Something twists in my gut as I study how she's captured the light on their breaking surfaces. The delicate way she holds them.
"There are two sides to every story."
The thought slithers through my defenses before I can stop it. No. I know what I saw. I know what happened.
But the anguish in those painted eyes...
My gaze drops, searching for distraction, and catches on something woven into the shadowed background. Nearly invisible unless you're looking—the faint outline of a compass, its needle pointing true north. And beside it, in delicate script, two words that feel like a blade between my ribs:
Forever yours.
My words. The last thing I whispered to her that summer night, before everything shattered. My fingers had traced that same compass resting on her skin as I made my promise.
Something cracks open inside me—a dam I've spent fifteen years reinforcing with cynicism and careful distance.
I press my palm against my chest, right over the compass tattoo hidden beneath my tailored shirt, as if I could physically hold myself together.
The ache spreads—familiar and foreign all at once.
Like a wound that never properly healed.
"Magnificent piece, isn't it?"
I turn to find an older man watching me, his gaze measured and unwavering. His gallery tag reads "Elliot Vanlow" in neat, formal script.
"Isabella Jenkins," he continues, "she’s quite remarkable. Fought her way up from nothing, refused multiple offers from wealthy patrons who wanted to... guide her career." His pause is deliberate, the unspoken implication hanging in the air like a challenge.
"I want to buy it." The words come out rougher than intended.
Elliot's smile is tight-lipped. "I'm afraid that's not possible. Miss Jenkins was quite clear—this piece isn't for sale at any price."
I step closer to the painting, studying the intricate details. The jewels aren't just shattering—the shattered parts have twisted into familiar shapes. Saint Industries' logo. It's subtle enough that most viewers would miss it, but unmistakable to anyone who's spent their life beneath that emblem's shadow.
My phone buzzes. Ethan's text ignites a spark of determination within me. Got her address. Three simple words that feel like a lifeline thrown across a decade of silence.
"If you're interested in her work," Elliott offers, watching my reaction carefully, "Miss Jenkins has a showcase this month. I could arrange an invitation if you'd like to meet the artist behind that mesmerizing painting."
For a moment, I almost laugh at the irony. Meet her? I know the precise sound of her laugh when she's truly amused. The way she bites her lower lip when concentrating. How her eyes flash emerald when she's angry. The exact pressure of her fingertips against my skin.
I stop myself, swallowing the dangerous flood of memories. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Vanlow. I appreciate the offer, but I need to go." My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
With one last look at the words and pain Isabella has captured on canvas, I turn to leave.
Then I hit reply. Send it.
Because one thing has become crystal clear after this visit. I need answers.
The address Ethan provided leads me to a forgotten corner of Boston's warehouse district, where weathered brick facades whisper stories of industrial glory days. Faded paint peels from walls, and the metal staircase groans beneath my feet as I climb. Through the doorway above, glimpses of an open, airy space filled with canvases tease me. Of course this is where Isabella would choose to live—a haven of creativity, tucked away from city chaos.
Before I can second-guess myself, I press the buzzer. Seconds stretch into eternity before the door swings open, and there she is, those captivating green eyes widening in shock before narrowing dangerously.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
She's wearing paint-splattered overalls, denim worn thin at the knees and smeared with a rainbow of dried acrylics. Auburn strands escape a hastily twisted bun, falling around her face. A slash of cobalt blue paint streaks across her left cheekbone like war paint. Even with specks of paint dotting her skin like freckles, she's...
Stunning. And furious. The door hurtles toward my face, but my palm connects with wood, the impact stinging through my arm as I halt its momentum mere inches from my nose.
"We need to talk."
