Chapter 13 Lia
LIA
“Two inches to the left,” I tell my assistant, stepping back to assess the composition. “Perfect.”
I can’t believe I’m back in Ravenwood, running my own gallery—well, technically, Elliot's gallery. Still, he made it clear this space is mine to command.
“The opening's in three days, Ms. Morgan,” my assistant reminds me. “The caterers need final approval on the menu.”
I nod, scanning the pristine white walls, which are adorned with carefully curated pieces. “Tell them to add the champagne I requested. The good stuff, not the mid-tier option they suggested.”
When Elliot Chambers visited me in New York one month ago, I almost declined his offer.
After building my reputation in Manhattan's cutthroat art scene, returning to my hometown felt like regression.
But full creative control over a new contemporary gallery, with connections to collectors I'd never access otherwise, and three times the pay? Only a fool would say no.
I run my fingers along the cool edge of a display pedestal. The space is stunning—all clean lines and natural light; the architectural renovation alone cost more than my parents' house. Elliot spared no expense, which makes me wonder what he really wants from this arrangement.
My phone buzzes with a text from him.
Dinner tonight to discuss the opening?
I text back.
7 pm at Orso. I'll book the private room.
I check my appearance in the polished glass of a nearby display case. The woman staring back at me has come a long way from that teenage girl fumbling through prom night.
Thinking of prom brings an unbidden memory of Vane Blackwood.
I brush it away as easily as lint from my sleeve.
That night was nothing but a teenage rite of passage—hormones and curiosity driving decisions that seemed monumental at the time.
Losing my virginity to him was simply checking a box in the high school experience, nothing more.
“The lighting in the east wing still needs adjustment,” I say, striding toward the problem area. “And make sure the Nakamura installation has the proper documentation ready for collectors.”
It's almost laughable now, how I once thought those heated exchanges in chemistry class meant something profound.
Teenage me confused antagonism for chemistry, mistook physical attraction for something deeper.
But life teaches you the difference between meaningful connections and temporary distractions.
My time in New York taught me what real relationships should feel like—mutually supportive, challenging in the right ways. Not the push-pull power struggle I had with Vane—not that we were ever in a relationship.
I tap my phone screen, reviewing tomorrow's appointments.
Three serious collectors are coming in, including one who has expressed interest in the centerpiece sculpture.
The thought of closing that sale brings a smile to my face.
This is what drives me now—building something meaningful, creating a space for artistic voices that deserve to be heard.
That high school crush was just that—a crush. Temporary. Forgettable. Unlike the reputation I've built, which will endure.
“Is that all for today?” I ask, checking my watch. Almost five—I'll need to hurry if I want to look my best for dinner with Elliot.
“Yes, Ms. Morgan.” Noami consults her tablet, dark curls falling forward as she scrolls through our checklist. “The lighting team will finish adjustments tomorrow morning, the caterers are confirmed, and I've scheduled a final walkthrough with security for the day before opening.”
I study her for a moment. Twenty-four, fresh out of her arts administration program, eager but not desperate.
I was like her once, determined to prove myself without appearing too hungry for approval.
She's managed the pre-opening chaos with surprising competence, taking initiative when needed while respecting the boundaries I've established.
“I need to get ready for my dinner with Elliot,” I say, gathering my portfolio. “But I trust you to handle anything that comes up. You've done excellent work this week.”
The slight straightening of Naomi's shoulders doesn't escape my notice—nor does the careful way she masks her smile, maintaining professionalism even as pleasure at the recognition flashes in her eyes.
“Thank you, Ms. Morgan. I appreciate that.”
My former boss in New York ruled through intimidation, creating a toxic environment where we all worked in constant fear. I promised myself I'd never become that person, regardless of how high I climbed. Respect doesn't require cruelty.
“Lock up when you leave,” I add, handing her the gallery keys. “And don't stay too late.”
“Of course.” Naomi nods.
As I collect my coat and bag, I watch her directing one of the technicians with quiet confidence. I made the right choice hiring her. In this business, finding someone competent who doesn't require constant management is worth their weight in gold-leaf framed masterpieces.
I step outside the gallery onto Ravenwood's main street, immediately regretting my choice of heels as my foot lands in a puddle from the afternoon drizzle. Perfect. Nothing says successful art curator quite like soggy Louboutins.
“Seriously?” I mutter, glancing skyward. “I left New York for this?”
A middle-aged man in a golf shirt walking past gives me a strange look.
“Just having a chat with the universe,” I explain with an exaggerated smile. “We're not on speaking terms right now.”
He quickens his pace, practically power-walking away from the crazy lady talking to the clouds. There's the Ravenwood Hollow charm I'd forgotten about—absolute terror at any behavior more eccentric than discussing lawn fertilizer.
I check my watch and decide to walk the four blocks to my apartment rather than wait for a rideshare.
Ravenwood Hollow's lack of reliable taxis is something I'm still adjusting to, having spent years in Manhattan.
Yesterday, my driver stopped mid-route to help an elderly woman carry groceries.
Heartwarming? Yes. Efficient? Absolutely not.
A group of teenagers loiters outside the ice cream shop, reminding me of my own high school days. One girl dramatically flips her hair while a boy pretends not to watch. Ah, teenage mating rituals—somehow both evolving and completely unchanged since the dawn of time.
“Two-minute warning, people!” I call out to a couple making out against a storefront. “The PDA police are doing rounds, and I hear they're not issuing warnings today.”
They break apart, startled, then laugh when they realize I'm joking. The girl gives me a thumbs-up while her boyfriend turns approximately the shade of a fire hydrant.
God, I'd forgotten how everyone in this town knows everyone else's business. By tomorrow, Elliot will probably hear about my puddle incident from his dry cleaner's cousin's neighbor, who happened to be driving by.
I straighten my shoulders and pick up my pace. If the rumors about the Blackwoods' involvement are true, this gallery opening could put Ravenwood on the contemporary art map—puddles and all.
I turn the corner, mentally reviewing my opening night guest list, when my body collides with something solid. My portfolio slips from my fingers, papers scattering across the damp sidewalk.
“I'm so sorry, I wasn't—” The apology dies in my throat as I look up.
Vane Blackwood.
Time seems to freeze as I stare into those familiar green eyes, now set in a more chiseled face. My heart performs an unwelcome gymnastics routine in my chest.
“Lia Morgan.” He says my name like he's been expecting me, voice deeper than I remember but with that same undercurrent that always made my skin prickle.
I can't move. Can't speak. Can't process the cosmic joke of literally bumping into him on a random street corner when Ravenwood has tripled in size since I left.
He looks... different. The boyish charm has hardened into something more dangerous. His shoulders are broader under a tailored charcoal suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. A faint scar cuts through his right eyebrow that wasn't there before.
“You look surprised to see me,” he says, crouching to gather my scattered papers. “In my own town.”
His town. Of course, he'd think that way.
“I didn't—” I swallow hard, finding my voice. “I've only been back a couple of weeks.”
He hands me my portfolio, our fingers brushing briefly. The contact sends an electric current up my arm that I immediately resent. Fifteen years should be enough to neutralize whatever this is.
“Working for Elliot Chambers now,” he says. Not a question. “Interesting choice.”
Of course, he already knows why I'm here. The Blackwoods probably know when every streetlight burns out in Ravenwood before the bulb even cools.
“It was a good opportunity,” I manage, straightening my skirt with my free hand.
His eyes track the movement before returning to my face, expression unreadable.
“New York wasn't fulfilling enough?” Vane asks, one eyebrow arched. “Last I heard, you were climbing the ranks at Kensington Gallery. Something about a major exhibition you curated for emerging artists?”
A chill runs through me. That exhibition was barely covered outside of industry publications. How would he know about it?
“I'm surprised you've kept tabs on my career,” I say, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to defensive.
Vane's smile doesn't reach his eyes. “I make it my business to know about talented people. Especially those who leave without saying goodbye.”
There it is. The accusation wrapped in that velvet voice.
“We weren't exactly friends when I left, Vane.”
“No,” he agrees, stepping closer. “We were something else.”
I grip my portfolio tighter, refusing to back away despite the magnetic pull between us. “That was a lifetime ago.”
“Fifteen years, four months.” His gaze holds mine. “But who's counting?”
The precision of his answer unsettles me. I avoided him until graduation and left for college early. The way his jaw tightens tells me he hasn't forgotten.
“Well, I should be going. I have dinner with Elliot to discuss the gallery opening.”
“Of course. Elliot mentioned you were doing remarkable things with the space. He has high hopes for your... partnership.”
The way he says partnership sends prickles down my spine.
“The Blackwoods now have their fingers in every pie in Ravenwood, I see.”
Vane laughs. “Yes, that gallery, for instance...”
“Don't tell me you're suddenly an art enthusiast,” I say.
“I've developed many interests over the years, Lia.” His eyes never leave mine. “Some old, some new. You'd be surprised what I'm willing to invest in.”
“Invest all you want. It doesn't change anything between us,” I say, taking a deliberate step back to break whatever spell he's casting.
“Doesn't it?” Vane moves forward, erasing the distance I created. “You come back to Ravenwood after fifteen years and expect to avoid me? In a gallery with Blackwood money behind it?”
My pulse quickens. “What are you implying?”
“I'm not implying anything.” His smile is sharp enough to cut glass. “Just finding it interesting that after all this time running away, you've walked right back to me.”
“I took a job, Vane. Not everything revolves around you.”
“And yet here we are.” He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear before I can stop him. “Still circling each other after all this time.”
The casual touch sends heat cascading through me. I jerk away, hating my body's instant reaction to him.
“Don't.” I clutch my portfolio against my chest like a shield. “Whatever game you're playing, I'm not interested.”
“No games, Lia.” His voice drops lower. “Just unfinished business.”
“There's nothing unfinished between us. It was one night.”
“Was it?” His eyes darken. “Is that why you ran to New York without looking back? Because it meant nothing?”
The accusation hits its mark. I feel my cheeks flush hot with anger and something else I refuse to acknowledge.
“I left for college. To build a career. Not everything was about escaping you.”
“Liar.” The word isn't harsh—it's almost tender, which makes it worse. “I saw your face that night. You can build all the walls you want, but some things don't change.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as unwanted memories flood back—his hands on my skin, the way he'd whispered in my ear, how completely I'd surrendered. I've spent fifteen years burying those feelings, constructing a life where I'm always in control.
“You don't know me anymore,” I say. “Whatever you think happened between us was teenage hormones and poor judgment. Nothing more.”
I turn sharply on my heel, clutching my portfolio like armor against my chest. My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain he can hear it as I stride away, focusing on the steady click of my heels against the pavement to drown out the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.
One block. Just make it one block, and you can breathe again.
“Running away again, wildflower?” Vane's voice carries down the street.
Wildflower. The name he'd whispered against my skin that night, claiming I was beautiful but untamed, impossible to contain. How many nights had that endearment haunted my dreams in college? How many times had I jolted awake, feeling phantom fingers tracing my spine as that word echoed in my mind?
My steps falter for just a moment, betraying me. I don't turn around, but my spine stiffens, and I know he sees it—that momentary crack in my composure. Damn him for still knowing exactly how to get under my skin.
“Don't call me that,” I call back, not breaking stride, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing my face.
But even as the words leave my mouth, the way my body reacts—pulse quickening, cheeks flushing—tells a different story. One I've been denying for fifteen years.
I force myself forward, each step putting necessary distance between us, between now and then, between the woman I've become and the girl who once surrendered everything to Vane Blackwood.