Part 1: Mateo Arrives
7:32 PM
Charlotte saw him before he saw her.
Mateo stood in the doorway, clearly uncomfortable. He was wearing a button-down shirt she'd never seen before—probably borrowed—and dark jeans. He looked handsome but out of place, like he was wearing a costume.
Maria was already there, pulling him into a hug. Charlotte watched them talk—saw how Mateo's shoulders relaxed slightly around Maria, how they immediately fell into easy conversation.
She made her way over.
"Hi," she said.
Mateo turned, smiled. "Hi." He kissed her cheek. "You look beautiful."
"You look nervous."
"Little bit." He looked around the gallery. "This is... fancy."
"It's just a gallery opening. They're all like this."
"Right. I know. I've just been to more Echo Park warehouse shows than West LA wine and cheese events."
Maria laughed. "Same. I was just telling Charlotte—everyone here looks like they have money."
"Serious money," Mateo agreed. "Like, 'buy art as investment' money, not 'buy art because it moves you' money."
Charlotte felt a flash of defensiveness. "Some of them genuinely care about the work."
"I'm sure they do," Mateo said, but there was something in his tone.
Maria must have sensed the tension because she quickly said, "I'm going to find my mom. She's probably terrified she'll break something expensive." She squeezed Charlotte's arm. "Great opening, by the way. You should be proud."
After she left, Charlotte turned to Mateo. "Come on, let me show you the work."
They walked through the exhibition. Charlotte explained each piece, falling into the patter she'd learned from watching Lisa. Mateo listened, occasionally asking questions, clearly trying to be present.
But Charlotte could feel his discomfort. The way his shoulders tensed when other guests brushed past them. The way he kept his hands in his pockets, like he didn't know what to do with them.
"This one's my favorite," Charlotte said, stopping in front of the large abstract piece. "The artist is from South Central. She uses house paint because she can't afford oils. But look at the texture—"
"Charlotte! There you are."
Mrs. Eleanor Pemberton. Again.
Charlotte's stomach sank.
"Mrs. Pemberton. I didn't know you were coming tonight."
"Lisa called personally. Said it was an important opening." She looked at Mateo. "And who is this?"
"This is Mateo Delacroix. Mateo, Mrs. Pemberton."
"Delacroix," Mrs. Pemberton repeated. "French?"
"My father's side," Mateo said, shaking her hand.
"And what do you do, Mr. Delacroix?"
"I'm an artist. Painter."
"How interesting. Are you in this show?"
"No."
"Ah. So you're..." She looked between Charlotte and Mateo, clearly trying to figure out the dynamic. "Are you two...?"
"We're seeing each other," Charlotte said firmly.
"I see." Mrs. Pemberton's smile was sharp. "Well, isn't that... contemporary. Charlotte dating an artist. Your mother must be thrilled."
Before Charlotte could respond, Mrs. Pemberton's attention was caught by someone across the room. "Oh! There's the Hastings. Excuse me."
She swept away, leaving Charlotte and Mateo in tense silence.
"That was fun," Mateo said dryly.
"I'm sorry. She's—"
"Part of your world. I get it."
"She's not my world anymore."
"Isn't she?" Mateo gestured around the gallery. "Charlotte, everyone here is like her. I can feel them looking at me, trying to figure out what I'm doing here."
"You're being paranoid."
"Am I?"
Across the room, Charlotte saw Maria and Rosa talking to one of the artists. Maria looked excited, animated, completely in her element despite her earlier nervousness. Rosa was smiling, proud of her daughter for being in this space.
And Charlotte felt split in two—part of her was here, with Mateo, feeling his discomfort. Another part of her was watching Maria succeed, feeling proud. And a third part was smoothly navigating collectors and critics, using skills she'd had her whole life.
Which Charlotte was real?
Part 2: Things Escalate
8:15 PM
Charlotte was talking to one of the artists when she heard it.
A voice—male, loud, slightly drunk—carrying across the gallery: "So that's the one? The artist Charlotte's slumming with?"
She turned. A group of three men in expensive suits, mid-forties, collectors she vaguely recognized. One of them was gesturing toward Mateo, who was standing near the wine table with Maria and Rosa.
Charlotte's face burned. She started to walk over, but Lisa got there first.
"Gentlemen, can I help you with something?"
"Just admiring the... ambiance," one of them said, smirking.
Lisa's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "Then perhaps you should focus on the art rather than the other guests."
The men wandered away, chastened. But the damage was done.
Charlotte saw Maria's face—she'd heard them too. Rosa was looking confused, not understanding the English but sensing the tone.
Mateo's jaw was tight.
Charlotte hurried over. "Did you hear them?"
"Hard not to," Mateo said quietly.
Maria touched his arm. "They're assholes. Ignore them."
"I'm trying."
Charlotte looked at Maria. "I'm so sorry you had to hear that."
"It's not your fault." But Maria's expression was complicated. "This is your world though, isn't it? These people."
"They're not my—"
"Charlotte." Maria's voice was gentle. "It's okay. You know how to navigate this. That's not a bad thing. But Mateo's right—this is different for you than it is for us."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you fit here. Not because you're trying to, but because you grew up here. You know the language, the rules, how to make these people comfortable." Maria glanced at Mateo. "We're learning. You already know."
Rosa said something to Maria in Spanish. Maria responded, then turned to Charlotte. "My mom wants to go. She's tired, and she has to work early tomorrow."
"Of course. Thank you so much for coming."
Rosa hugged Charlotte—warm, genuine. "Thank you for believing in my daughter. You're a good person."
After they left, Charlotte turned to Mateo. "Are you okay?"
"No. But I don't want to ruin your night."
"You're not ruining anything."
"Charlotte, I think I should go too."
"What? No. Please don't."
"I don't belong here."
"That's not true—"
"Yes, it is. And you know what? That's okay. These are your people. This is your work. I just... I can't pretend I'm comfortable when I'm not."
Around them, Charlotte could feel people starting to notice the tension. Watching. Judging.
She lowered her voice. "Can we not do this here?"
"Why? Afraid your collector friends will see you arguing with the help?"
"That's not—Mateo, you're being an asshole."
"And you're being fake."
The word hit like a slap.
"What did you just say?"
"I said you're being fake. The way you're talking to these people, the voice you use, the way you hold yourself. You're performing."
"I'm working!"
"No, you're code-switching. You're becoming old Charlotte because it's easier here. And I get it, I do. But it makes me wonder—is this who you really are? Or was the Culver City apartment version just a phase?"
Several people were definitely watching now.
"Outside," Charlotte said through clenched teeth. "Now."
Part 3: The Fight
Outside the Gallery — 8:47 PM
Charlotte followed Mateo into the alley behind the gallery. The sounds of the opening—laughter, music, clinking glasses—felt miles away.
"What the hell was that?" Charlotte demanded.
"What was what? Me calling out the obvious?"
"You standing in there judging me for doing my job!"
"Your job? Charlotte, you were performing. That thing with your voice, the way you laughed at that collector's joke about 'investment opportunities in emerging markets'—"
"He was talking about art!"
"He was being condescending! But you laughed like it was charming. You smiled and nodded and played the role."
"What was I supposed to do? Tell him to fuck off? I'm trying to keep my job!"
"No, you're trying to fit back into your old life!"
Charlotte's voice cracked. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Mateo ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. "Charlotte, I watched you in there. You fit. You know how to talk to these people, how to make them comfortable, how to play the game. And I'm just... I'm standing in the corner with Maria and her mom, and we're all speaking Spanish because it's the only place we feel comfortable, and you're over there laughing with people who look down on us."
"I wasn't laughing with them, I was working!"
"Were you? Because from where I was standing, you looked like you belonged there. Like old Charlotte was back and new Charlotte was just... gone."
"So that's my fault? That you felt uncomfortable?"
"No. It's mine. For thinking this could work."
Silence. Heavy and terrible.
"What are you saying?" Charlotte's voice was small.
Mateo looked at her, and she could see something breaking in his eyes. "I'm saying maybe we're fooling ourselves. You're Charlotte Morgan. You grew up in mansions, went to private schools, know how to work a room full of millionaires. And I'm... I'm a guy from Echo Park who paints in a shitty studio and has paint under his fingernails at fancy gallery openings. Maria gets it. Rosa gets it. We're the same. But you and me? We're from different planets."
"I don't care about any of that."
"Maybe you don't now. But Charlotte—" His voice softened. "Tonight, when that guy made that comment about you 'slumming,' you know what my first thought was? 'He's right.' You are slumming. This whole thing—Culver City, the gallery job, me—it's you playing at a different life. But eventually, you'll wake up and realize you can go back. You have that option. I don't."
"So because I have options, I'm not allowed to choose this?"
"I don't know! I don't know what you're choosing. Are you choosing this life? Or are you just choosing 'not that life' and I'm collateral?"
Charlotte felt tears on her cheeks. "I chose you. I'm choosing you every day."
"Are you? Or are you choosing rebellion? Choosing to prove your mother wrong? Choosing anything that's not Thomas Ashford and charity galas?"
"That's not what this is!"
"Then what is it? Because Charlotte, I need to know. Are you in this because you want me? Or because I represent everything your family isn't?"
"How can you even ask me that?"
"Because you still don't know who you are! You said it yourself—you're not old Charlotte, you're not quite new Charlotte. You're figuring it out. And that's fine, that's good even. But I can't be part of your journey of self-discovery. I can't be the symbol of your rebellion or the proof that you've changed. I need to be..."
He trailed off.
"What?" Charlotte demanded. "What do you need to be?"
"I need to be enough on my own. Not as a contrast to your old life. Not as proof of anything. Just... me. The way Maria sees me—as an artist, a mentor, someone who gets where she's coming from. Not as a statement."
"You are! You are enough. Mateo, I—"
"Don't." He held up his hand. "Don't say something you might not mean tomorrow."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're figuring out who you are. And until you know, you can't know what you want. Or who you want. Tonight proved that. You slipped back into that world so easily. The Charlotte in there, networking and schmoozing—that's real too. And I don't know if there's room for me in a life where both Charlottes exist."
Charlotte stared at him. "Are you breaking up with me?"
"I don't know. I just know that standing in that gallery tonight, watching you slip back into that world so easily, watching Maria and her mom look at you like you're from a different universe—which you are—I can't do that again. I can't keep waiting for the moment when you realize you made a mistake."
"I didn't make a mistake."
"You don't know that yet."
"Yes, I do!"
"Charlotte—" Mateo's voice broke. "I'm falling in love with you. And that terrifies me. Because I don't know if you're falling in love with me, or with the idea of me. The artist who represents freedom. The opposite of Thomas. The proof that you changed."
"That's not—"
"And the worst part? I don't think you know either. I don't think you can tell the difference between wanting me and wanting what I represent. And until you can, I can't do this."
They stood in the alley, the sound of the gallery party filtering out, both of them crying now.
Finally, Charlotte said, "So what do we do?"
"I don't know. I need to think. You need to think."
"I don't need to think. I know what I want."
"Do you? Because an hour ago, you were in there laughing at rich people's jokes and I couldn't tell if it was an act or if that's still who you are underneath. And Maria couldn't tell either. She said it herself—you fit there. And maybe that's where you belong."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"I should go," Mateo said.
"Don't. Please don't."
"Charlotte, I can't be in there right now. I can't watch you be two different people and not know which one is real."
"They're both real! Don't you get that? I can navigate that world AND choose this life. I can be both! Maria understands that—"
"Maria's being polite. But she sees it too. The difference between you and us. She just doesn't want to hurt your feelings by saying it."
Charlotte felt like the ground was tilting. "That's not true."
"Ask her. Tomorrow, when you're not defensive, ask her what she really thought tonight. Ask her if she felt like you were one of us or one of them."
He started walking toward the parking lot.
"Mateo, wait!"
He turned back. "You should go back to your opening. It's your night. You worked hard for it."
"I don't care about the opening!"
"You do. You should. It's your job." He smiled sadly. "That's the thing, Charlotte. You care about that world more than you want to admit. And I can't compete with that."
"You're not competing with anything!"
"Yes, I am. I'm competing with every easy choice. Every path back to comfort. Every moment when you remember what it was like to not worry about money or to fit in automatically or to not have collectors look down on who you're dating. I'm competing with a version of you that you're not even sure you want to leave behind."
"I don't want that life anymore."
"You say that. But tonight, when that guy called me 'the help'? For a second, I saw it in your eyes. Shame. Not of them. Of me."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?"
Charlotte couldn't answer because she wasn't sure. There had been a moment—just a flash—when she'd felt embarrassed. Not of Mateo, but of the situation. Of being judged. Of not fitting.
Mateo saw it in her face.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "That's what I thought."
"Mateo—"
"I'll call you tomorrow. Or... I don't know. I need to think."
He walked to his car, got in, and drove away.
Charlotte stood in the alley, mascara running, dress wrinkled, completely falling apart.
From inside the gallery, she could hear laughter, conversation, the sounds of her successful first opening.
She'd never felt more alone.