Isabella's heart pounded as she stepped out of Julian's sleek black car, the neon glow of the dive bar's sign casting jagged shadows across the pavement. The address from the text—Clara's secrets are yours. Meet me at midnight, or they go public—had led them to this gritty edge of Manhattan, far from the glittering penthouses and galleries of Julian's world. Her cherry-red lips were set in a defiant line, but her hazel eyes betrayed the fear clawing at her chest. Willow Creek, her mother's death, her father's betrayal—someone was digging up her past, and this meeting could be a trap.
Julian's hand found hers, his grip firm, his gray eyes scanning the street with a predator's focus. "You don't have to do this," he said, his voice low, laced with a protectiveness that made her heart ache. "Let me go in first."
She shook her head, her dark hair catching the neon light. "This is my fight, Julian. My past. Whoever's behind those texts knows me, and I'm not hiding anymore." Her voice was steady, but the memory of her mother—Clara's laughter, her paint-stained hands—tightened her throat. Evelyn Hart's words at the gallery echoed: I knew your mother, Clara.
Julian's thumb brushed her wrist, a subtle spark that reminded her of the heat they'd shared, a fire that still simmered beneath her fear. "Then we do it together," he said, his tone final. He led her toward the bar, his presence a shield against the shadows.
Inside, the dive bar was a haze of cigarette smoke and low murmurs, its worn booths and flickering jukebox a stark contrast to the Upper East Side's polish. Isabella scanned the room, her gaze catching on a figure in a corner booth—a man, late 30s, with a lean frame, salt-and-pepper hair, and eyes that held a quiet intensity. He wore a faded leather jacket, his hands wrapped around a whiskey glass, and when he looked up, his gaze locked onto hers like he'd been waiting.
"Isabella Voss," he said, his voice rough but warm, standing as they approached. "I'm Daniel Cole. I knew your mother." His eyes flicked to Julian, assessing. "You must be Blackwood. This isn't your scene."
Julian's posture stiffened, but he kept his hand on Isabella's back. "What do you want, Cole?" he asked, his voice low, dangerous.
Daniel's smile was faint, tinged with sadness. "To talk. Clara was my friend… and more, once. She left something behind, Isabella. Something your paintings are stirring up." He slid a small, worn journal across the table, its pages yellowed, the cover embossed with a faint rose—Clara's favorite flower.
Isabella's breath caught, her fingers trembling as she touched the journal. "This was hers?" she whispered, her cherry-red lips parting. Memories flooded back—Clara sketching roses, humming softly, before the crash that stole her. "Why now? And why the texts?"
Daniel leaned forward, his voice low. "Someone's scared of what you know. Your paintings—they're like Clara's, full of secrets. I sent the texts to warn you, not threaten. Your father's old deals in Willow Creek… they tied to powerful people. People like Vincent Blackwood."
Isabella's blood ran cold, her eyes snapping to Julian. "Your father?" she said, her voice sharp. "He knew my parents?"
Julian's jaw clenched, a flicker of shock in his eyes. "If he did, he never told me," he said, but doubt shadowed his voice. He turned to Daniel. "What's in the journal? And who's after her?"
Daniel's eyes darkened. "Clara found evidence—financial records, names—linking your father's early deals to shady operations in Willow Creek. She was going to expose them, but then…" He hesitated, his voice breaking. "The crash. I don't think it was an accident."
Isabella's heart stopped, the journal heavy in her hands. "You're saying someone killed her?" Her voice trembled, anger and grief warring within her. "And my paintings… they're bringing it back?"
Daniel nodded. "You paint like her, Isabella. Your work's got people nervous—Vincent, maybe Lena. They think you know more than you do." He glanced at Julian. "And you, Blackwood, you're in the crosshairs too. Someone's leaking dirt to Noah Grant."
Julian's hand tightened on Isabella's, his voice a growl. "Who?"
Before Daniel could answer, the bar's door slammed open, and Vanessa Reed stormed in, her platinum hair gleaming under the neon. Her eyes locked onto Isabella, sharp with urgency. "You're playing a dangerous game, Voss," she said, her voice clipped. "Noah's got more than files now—he's got photos of that journal. And Lena's meeting him tonight."
Isabella's stomach dropped, the journal burning in her hands. Lena. Of course. She stood, her cherry-red lips set in a hard line. "Then we find them," she said, her voice steel. "I'm done being a target."
Julian's eyes met hers, a storm of resolve and something softer—love, maybe. "We end this," he said, his hand brushing her cheek, a fleeting touch that sent warmth through her despite the chaos. "Together."
Daniel stood, his gaze steady. "I'm with you. Clara deserved better. So do you." He handed Isabella a slip of paper with an address—a warehouse where Noah was meeting his source. "Be careful. Whoever's behind this, they don't play nice."
As they left the bar, the city's pulse thrumming around them, Isabella clutched the journal, her mother's secrets a weight she couldn't ignore. Julian's hand stayed in hers, his touch a promise, but Vanessa's warning and Daniel's words hung heavy. The warehouse loomed ahead, a shadow in the night, and as they approached, a figure slipped out of sight—a silhouette too familiar, too close. Lena? Noah? Or someone new? Isabella's phone buzzed with a final text: The truth is in the warehouse. So is the end.