He thought he traded his ex-wife for a younger model, until she walked into a charity gala with five-year-old triplets he never knew existed.

Six months later, the private art gallery in SoHo was packed to the point of a fire hazard.

The exhibition was titled Return to the River, a collection of twenty-four large-scale oil paintings depicting the changing seasons along the Hudson Valley—the mist over Beacon, the ice-choked water in winter, the golden light of autumn filtering through the ancient pines.

At the center of the gallery hung a massive triptych—three tall, interconnected canvases capturing the river at twilight, glowing with deep shades of indigo, gold, and emerald.

Standing near the refreshments table, holding a glass of sparkling water, I watched the crowd murmur in appreciation as high-society art critics and gallery owners praised the technique.

Beside me stood Gabriel, wearing a sharp, custom-tailored charcoal suit, holding Leo on his shoulders while Julian and Marcus chased each other around a modern sculpture near the entrance.

“They’re selling out, Mrs. Cross,” a sleek gallery director whispered, walking up to us with a broad smile. “Every single piece has been acquired within the first twenty minutes. The New York Times art critic is calling it a masterpiece of emotional reclamation.”

“Thank you,” I smiled.

The director excused himself to greet a group of investors by the front window.

Gabriel leaned down, resting his chin on my shoulder as Leo played with his tie. “Masterpiece of emotional reclamation,” Gabriel repeated softly in my ear. “I like the sound of that.”

“Don't let it go to your head,” I teased, leaning back against his chest. “You’re still just the guy who thought he could trade me for a younger model.”

Gabriel chuckled, his arms tightening around my waist. “I was an idiot. The biggest, most arrogant idiot in Manhattan. But fortunately, my wife is an architect who knows how to rebuild a ruined foundation.”