I nod once, watching his fingers dance across the tablet.
"Isabella Jenkins." His thumb swipes left, revealing image after image. "Shows at Luminous Gallery—that's serious. Top tier." He turns the screen toward me. "And look at this. This month's her first solo showcase. They're calling her 'the rising talent every collector needs to watch.'"
An image freezes me—a hyperrealistic painting of a child pressing their palm against rain-streaked glass, longing etched in every line. The aching loneliness steals my breath. Her signature sits in the corner: I. Jenkins.
Memory ambushes me: sitting beside her on that garden bench, watching for hours as her pencil transformed blank paper into something alive. The way her brow furrowed in concentration, how she'd bite her lip when—
I shove the tablet back at Ethan.
His eyes lift, studying me with that razor-sharp intensity that makes me want to squirm. Nothing escapes that gaze—not a twitch, not a breath. "Maybe you should check it out?"
My eyes narrow to daggers, lips curling into a snarl that would send most running. But not Ethan. He just cocks an eyebrow, mouth twitching as he leans in. "Come on, admit you're curious. Maybe she's done a whole series on you." His eyes dance with mischief. "Probably calls it 'Asshole in Armani' or 'Trust Fund Tragedy.'"
Something twists in my gut. Would she? Has she captured our history on canvas? My mind spirals—what moments would she choose to immortalize? The golden afternoons or the brutal ending? Would her brushstrokes show tenderness, or would she paint me as the fool she played—the naive rich boy who actually believed a servant's granddaughter could love him? The possibility burns through me like wildfire, igniting a desperate need to see her work.
"Fuck you." I drain my coffee, but the bitter taste doesn't mask the acid rising in my throat. "Besides, even if I wanted to check it out, I can't exactly waltz into a gallery right now. Or did you miss the swarm of vultures camping outside?"
"Please." Ethan rolls his eyes. "You're Ares fucking Saint. Call the gallery, ask about their collection, hint at being an anonymous donor. They'll trip over themselves arranging a private viewing."
I won't do it. This is insane. I have enough chaos without chasing ghosts from fifteen years ago. There's absolutely no reason to—
"The number." My phone's already in my hand. "Now."
Ethan's smile widens as he reads out the digits. "You know, for someone who claims not to care—"
"This is your fault." I jab a finger at him. "You're the one who suggested she might have painted something about me."
"Oh sure, blame me." He laughs. "Use me as your excuse to go see the woman who clearly still gets under your skin."
I punch in the gallery's number, ignoring his smirk. But I can't ignore the way my pulse quickens.
Two hours later, I slip through Luminous Gallery's private entrance, a generous donation securing my solitude. The space breathes quiet elegance—gleaming hardwood floors and stark white walls swallowing sound. My footsteps echo as I move through the pristine halls, soft instrumental music filtering through hidden speakers like a reverent whisper.
Towering windows line the far wall, city views framed like living art. Sunlight streams through glass, warming the carefully curated pieces within. High ceilings and minimalist design force focus to where it belongs—each canvas and sculpture demanding attention in this temple of creativity.
I move through the space, past landscapes and abstracts that blur together until—
There. Her work.
Isabella's style strikes like lightning—hyper-realistic paintings that slice through pretense to raw emotion. A child reaches for a bubble, wonder captured in oils and dreams. An elderly couple dances in rain, joy radiating from every brushstroke. Each piece tells stories most people walk past without seeing.
But Red—she always saw everything.
"Hold still," sixteen-year-old Isabella commands, pencil poised over her sketchbook. Morning light filters through Mother's prized roses, turning petals to stained glass.
"How do you do that?" I whisper, mesmerized by the magic flowing from her fingers.
Her smile, soft and secret, burns itself into my memory. "Everything's more. You just have to pay attention."
The memory shatters as I turn and come face-to-face with her self-portrait. It dominates the far wall, impossible to miss, impossible to look away from. Isabella's face, larger than life, tears streaming down her cheeks in crystalline trails that catch light like diamonds.
My feet move without permission, drawing me closer. The technical mastery stuns—the exact shade of forest green in her eyes, a single tear balanced perfectly on her lower lash. But it's what radiates from those painted eyes that guts me.
Pain. Raw, visceral pain.
And betrayal. Not guilt—betrayal.
In her painted hand, two necklaces dangle—diamonds and sapphires fracturing mid-air, caught in the moment of destruction. I recognize them instantly. They are the ones she allegedly stole: Mother's Art Deco collar with the Tiffany clasp. Grandmother's emerald strand with the distinctive platinum setting. Both shattering in places, gems falling like tears.
