Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Anthony
"I hope no one saw us?”
“Let me handle this," I whispered to Gabrielle.
A stray wisp of her hair clung to her cheek, an unruly trace of our moment. I brushed it away, my fingertips grazing her skin for just a beat too long before stepping back, forcing myself to regain my composure. The gallery remained still, but the silence now felt heavy—a lingering echo of something that shouldn't have happened, at least not here, not ever.
You’re Gabrielle’s boss.
The morning light stretched long shadows across the front of the gallery, one of them familiar. Even before I reached the door, I recognized the deliberate posture, the squared shoulders.
Curtain. Alistair Devereaux’s attorney.
"Frank," I greeted, keeping my voice neutral, though my pulse marked its own rhythm beneath the surface.
"Morning. I forgot my keys,” he replied, stepping inside with the air of a man accustomed to delivering bad news. His gravelly voice, shaped by years of cigarette smoke and negotiations, carried a measured weight. A stack of manila folders rested in one of his large hands, gripped with purpose and possession.
As he passed by, I observed him. No lingering glances at Gabrielle, no flicker of amusement or suspicion in his eyes. Nothing in his stance indicated that he had seen anything at all. Still, I watched him closely, searching for any sign—a pause, an offhand comment, anything that might confirm or deny whether he had entered at the wrong time. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Frank isn’t going to fire us, or he would have already done so.
Gabrielle remained at the desk, head bent over the thick spiral notebook, flipping through pages with what looked like focused determination. But was it? I knew better than to assume calmness meant ease.
Inside the office, Curtain deposited the stack of folders with the precise care of a card dealer laying down a hand. “For you. Some papers to sign for the judge,” he said.
I ignored the files, instead gesturing toward a chair—a meaningless invitation I knew he wouldn’t accept. “So, Frank. What’s going on?”
He exhaled slowly, but I caught it—the briefest flicker of something behind his eyes before his expression smoothed over. Awareness? Or was I imagining it?
Beyond the office, the faint sound of pages turning carried through the stillness. Gabrielle was working, covering, or maybe waiting for her dismissal.
“It’s the Devereux case,” Curtain began, leaning back so heavily that the delicate wooden chair creaked under his mass. “Judge has new orders.” His words scraped against the quiet of the room.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” He looked almost pleased with himself as though the imposition sinking into resistance was a kind of victory. “They want you to split your time.”
“Split my time?”
“MM&W needs you in Dallas. And here.” He paused for effect. “You’ll travel between both locations.”
I tried to sound unfazed. “Travel?”
Instantly, my mind filled with visions of airline tickets, crowded terminals, and departure gates—words that now loomed ominously like his shadow had at the front door.
“The art’s being returned to owners. There is a lot more to do before each piece is back where it belongs.” Curtain shifted his weight, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning in as if sharing a private collusion. “It’ll need someone like you to oversee.”
I winced at the implication, glancing at the stack of folders in a silent protest as if they could vindicate my role, my authority. “Gabrielle and I were planning to?—”
Curtain cut me off, nodding toward the main room. “Your assistant?” he observed, the words casting doubt. “She’s looking busy.”
“Yes. She’s organizing the pieces scheduled for verification.”
Ignoring my faint protest and dismissing logistics details, Curtain said, “Judge Valencia wants this case expedited.” He elongated the last word, almost proudly relishing the syllables as if savoring the authority it granted him.
“And the travel?” I probed, grasping for some last, illusory point of leverage. “That’s going to be expensive.”
“Sure. Especially since their donations are down this year,” he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm. I could almost see the corners of his mouth twitching into a smirk.
“How nice of them.” I sensed the narrative closing in around me, and I pushed back. “The MM&W Foundation is trying to save money by having me shuttle back and forth instead of hiring another employee for either here or Dallas.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Curtain stood up as if he’d clinched the argument. “Devereux is footing the bill. Ordered by the Court.” His words hung in the air, a final twist in the tale, leaving me with no further room to maneuver.
Gabrielle cleared her throat loud enough for us to hear. I turned to see her looking up, pen ready, lips parted as if about to speak. Through the open office door, I caught her gaze, searching for permission and assurance.
“Frank,” I said, struggling to understand. You want me to leave everything here and run to Dallas? And back?”
“Or the other way around. However, you see it.”
Gabrielle smiled, that kind of smile that felt almost forgiving. I braced myself against the old sorrows that Curtain had stirred—against travels, schedules, and absences I’d been avoiding since Charlotte’s death.
“Nothing,” Curtain remarked, eyeing me with appraisal, “like a little travel to loosen up the mind.”
Nothing like a little intrusion to set my mind ablaze.
“Frank,” I said in a tone that foretold inevitable defeat. “I need to think about this.”
“Think fast,” Curtain countered, his silhouette dominating the doorway with quiet authority. “If I were you, I would refocus on your plan here. They won’t need your help for a few weeks—use that time to get your bearings and talk things over with your assistant before you go.”
At that moment, I was already certain of what awaited me—a schedule overflowing with tasks and an office cluttered with pending lists and waiting names. I envisioned myself reduced to a mere item in the ceaseless flow of returns, valued solely by my obligation to endure the process. What had once provided solace and repair was gradually slipping back into the realm of mere duty.
As Curtain’s footsteps faded away, his lingering presence left behind a faint, musky reminder. The kind that came not from him but from the judge he answered to. His arrival had unsettled something long dormant—some bruise I’d long taught myself not to feel.
The gallery’s calm gradually returned, reflecting Gabrielle’s poised elegance as she walked over to join me in the office. Her red dress was bold, striking, and impossible to overlook—the color of temptation, danger, and something forbidden yet too enticing to resist. It was not merely a dress but a warning and an invitation all at once, a reminder of the fire that burned between us and the line we had crossed.
I reflected on how difficult it would be to leave her, the realization settling deep within me, heavier than I wanted to acknowledge. The red clung to her like a secret, like evidence of something neither of us could undo. And yet, as much as I knew I should, I wasn’t certain I wanted to… or even if I could.
"I suppose that settles it," she said lightly, but there was something guarded in her tone, a subtle tension that belied her casual words. Her eyes flicked to mine, holding a question I wasn’t sure I was ready to answer.
She hesitated, then spoke again, her voice quieter. "Do you think Frank was watching us through the window?"
I turned, glancing toward the windows as if I could will the past few minutes to replay before my eyes. The timing had been close—too close. But had he seen us? “If he had, Frank would have fired both of us on the spot,” I said flatly. "No questions asked."
Gabrielle let out a slow exhale, but instead of feeling relieved, she tilted her head. “I’m not so sure,” she murmured, studying me. “Did you see how he looked at me when he left?"
I do now. In hindsight, I could recall it—a flicker of something in Frank’s usually impassive gaze. Amusement? Disapproval? Knowledge? Lust? Whatever it was, it had been subtle, but now that she mentioned it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it meant something.
I nodded, forcing myself to sound unaffected. “Let’s not overreact. I’ll make the necessary arrangements for Dallas," I replied, my voice steady, though inside, I felt anything but. The thought of leaving her, of leaving this place that had quickly become a sanctuary, or perhaps enduring the embarrassment of being fired for indiscretion weighed heavily on me.
A flicker of something crossed her face—disappointment? Resignation? I couldn’t tell, and before I could decide whether to ask, she turned. Her footsteps reverberated through the room, a staccato beat that lingered in the air long after she disappeared.
I watched her go, my gaze snagging on the faint red mark at the curve of her neck—my mark. A remnant of my mouth, my hands, my loss of control in the heat of our moment.
Does she even know it’s there?
The thought sent a slow, dark satisfaction curling through me, tempered only by the nagging question of whether Frank had noticed it, too.
I should have been thinking about Dallas, the logistics of my departure, and the work ahead. The practicalities pressed in on me, demanding attention, but they couldn’t compete with the image of that mark against her skin and the memory of how it got there.