Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Anthony
I dragged myself into the fitness center, feeling like I’d barely slept. The restless night had left a weight on me that even caffeine couldn’t shake. The place was already filling up with Miami’s elite—bankers, CEOs, and trust-fund kids who paid personal trainers to sweat for them. I usually found comfort in my routine, but this morning, everything felt off.
“Jesus, you look like hell.” Damian’s voice cut through the hum of treadmills and clanking weights as he tossed me a bottle of water. “Rough night?”
I grunted in response, rolling my shoulders before setting up the free weights. “Didn’t sleep much.”
“That’s obvious,” he said, smirking. “Like you rolled straight out of a grave,” he continued. “Want me to call someone? Maybe an exorcist?”
I exhaled a dry laugh. Damian knew how to deflect with humor, but I wasn’t in the mood. I started my reps, focusing on the burn in my muscles rather than the tangle of thoughts still in my head.
“I had a dream,” I admitted between sets. “About Charlotte.”
The teasing faded from Damian’s expression. He leaned on the squat rack, waiting. “That’s normal,” he said carefully. “Were you having sex?”
I winced but then hesitated. “Gabrielle was in it too.”
Damian raised a brow. “The gal you work with?”
I nodded.
“Now that’s… interesting.”
I switched weights, keeping my face impassive. “It was good. Just… weird. My brain’s probably a mess from work.”
“Or,” he said, “you’re starting to process things in ways you don’t want to admit.”
I didn’t respond. I wasn’t ready to unpack what the hell it meant.
We moved through the rest of our workout in relative silence, the rhythmic pounding of our sneakers against the rubber flooring of the treadmill platform filling the gaps where conversation should have been. But I knew Damian wouldn’t let it go entirely. He was waiting for the right moment.
That moment came when we hit the pool.
We ditched our sneakers and lowered into the water, propping our arms on the pool’s edge. The cool contrast against my overheated skin felt good—grounding, even. Damian rested his chin on his forearm, studying me.
“You gonna tell me what’s really eating at you?” he asked. “Or are we still pretending it’s just a dream?”
I sighed, staring at the ripples in the water. “I found out something after Charlotte died.”
Damian waited.
“She had a trust fund,” I said finally. “A massive one. From her grandparents.”
His brows lifted slightly. “And you didn’t know?”
“No clue. She never told me. Never spent money like she had it.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Now, it’s mine. Quietly. No one knows.”
Damian let out a slow breath. “That’s a lot to process.”
“Yeah.”
“And you think people will assume you’re checking out of this gallery thing? Taking your billions and sailing off into the sunset?”
I flexed my fingers against the ledge. “Maybe. The court trusted me with this restitution effort because of my background. If they start thinking I’m distracted or—worse—disinterested, they could replace me, and I don’t want that. I want to help return the art to the proper owner.”
Damian considered this for a moment before nodding. “So, what’s the plan? Live like a monk forever?”
I huffed. “I’ve already started making adjustments.”
“Like?”
“New suits. A few upgrades. But nothing too flashy.”
“Good,” Damian said, smirking. “Because those off-the-rack suits weren’t cutting it for a guy with your new bank account.”
I shook my head, but I appreciated his attempt to lighten things up.
“Point is,” he said, “this isn’t about money. It’s about control. You’re trying to keep a grip on something that already changed. Maybe it’s time to stop fighting it.”
I didn’t answer. Because deep down, I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop fighting it.
By the time I arrived at the gallery, it was past eight o’clock. The moment I stepped inside the cool, air-conditioned facility, a sense of control settled over me, a stark contrast to the heat I’d left behind.
Work mode. That’s where I needed to be.
The restitution effort had a long way to go, and I had no time for distractions—especially not the kind I’d spent the morning trying to shove out of my head.
Yet, as I moved through the main exhibition hall, I spotted Gabrielle near one of the newly restored paintings, and whatever resolve I had left wavered.
She was absorbed in her work, her fingers skimming the edge of an ornate gilded frame as she studied the details of a Baroque-era portrait. The soft curve of her neck as she tilted her head in concentration, the way her hair framed her face, the barely perceptible furrowed brow—it all pulled my attention in a way I hadn’t expected. Or maybe I had.
I should have kept walking. Instead, I slowed, observing her with a curiosity I hadn’t let myself indulge before.
She adjusted her stance, crossing her arms as she examined the fine brushwork of the piece in front of her. A slight purse of her lips. A quiet inhale. There was something about watching her in this element—completely engrossed, entirely unaware of anything outside of what was in front of her—that made me feel like an intruder.
And yet, I didn’t move.
For the first time, I found myself wanting to know more—not just about her skill or knowledge of the art or what made her an asset to the gallery, but about who she was beyond this place, beyond the professionalism, beyond the sharp intelligence that always kept me on my toes and beyond the desire that sizzled between us.
The realization unsettled me.
I forced myself to move past her, my gaze snapping forward, my posture shifting. I needed to shake this off. I needed to remember that she was my colleague and nothing else.
I told myself as I reached my office, closing the door behind me with more force than necessary, that I needed to stay focused.
And yet, when I sat down at my desk, I wasn’t thinking about the reports waiting for me.
I was thinking about Gabrielle.
And I hated that I was.
****************
The evening air in the gallery felt different. Quieter. Heavier.
Most of the staff had already left for the day, leaving only the soft hum of security monitors and the occasional shuffle of footsteps echoing through the space. I was at my desk, eyes locked on the ledger in front of me, but I wasn’t reading a damn thing.
A knock at the door pulled me from my haze, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Gabrielle stood in the doorway, leaning lightly against the frame, her silhouette framed by the soft, fading light of the evening. Her dark blouse and tailored slacks gave her the same air of effortless elegance she always carried, but there was something different about her expression.
Something unreadable, almost as if she was keeping a secret just out of reach.
“I was just about to leave,” she said, crossing her arms with a casual grace that belied the underlying tension in her voice. “Want to grab a drink?”
I blinked, thrown by the question. Gabrielle wasn’t the type to ask for casual outings. At least, not with me. I hesitated long enough for her to arch a brow, her eyes glinting with a challenge I couldn’t quite decipher.
“It’s just a drink, Anthony,” she said, the corner of her mouth tilting slightly upward in a teasing smile. “Not a marriage proposal.”
I exhaled through my nose, forcing a smirk, but something about the offer—about the ease with which she said it—made my chest tighten with an unfamiliar tension. “I have a lot to do,” I said finally, my voice carefully measured. “I’ll probably be here late.”
For a split second, something flickered in her eyes. Disappointment? Amusement? I couldn’t tell, and it gnawed at me.
“Suit yourself,” she said, stepping back with a graceful shrug. “See you tomorrow.”
I watched as she turned, slung her purse strap over her shoulder, and walked toward the exit, her steps echoing softly in the hallway. I told myself I had made the right call. That keeping things professional was necessary. I wasn’t feeling the dull pull of regret as I watched her go. But when I caught sight of the taillights of her car disappearing out of the parking lot, the red glow fading into the night, I wasn’t so sure.
The gallery was silent now, save for the faint clicking of my keyboard.
I had meant to finish up financial reports before heading home, but my focus had drifted.
To Gabrielle.
To the damn dream.
To the way I caught myself watching her earlier, noticing things I shouldn’t.
Agitated, I leaned back in my chair, rolling the tension from my shoulders. My gaze flickered to my computer screen, the open file on my last search staring back at me.
A Lady and Gentleman in Black.
Gabrielle had mentioned it before—her curiosity about its origin, her suspicions that there was more to its history than the records showed. She hadn’t outright asked for my help, but I knew she wanted it.
And for some reason, I had pulled up the file. Privately.
I wasn’t sure why I didn’t just ask her about it directly. Maybe I didn’t want her to know I was thinking about her outside of work. Maybe I didn’t want to encourage whatever was happening between us.
Or maybe, deep down, I already knew it was too late for that.
I clicked through the information, scanning the provenance records, the restoration notes. A strange feeling settled in my gut—yet I found nothing out of the ordinary.
I was just starting to dig deeper when my phone buzzed against the desk.
I checked the screen. Unknown Number.
I stared at it for a second before swiping to decline.
Then, with one last glance at the gallery security feed—just to confirm I was alone—I reopened the file.
And kept searching.