Elijah's Point of View
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Elijah had seen a thousand women walk away. Lovers. Muses. Casual fucks who thought they were more.
But Isabelle? She was the one who had burned him when she left.
And now she was back—in pieces, yes, but with an edge. A quiet blade beneath silk.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss her or fall to his knees.
Elijah sat alone in his loft, dim light pouring over the canvas in front of him. He hadn't touched a brush since their last almost-kiss. His hands weren't steady enough.
Instead, he watched her—through memory, through scent, through that wild red painting he still couldn't stop thinking about.
It wasn't just lust anymore.
It hadn't been for a long time.
---
He still remembered the way her lips trembled when she'd said not yet.
Not no. Just… not yet.
Elijah respected that. Even admired it.
But it made his blood burn all the same.
Because in her hesitation, there was still desire.
And that was dangerous—for both of them.
---
He walked toward the gallery early, hours before the show, pacing like a man who didn't belong in a suit.
But he wore one anyway—navy, no tie, crisp collar. Clean lines to match his resolve. Isabelle deserved to be seen in a place where her soul would hang on the walls.
And if Nathan decided to show up?
Well, Elijah wasn't afraid of a man who didn't know what he had until it painted its pain in public.
He smiled bitterly.
No one forgets a woman like Isabelle. Especially not when she starts telling the truth on canvas.
---
When Elijah stepped into the gallery, he saw it immediately: her transformation.
It bled from every piece.
The first painting—a shadowed profile of a woman with red-stained fingers. Desire or guilt? Maybe both.
The second—soft curves, inked in charcoal, arched in pleasure… but the eyes were missing. Empty.
The third—hands. Always hands. Grasping, releasing, trembling.
And then… the one.
The red piece.
The one he had seen in her apartment, still unframed, raw and wet. Now it hung in full glory, center wall, no title.
The crowd murmured around it, half confused, half aroused.
But he understood every stroke.
He stepped closer, breathing it in, when he felt her before he saw her.
---
"Do you like it?" Isabelle asked quietly.
Elijah turned.
She wore a long black dress, open back, deep neckline, minimal jewelry. Her hair up. Her confidence on.
He let his eyes sweep over her, not hungrily—reverently.
"You look like you walked out of your own painting," he said.
She laughed softly. "I did. Just not sure who painted me."
They stood there for a moment in stillness, surrounded by strangers and wine glasses and whispered judgments.
Then she leaned toward him and whispered, "Thank you for reminding me I'm not invisible."
He reached for her hand. She didn't pull away.
But just as his fingers brushed hers—
A voice broke the moment.
"Elijah?"
Both turned.
Nathan stood at the entrance, hands in his pockets, suit impeccable, his face drawn tight with confusion—and something else.
Jealousy.
---
Elijah straightened.
He expected anger. Maybe a scene. But Nathan just walked forward, slow, cautious, as if entering a battlefield.
"I wasn't sure I should come," Nathan said, eyes flicking between the painting and Isabelle. "But then I saw the invitation. I thought… maybe it wasn't too late."
Isabelle didn't move.
"I read your letter," she said finally.
"And?"
"I believed it."
Nathan stepped closer. "But?"
She shook her head. "But belief isn't enough anymore."
---
Elijah could've walked away. He should have.
But he stood still, watching her—watching them—as she turned into something entirely her own.
Nathan looked at Elijah then. "So what are you to her?"
Elijah's jaw tightened. "I'm the man who saw her when you didn't."
Silence.
Isabelle turned away from them both and walked toward the red painting, heels echoing on the polished floor.
The crowd parted instinctively.
She stood before her own pain, arms folded, and whispered without turning, "Neither of you get to own me. Not anymore."
---
It was a declaration. A warning. A vow.
The seductress had risen from devotion and disappointment, and now she stood bare and bold in front of the world.
Not for their attention. Not for their love.
But for herself.