Ama stood still, brush forgotten in her hand. The scent of turpentine and oil paints filled the air, but all she could breathe in was him—Jordan Eze. His presence stirred something beneath the surface. Not longing. Not hatred. Something more dangerous.
Memory.
She swallowed hard, folding her arms as if that could cage her emotions. "I should call security," she said dryly.
Jordan gave a soft, amused huff. "You always said that, but you never meant it."
"This time I do."
He walked slowly toward one of the larger canvases—thick textures of red, black, and deep amber sweeping across it like emotion made visible. "This one," he said. "It looks like heartbreak."
Ama's jaw tightened. "It sold last week."
He turned to face her, brow raised. "That fast?"
"It spoke to someone."
He stepped closer, stopping a few feet from her. "Did it speak to you?"
Her eyes flashed. "Don't try to be deep, Jordan. You were never that guy."
"I'm not trying." He paused, eyes scanning her face. "You look stronger. Harder."
"You made me that way."
The silence that followed was louder than shouting. It vibrated with the unsaid—the abandoned texts, the final flight he never told her he was on, the years of silence he let stretch between them like an empty canvas left to rot.
"I left because I was scared," he finally said.
Ama laughed bitterly. "That makes two of us. But only one stayed and bled for it."
He flinched, and she saw it—just a flicker of guilt behind his eyes. Good.
"I was young, stupid," he said. "And I thought disappearing would hurt less than dragging us through the mess my life was becoming."
"You chose silence over love."
"I didn't stop loving you."
"Doesn't matter. You stopped showing up."
Ama turned away then, walking to the far side of the gallery, pretending to inspect a painting. Her hands trembled, but she wouldn't let him see that.
"You don't get to walk back in like the years didn't happen," she said, back still turned. "You don't get to pull on strings you cut yourself."
"I came because… because I can't go another day wondering what would've happened if I tried."
Her chest tightened. She hated how those words still held power.
"I moved on," she lied.
He stepped closer. "Then why are you still painting me?"
Her breath caught.
She slowly turned.
The piece he stood in front of—deep shadows, golden light catching on the outline of a man's frame—wasn't titled. She'd never let it be exhibited. But somehow, he'd recognized himself in the brushstrokes.
Because he was right.
Ama's voice was low. "Get out."
"Ama—"
"Now."
Jordan nodded, backing away toward the door. But before he left, he looked over his shoulder.
"I'll be back," he said quietly. "This time, I'll fight for the ending we deserved."
The door clicked shut behind him.
And Ama stood there, tears threatening but unwelcome.
Not again, she told herself.
Not this time.