I spent six years bringing a forgotten woman artist back into the light. Her name had been stolen from her own paintings more than a century ago.
I built an entire exhibition to correct the record.
Opening night was supposed to be the moment her name, and mine, finally stood where they belonged.
Then I opened the finished catalog.
My name was gone.
In its place was the name of my husband’s mistress, a rising young curator.
While I was preparing the gallery, Benedict had been preparing something else: a secret deal to send my exhibition around the world under her name.
He expected me to sit in the front row, wear the dress he chose, clap politely, and let him toast my erasure in front of two hundred donors.
He forgot one thing.
I am a curator. I know how to preserve evidence.