(Isobel's Pov)
"Are you seriously putting that one up for sale?" Camille's voice cut through my thoughts as she leaned in the doorway, arms crossed.
I turned, brush still wet between my fingers. "It's just a painting, Camille."
She lifted one brow. "No, it's not just a painting. That's him."
My stomach dropped. I glanced back at the canvas—an abstract portrait, but anyone who'd ever seen Alexander would notice the echo of him: the sharp planes, the half-light across a cheek, the sudden slash of crimson that summoned the night everything ended.
"It's been a month," I said, voice low. "I can't keep hiding everything I make."
She sighed and came over to rest a hand on my shoulder. "Fine. But don't complain when someone buys your heartbreak."
I forced a small smile. "That's kind of the point."
A month later
The gallery hummed with conversation, laughter spilling under soft lights. Glasses chimed, patrons drifted between canvases—Paris bright and brittle tonight—and for once I wasn't shrinking into the background. Critics, collectors, and people who came for wine and status dotted the room, all pretending to know what abstract lines meant.
Camille nudged my elbow. "You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"Staring at the door like your long-lost lover's going to walk in."
I let out a short, breathy laugh. "Please. My long-lost lover's probably dead."
The joke died on her face. She flinched. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"
"It's fine." I waved it away and turned my attention to the clusters of admirers. They called my work "haunting" and "evocative." I nodded, smiled, kept the transactions rolling, but inside I felt hollow, as if the pigments had been mixed from the parts of me that no longer belonged to the world.
Then I noticed the attention—like a finger tracing the back of my neck.
At first I tried to ignore it. The feeling sharpened until I had to look.
Across the room a man stood, tall and broad-shouldered in an impeccably tailored black suit. His features were chiseled, but there was something unfamiliar, something folded into shadow. When our eyes met, the moment stretched, small and elastic.
He didn't smile. He just watched, as if trying to lay a name on a memory.
Camille followed my gaze and whispered, "Oh my God. Please tell me you know him."
"I don't." I shook my head. "He's probably just a collector."
The man spoke to the gallery owner, and within minutes the painting—my private, jagged confession—was marked sold.
My pulse hit my throat. "Who bought it?" I asked the owner, keeping my voice steady.
"Anonymous," he said with a grin. "He paid double the asking price."
Anonymous. Of course.
When the evening wound down I slipped outside for air. The Paris night was cool on my skin, bruised with perfume and exhaust. I leaned against the railing and closed my eyes, letting the sounds and scents settle.
"You don't look like someone who just sold her most expensive piece," a deep voice said behind me.
I turned. He had stepped a few paces closer, hands in his pockets, a faint smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.
"I don't look like a lot of things," I said. "You're the buyer, I assume?"
He nodded once. "Your work spoke to me."
"People say that when they want to sound deep."
His smile widened, an almost casual tilt. "Maybe I am deep."
I studied him. His accent wasn't fully French; his voice was measured, controlled. "You didn't leave a name."
He shrugged. "Names ruin the mystery."
"Then why talk to me?"
"Because I like understanding the things I buy."
I crossed my arms. "I'm not a thing."
He moved a half-step closer—close enough to see the faint scar along his jaw. "I didn't say you were."
There was something in the way he spoke that unsettled me. Not the words, but the confidence behind them. I cleared my throat. "Well, I hope you enjoy the painting."
"Oh, I already am." He looked at me—really looked—and for a strange second I felt seen. Not by critics or by the room, but by someone who seemed to be looking for the person inside the work.
It made me nervous. I stepped back. "You sound arrogant."
He chuckled softly. "You sound defensive."
"I have a good reason."
"Do you?" His gaze flicked to the silver chain at my throat—the one Alexander had given me years ago. "You seem like someone running from something."
I stiffened. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough," he said simply.
That line felt like a test, and it made my blood run hot. "You think because you bought a painting you get to analyze my life?"
I hated arrogant men; I'd met a number of them during that short trip to France with Camille.
He held up his hands. "Relax. I didn't mean to offend."
"You didn't. You just annoyed me."
He laughed then, low and genuine. "You have spirit. I like that."
"And I don't like men who think they can buy everything."
"Good." He stepped closer. "Then I'll consider this a challenge."
Camille appeared in the doorway. "Isobel! They're calling you inside for photos."
"I'll be there," I said, giving him one last glare. "Enjoy your art, monsieur."
As I turned, his hand brushed mine—light, almost accidental—and the spark it sent through me stopped me in my tracks. My heart thudded. His fingers lingered a fraction too long.
I hadn't felt like that since Alexander died.
I looked up. "You should be careful. I don't like people touching me."
"Maybe you just don't like admitting you feel something," he murmured.
I opened my mouth to retort, but a waiter bumped us from behind, a tray of champagne tilting. Glasses flew. I moved with the motion and then—
Cold water slammed over me.
The room gasped. I surfaced, sputtering, and realized I'd fallen straight into the decorative pool at the gallery's center.
"Isobel!" Camille screamed, the sound sharp above the startled laughter.
I pushed wet hair from my face, cheeks burning. "I'm fine!"
The idiot who had bumped into us laughed quietly behind me. I turned, water dripping from my chin, ready to snap.
But he was already offering his hand.
"Seems like I made quite the splash," I said, trying for sarcasm.
He smirked. "No, you did."
I hesitated at his outstretched hand. Something in him—his voice, the look in his eyes, the way he held himself—made my pulse quicken. He reminded me of Alexander in ways I couldn't name.
When I took his hand, his grip was firm, just enough to steady me. Light caught his eyes, and for a fleeting second there was a heartbreaking echo in them.
"Now," he said softly, "shall we start over?"