(Isobel POV)
"Another one sold," Claire said, leaning in the studio doorway with her coffee. "And guess who the buyer is? He's anonymous again."
I wiped my brush on the cloth, pretending not to care. "They all want to be mysterious these days."
"Maybe it's that man from the gallery," she teased. "The tall one with the expensive shoes and bad attitude."
I rolled my eyes. "Please don't remind me."
Claire smirked. "You say that, but you haven't stopped talking about him since last night."
"I was complaining, not talking."
"Uh-huh." She sipped her coffee, unconvinced. "So, when's Julien picking you up?"
I glanced at the clock and exhaled. It was ten to six. "Soon. He wants to try that new restaurant near the river."
"Julien's nice," she said softly.
"I know."
"And you like him."
"I do," I said. "Just… not enough."
Claire tilted her head. "You can't keep punishing yourself, Isobel. It's been almost two years."
"I'm not punishing myself," I said quickly, though my voice didn't sound convincing.
She gave me a look that said sure you're not, then left me alone with the canvases and the quiet.
The studio smelled of turpentine and old wood; sunlight slanted across canvases stacked against the wall, warming the pigments until the colors almost breathed. I swallowed and stepped back, thinking Alexander would have loved this piece.
He was gone, and everyone thought it was my fault. A car crash, no body found—enough to close the case.
I'd tried to move on in Paris with Julien, a French teacher who dropped by after work. Today we were going on a date.
Julien made it easy to like him. Calm, gentle, solid in a world that always felt like it was slipping. But love wasn't a switch. Alexander had burned himself into every corner of me.
My phone buzzed. Julien—outside.
I grabbed my coat and forced a smile at the mirror. "You're fine," I told my reflection. "You're doing fine."
The lie sounded plausible, but it was still a lie.
Julien's red Mini Cooper waited by the curb. He stepped out when he saw me. "You look beautiful," he said.
I smiled. "You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time."
He held the door open; I slid into the warm leather. The city glowed in that soft Parisian dusk—gold against slate, alive and somehow melancholy.
"You seem distracted," he said after a while.
"It's been a long day."
He reached for my hand. "You work too hard. You should take a break after this exhibition."
"I like working," I said.
"I know," he said gently. "But sometimes you look like you're running from something."
I watched the street slide past. "Maybe I am."
He didn't press. He never did. That steadiness was both what I loved and what I resented.
Dinner was quiet, an elegant place where voices lowered and laughter was measured. He ordered wine; I touched mine with a fingertip. We spoke of the show, his firm, the weather—safe things. He told a joke that made the older couple beside us smile. He made people comfortable.
When the waiter left, he leaned in. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Do you ever think about leaving Paris? Maybe starting over somewhere else?"
The question caught me off guard. "Leaving?"
He nodded. "There's an opening at our branch in Madrid. I could take it. We could…" He paused, shaping the offer. "You could come with me."
My fork stopped midair. "Julien—"
"I'm not asking for an answer tonight," he said quickly. "I just want you to think about it. About us."
I forced a smile. "You deserve someone who's ready to think about that."
He studied me for a long moment. "I'll wait."
The kindness in his voice landed like a bruise. I looked down, pretending the weave of the tablecloth held my interest.
He reached across and brushed his fingers against mine. "You know what I like most about you?"
"What?"
"You never pretend."
If only he knew.
After dinner he insisted on walking me home. The street outside my building smelled of wet stone and faint cigarette smoke; the air was cool and clean after the rain. He stood with his hands in his pockets, smiling that shy, patient smile.
"I had a good time," he said.
"So did I."
"You're lying."
"Maybe a little," I admitted.
He laughed softly, and for the first time that night I felt the tightness in my chest loosen.
"I should go up," I said.
He nodded but didn't move.
"Goodnight, Julien."
"Goodnight, Isobel."
I turned toward the door, but he caught my hand. I looked back. His eyes were gentle, asking without words. "Can I—"
I hesitated.
Then I nodded. The kiss was soft—the kind that asks instead of takes. But as his lips met mine the old ache rose, the familiar ache that whispered this isn't Alexander.
I stepped back slowly. "I'm sorry."
He gave a small, sad smile. "I know."
"I just need time."
"I know that too," he said. "I'll call you tomorrow."
"Well, that was quite a kiss." I swung around at the sound of his voice.
It was the man from yesterday.