but watching Nova shine in it made him appreciate her even more.
Then came the disruption.
"Nova," a high-pitched, overly sweet voice called out. Nova turned to see Chelsea Everhart—an old friend turned enemy—approaching in a red designer gown that was trying way too hard.
"Chelsea," Nova greeted with a fake smile.
Chelsea's gaze swept over Andrew with a condescending glint. "Interesting choice for a plus one. I didn't know you were into baristas now. Is this some sort of charity project? Or are you just experimenting with the lower class?"
Andrew's jaw clenched, his face reddening with humiliation.
Nova didn't hesitate.
She picked up a glass of red wine from a nearby tray, turned slowly toward Chelsea, and tipped the entire thing over her head.
Chelsea gasped as the wine soaked her expensive gown and dripped into her extensions. The room went silent.
Nova blinked innocently. "Oops."
Chelsea's father stormed over, his face flushed with fury. "What the hell do you think you're doing to my daughter?"
Before Nova could respond, Nikolai stepped forward, towering, sharp, and cold.
"You might want to watch your tone," Nikolai said calmly. "Because while you're her father, I'm her father. And I don't take kindly to anyone humiliating my daughter or her guests."
Chelsea's father froze, the air around him practically icing over.
"Your daughter insulted my daughter's guest in front of dozens of people," Nikolai continued. "Be grateful all she got was wine. If it were up to me, she'd be escorted out."
Chelsea grabbed her father's arm. "Let's go, Daddy."
"Now, that's the smartest thing you've said all night," Nova muttered.
Once they were gone, the atmosphere slowly thawed. The music resumed, and murmurs of the drama faded into excited gossip.
Andrew looked at Nova, eyes wide. "You really didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to," she said. "No one talks about you like that. You're with me tonight. That makes you royalty."
He looked at her for a long moment before giving a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Nova."
"Anytime."
As they moved to stand in front of one of her most prized pieces, the flashes from cameras continued to pop, immortalizing the moment.
And for the first time that night, Andrew felt like maybe—just maybe—he wasn't completely out of place after all.
The exhibit went on, the evening glittering with soft music, the clink of champagne glasses, and the hum of conversation echoing through the luxurious gallery space. The walls were adorned with Nova's art—bold strokes, vivid colors, stories etched in every canvas. Her name was on every guest's lips, whispered with awe and admiration. But even in her success, Nova kept stealing glances at Andrew, silently checking in to see if he was okay.
Elara, meanwhile, was trying to smile through a wave of exhaustion. Her feet ached in her heels, her back throbbed, and her baby bump felt heavier by the minute. Her patience for small talk had run dry.
"I need a chair," she muttered to Nikolai, gripping his arm. "A comfortable one. Preferably a throne."
Nikolai turned his head, scanning the room. "Come on, there's a private lounge down the hall."
They moved away from the crowd, and as soon as Elara sank into a plush velvet chair, she sighed with relief. "God bless whoever invented upholstery."
Nikolai chuckled. "You've been standing for two hours straight, woman. Of course you're tired."
"I'm pregnant, not made of steel," Elara huffed, sipping from the water bottle he handed her. She smiled as a few guests approached to compliment her on Nova's work and offer congratulations on her upcoming baby.
"She's amazing," one woman said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Your daughter's work speaks volumes."
"She gets it from me," Elara said, only half joking.
Back in the main gallery, Nova stood in front of a tall canvas, her latest masterpiece: The Rising Phoenix. The colors bled from deep ashes at the bottom to glorious, fiery reds and golds at the top. It was mesmerizing, bold, and filled with unspoken emotion.
The crowd quieted as the host stepped forward, tapping the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention? Tonight, the artist herself would like to say a few words. Please welcome Nova Volkov."
A wave of applause rippled through the room. Nova took a deep breath, her heels clicking softly as she walked to the small stage set in front of her painting. She took the mic, scanning the sea of faces—some familiar, others not. Her gaze landed on Elara, seated now and smiling with pride, and then on Nikolai standing nearby, watching her with quiet intensity. And lastly, on Andrew, standing a little ways off but focused entirely on her.
"Hi everyone," Nova began, her voice confident but laced with emotion. "First, thank you all for coming tonight. It means the world to me to be able to share my art with all of you."
She gestured toward the painting behind her. "This piece behind me is called The Rising Phoenix. And it means more to me than any other piece I've ever painted. Because this isn't just a painting. It's my story."
She paused, letting the words sink in.
"It's about rising from your own ashes. About having your world fall apart and choosing to come back stronger, bolder, and more alive than ever. And I have two people to thank for giving me the fire that fuels every brushstroke."
She looked at her parents again, her voice softening.
"To my mom, Elara Volkov, who taught me that being unapologetically yourself is the most powerful thing a woman can be. Who reminded me that love doesn't mean perfection, it means showing up—for yourself, for your dreams, for the people you love."
A few people clapped. Elara wiped at her eyes, already tearing up.
"And to my dad," Nova continued, her gaze locking with Nikolai's. "Who is terrifyingly overprotective and somehow still the softest man I know when it comes to the people he loves. Who didn't give up on chasing my mom, even when she ran, even when she slammed doors in his face, even when she told him to go to hell. Because of that persistence—because he fought for her—I'm here today. And if I'm here, if this exhibit exists, it's because two very different people decided to choose love and never look back."
The room burst into applause.
"So thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad. For being my chaos and my calm. And thank you, everyone, for believing in me, for showing up tonight, and for giving a girl with a paintbrush the chance to rise."
She stepped back, smiling as the crowd applauded again, louder this time. Flashes went off. Guests raised their glasses.
Andrew watched her, awe shining in his eyes.
Nova caught his gaze. Her smile softened just a little. For a second, the noise faded. All she could see was him. Maybe he didn't come from the same world she did. But tonight, he was part of it.
And something about that felt right.
The exhibit continued, but something had shifted. Nova had spoken from her heart. The night had become more than just art—it had become a celebration of resilience, love, and the people who shaped her into who she was.
The phoenix didn't just rise.
She soared.