2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
R osalie Quentin was desperately trying to have a good time.
She’d done the whole thing—gotten dressed up, put on eyeliner, worn the good heels that made her feel slightly more confident, and let herself get dragged out to this “underground” art speakeasy by her friends. She was making an effort to be social, to shake off the weight of the past year, to do what everyone kept telling her she needed to do—get out there.
But God, was she regretting it.
The place was suffocating.
It was one of those pretentious, candlelit loft bars where no one actually enjoyed themselves because they were too busy curating their experience, making sure their conversations were the right amount of obscure and clever. Everything smelled like sandalwood and irony.
And Vlado was talking.
Again.
“…and really, it’s the commodification of art that makes it suffer, you know?” Vlado was saying, swirling his organic, locally brewed IPA like it was fine wine. “Like, the moment you start considering how a piece will sell, you’re betraying the artistic spirit. You stop creating for expression and start catering to consumption. It’s tragic, really.”
Rosie blinked, then took a slow sip of her drink to stop herself from saying anything too honest.
Vlado had been hovering all night—one of those white, effortlessly cool guys with a trust fund, a vintage bicycle, and a personality built on disdain. He wore short jeans like a European dandy and had probably never done anything useful in his life.
He was very interested in her. Or, rather, very interested in her as an artist.
Which, fine. He was kind of attractive, in a pretentious way. And she was trying—really, really trying—to move on from the whole Isaac Rayleigh problem.
So she was humoring it.
Barely.
“You know what I mean, Rosie?” Vlado asked, leaning in with what he probably thought was devastating intensity. “As someone whose work is so deeply personal, do you ever feel that pull? That temptation to dilute the rawness of your vision to make it… I don’t know. More palatable?”
Rosie resisted the urge to dig her nails into her palm.
Her show tomorrow—the one she’d spent months working on—was called Unclaimed. A series of paintings illustrating the experience of being a former foster child.
It was everything to her.
It was not for Vlado’s pretentious philosophical dissection.
She forced a small, polite smile. “I just paint what I feel.”
Vlado sighed, like she’d disappointed him. “Of course. You’re pure in that way.”
Pure.
What the fuck did that even mean?
Rosie wanted to sink into the floor and evaporate. She’d tried, she really had. But her drink was empty, the room was too loud, and she felt so out of place, so awkward, so small in a crowd full of people who seemed to navigate these spaces effortlessly.
She wasn’t built for this.
She never had been.
And just as she was calculating her exit strategy, she heard a voice behind her.
A voice she knew.
Too well.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”
Rosie’s stomach dropped.
She turned, her pulse skipping, and there he was.
Isaac Rayleigh.
Black baseball hat pulled low, tattoos peeking from under his sleeves, brown eyes bright with whiskey and something else—something sharp and reckless.
And behind him?
Shay and Chris, both looking way too amused at the scene unfolding.
Rosie’s heart hammered in her chest.
Because she hadn’t seen him in months. Because she wasn’t ready to see him.
And because God help her—he still looked exactly like everything she ever wanted.
And nothing she could ever have.
He had the same careless swagger, the same cocky glint in his brown eyes. The kind of presence that didn’t just demand attention—it stole it. Even here, in a dimly lit speakeasy filled with carefully curated hipsters who prided themselves on being unimpressed by everything, Isaac stood out.
She exhaled slowly, inching back, trying to make herself smaller.
But it was already too late.
He saw her.
And worse? Vlado saw him seeing her.
Isaac’s steps slowed as he approached, his eyes never leaving her.
Rosie’s pulse kicked up.
Please don’t. Please don’t.
But of course he did.
“There you are,” Isaac said, that familiar rasp threading through his voice. “It’s been awhile.”
Rosie didn’t respond.
She didn’t have to.
Because Vlado was already shifting, squaring his shoulders, blocking the space between them.
He took a sip of his drink, then turned slightly toward Isaac, his expression unreadable, but his posture? Clear as hell.
Isaac’s lips curved—just a little, just enough to say Really? We’re doing this?
Rosie’s stomach twisted.
Vlado finally spoke. “Friend of yours?”
Isaac’s head tilted, a flicker of amusement in his gaze. “Something like that.”
Vlado’s lips pressed together, as if assessing, weighing the situation.
He shifted toward Rosie, slow and deliberate, like he was staking a claim. “We were just about to go,” he said, his tone casual, but not casual at all.
“Didn’t think this was your type of place,” she finally got out.
Isaac gave a lazy shrug. “Didn’t think it was yours either. Yet here we are.”
Her fingers tightened around her glass.
Vlado let out a low, knowing hum, turning back to her. “How about another drink?”
“Another?” She asked.
Isaac’s eyes flicked to the barely touched cocktail in front of her, then back to her face. A slow smirk. “Yeah, Rosie. You should.”
She swallowed hard.
It wasn’t a suggestion.
It was a challenge.
Something about the way Isaac said her name made her whole body lock up. Vlado caught it—she knew he did. His arm brushed against hers, barely there, but deliberate.
And Isaac?
He saw it.
The smirk didn’t drop, but the light in his eyes sharpened.
The weight between them became unbearable.
Rosie needed out.
And then—thank God—Vlado got distracted. His gaze flickered past Isaac, landing on something more interesting. A woman in a sleek blazer, red lipstick sharp, giving him an idle once-over as she walked by.
Rosie knew that look.
Vlado’s attention shifted entirely. His body tilted toward the woman, shoulders relaxing, drink lifting halfway to his mouth.
And just like that, she was forgotten.
Rosie didn’t hesitate.
She slipped away from the bar, grabbing her bag, moving fast, before anyone could stop her.
She was already through the door, already on the street, breathing again—
“Rosalie.”
Shit.
She barely made it ten steps before she heard him.
His voice.
His footsteps.
Isaac had followed.
And there was no getting away now.