(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 folded tight.
I turned, brush still between my fingers. The bristles left a faint smear on my palm. "It's just a painting, Camille."
She lifted an eyebrow. "No. It's not just a painting. That's him."
My stomach dropped. I looked back at the canvas — an abstract portrait, but anyone who'd known Alexander might see the contours. The harsh angles, the face swallowed by shadow, the sudden slash of crimson that dragged me back to the night everything unraveled.
"It's been a month," I said, low. "I can't keep hiding everything I make."
She sighed and came over, resting her hand on my shoulder like a light anchor. "Fine. But don't complain when someone buys your heartbreak."
I forced a tight smile. "That's kind of the point."
A month later
The gallery hummed with conversation, crystal glasses chiming under soft, golden lamps. Paris felt electric tonight, and for once I hadn't slipped into the background. Critics, collectors, and people who treated art openings as an excuse for good wine drifted between paintings, murmuring in the cultivated hush of appraisal.
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 breath that sounded half laugh, half plea. "Please. My long-lost lover's probably dead."
Her smile faltered as the joke landed wrong. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"
"It's fine." I waved her off and pasted on another smile, the one that navigates compliments and polite curiosity. I spent the next hour nodding, accepting praise that called my work "haunting" and "evocative." Inside, I felt hollow — as if the colors I'd mixed were made from pieces of me that no longer existed.
Then something pricked at my skin: a presence. At first I ignored it. It kept growing taut, like a thread pulled tighter.
When I finally turned, my breath snagged.
A man stood on the far side of the room, tall and broad-shouldered in an impeccably cut black suit. His jaw was clean, his cheekbones carved like the portraits I hated and loved. There was a familiarity to him that wasn't memory but a question. His eyes met mine and held — a look that stretched time for a heartbeat.
He didn't smile. He simply regarded me, as if trying to place a name.
Camille followed my line of sight and whispered, "Oh my God. Tell me you know him."
"I don't." I shook my head. "He's probably just a collector."
He spoke briefly with the gallery owner, and minutes later the painting — the one Camille had warned me about — bore a "sold" tag.
My pulse skittered. "Who bought it?" I asked the owner, keeping my voice steady when it wanted to tilt.
"Anonymous," he said with a polished grin. "He paid double the asking price."
Anonymous. Of course.
When the crowd thinned and the lights dimmed, I slipped outside for air. The November breeze was cool on my cheeks, carrion of perfume and car exhaust and the distant sweetness of warm bread from a nearby boulangerie. I leaned against the iron railing and closed my eyes, breathing the city into my chest.
"You don't look like someone who just sold her most expensive piece," a deep voice said behind me.
I swung around. He was a few steps away, hands in his pockets, a faint smirk loosening the edge of his mouth.
"I don't look like a lot of things," I said. "You're the buyer, I assume?"
He inclined his head. "Your work spoke to me."
"People say that when they want to sound deep."
His smile widened, just enough to be dangerous. "Maybe I am deep."
I studied him more closely. His accent was not entirely French — a textured cadence that sat between languages. His tone stayed cool, measured. "You didn't leave a name."
He shrugged, casual as if shrugging could be flirtation. "Names ruin the mystery."
"Then why talk to me?"
"Because I like understanding the things I buy."
I crossed my arms, a barrier as much for warmth as for principle. "I'm not a thing."
He stepped nearer, close enough for me to see a thin scar tracing his jaw like a pale river. "I didn't say you were."
There was something off in the way he said it — not the words but the soft confidence that undercut 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 brief, disorienting second I felt exposed, suddenly readable. Not by critics or the crowd, but by someone who seemed to be cataloguing me.
The feeling made my stomach clench. I took a step back. "You sound arrogant."
He chuckled, low and sure. "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 before. "You seem like someone running from something."
I straightened, anger sharpening my voice. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough." His words landed like a small proof, calm and unnerving.
That tone — so certain, so lightly invasive — made my blood quicken. "You think because you bought a painting you get to analyze my life?"
I had little tolerance for men who believed money paid for familiarity. During my short trip with Camille, I'd met my share of them.
He raised his hands placatingly. "Relax. I didn't mean to offend."
"You didn't. You just annoyed me."
He laughed then, the sound folding into the night: genuine, low. "You have spirit. I like that."
"And I don't like men who think they can buy everything."
"Good." He closed the distance a fraction more. "Then I'll consider this a challenge."
Before I could answer, Camille breezed out of the doorway. "Isobel! They're calling you inside for photos."
"I'll be there," I said, shooting him one last glare. "Enjoy your art, monsieur."
As I turned away, his hand brushed mine — light, almost accidental — and a thin electric flare traced my skin. My heart hiccupped. His fingers lingered a heartbeat longer than politeness required.
I hadn't felt that since Alexander's death.
I looked back at him. "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 snap something back, but a waiter collided into us, tray of champagne tilting in a chaotic arc. Glasses arced through the air.
Cold liquid hit me first — a hard, shocking weight — and then the world flipped.
Water closed over my head.
The gallery's collective inhale became a single, horrified sound. I surfaced, coughing, palms slapping slick marble, and realized I'd fallen straight into the decorative pool at the room's center.
"Isobel!" Camille's scream cut through the bustle.
I pushed wet hair from my face, cheeks burning with mortification. "I'm fine!" I forced the laugh, though my voice trembled.
Behind me, the man was already laughing softly — not unkindly, just amused — and before I could scold him, he was offering his hand.
"Seems like I made quite the splash," I said, more sarcastic than I felt.
He smirked. "No, you did."
I hesitated, studying the hand stretched toward me. His fingers were warm; his palm steady. Something in his eyes caught the gallery lights and, for one impossible instant, I saw a hollow I recognized — that same familiar tilt of sorrow I'd spent the last year trying to avoid.
When I took his hand, his grip was firm, reassuring. Water ran from my sleeve and dripped onto the stone. He helped haul me up with easy strength.
"Now," he said softly as he held me, the intensity in his voice shifting, gentling, "shall we start over?"