34. Chapter 34
Chapter 34
T oo early on Saturday morning, Rosie woke up to the shrill buzz of her phone vibrating somewhere on Isaac’s nightstand, slicing through the soft quiet of the room. She reached blindly, half-asleep, knocking over a bottle of water before finally grabbing it. Amy. Of course.
She rolled onto her back, squinting against the early light bleeding through Isaac’s curtains. “Hey,” she mumbled, voice raspy. “Everything okay?”
“Rosie!” Amy’s voice was borderline hysterical—in the good way. “Oh my god, I’m so glad you picked up. Listen. I just got off two calls with Cultured’s event team. The ‘25 Artists to Watch’ thing? Tonight? Downtown San Diego? One of the selected artists got pulled over some weird-ass controversy—don’t ask—and they’re bumping you into the lineup.”
Rosie sat up like she’d been electrocuted. “Wait. What?”
“They want you. Tonight. You’re officially number twenty-five. Red carpet, photographers, donors, critics, the whole damn scene.”
Rosie blinked, trying to process that while lying half-naked in Isaac Rayleigh’s bed. “You’re serious?”
“I’m dead serious. Cultured magazine, Rosie. This is a career rocket ship. You’re being profiled, celebrated, shown. It’s a thing.”
Beside her, Isaac stirred, groaning as he rolled toward her. His warm hand slid across her hip, grounding her. “What’s going on?” he mumbled.
Rosie put the phone on speaker. Her head was spinning.
Amy kept going, “They need you at the Museum of Contemporary Art in San Diego at four sharp. I already confirmed you’re available. You are available, right? Say yes.”
Rosie let out a breathless laugh, heart thudding. “Yeah. I mean. Yes. I—Amy, this is insane.”
“I know, I know, I’m freaking out. I get you a dress, or a stylist, or both—what do you want?”
Rosie ran a hand over her face. “God. I don’t know. Just—nothing too fancy. But like… fancy enough?”
“Already on it,” Amy said. “And I can be your date, if you want?”
Rosie’s eyes flicked to Isaac, now sitting up, bare chest inked and mussed with sleep, watching her like she was the only thing worth waking up for.
She smiled. “I think I’ve got a date.”
Amy paused. “Wait. Not that dude, right?”
Isaac leaned forward toward the phone. “Morning, Amy.”
Rosie pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.
Amy, after a beat: “K! Uh, come over soon and we will get ready!”
The line clicked dead, and Rosie let the phone slip from her fingers onto the sheets.
Her heart was pounding. Her skin felt too tight. Her stomach was a full-blown knot.
Isaac’s palm slid over her lower back beneath the blanket, warm and grounding. “So… you’re famous now.”
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” she muttered, burrowing into his chest, hiding from the weight of it all.
He kissed the crown of her head. “You’re gonna crush it, Coco.”
She closed her eyes, breathing in the steady thump of his heart. His voice was calm. Steady. Too steady.
She should’ve been ecstatic. Cultured Magazine. A red carpet. San Diego’s downtown elite. One of twenty-five. Her name on a damn list that mattered. She should’ve been floating.
But something inside her had knotted around itself and refused to untangle.
Because Isaac—Isaac was acting like he was waiting for her to shatter. Like he couldn’t look away without something snapping loose. His arm around her was firm, protective, almost possessive. His body was wrapped around hers like armor. And even now, in the warm hush of morning, there was a tension in him. Something haunted.
Rosie lifted her head slightly, glancing at his hand—scabbed knuckles, bruised flesh.
Yesterday.
She didn’t know what happened in that alley.
She didn’t know why he’d come back cold and tight-lipped, blood on his hands and pain in his eyes. She didn’t know what he was holding inside.
But she could feel it. All of it. Like it was in her own bones.
Rosie rolled toward him and brushed her lips over his, trying to kiss away whatever was clawing at him from the inside out. He met her kiss, deep and immediate, his mouth greedy like he’d needed it all night. His fingers slid to the back of her neck, his lips parting hers, tongue sweeping hers in a kiss that was more relief than hunger. Like he was grounding himself in her.
Her hands slid over his chest, up to his jaw, coaxing. He kissed her like he was afraid to let go. Like she was the only thing tethering him to the moment.
She knew this wasn’t just about yesterday. Something deeper was unraveling in him.
But he wasn’t ready to talk. She could feel that too.
So she pulled back slowly, their breaths mingling. She smiled against his mouth. “You know you’ll have to wear a suit, right?”
That startled him.
He blinked, pulling back an inch. “A suit?”
Rosie grinned, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw. “Yep. Red carpet. Black tie. You. In a tux.”
Isaac let out a groan and collapsed back onto the bed with a dramatic thud, dragging an arm over his face. “Fuck.”
She laughed for the first time that morning—really laughed—and let herself roll onto his chest, cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of it. “You’ll survive.”
He peeked out from under his arm with a skeptical look. “Do I have to shave?”
“Yes.”
“Double fuck.”
She kissed him again, softer this time. “You’ll look stupid hot. I’ll probably want to make out with you the whole night.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Quentin.”
And for a moment, the heaviness faded.
The knot in her stomach loosened.
But still, somewhere deep in her chest, she felt it—
The weight of yesterday.
And the silent question between them:
What happened in that alley, Isaac? And why are you looking at me like I’m made of glass?
She didn’t ask.
Not yet.
* * * * *
Rosie stepped out of the town car and into a world that didn’t feel like hers.
The heat of late July clung to the air, golden light catching on glass panels and manicured palms as the Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego loomed above her—modern, sleek, expensive. Ahead: a red carpet rolled out like something from a dream she didn’t dare have. A crush of cameras. Security. Beautiful people in tailored clothes and expensive shoes.
Cultured. Juxtapoz. ArtForum.
Their banners fluttered in the breeze, bold reminders that this wasn’t some pop-up show in Echo Park. This was real. This was prestige.
And she? She was just trying not to puke.
Her heels hit the pavement with practiced care, but her knees felt like jelly. Her heart beat too fast. Her hands trembled as she reached for Isaac.
He was already there.
Tall. Solid. In a black suit that hugged his body like it had been custom-built to honor the sins of man. White shirt, open collar, tattoos ghosting up the neck, hair combed back clean. Dangerous didn’t begin to describe how he looked. But his eyes weren’t here for show. They were scanning—methodical, precise, predatory.
Rosie glanced up at him, tried to joke, tried to ease the tension. “You look like you’re about to throw someone into traffic.”
“Let me do my job,” he muttered, low, like a warning. “I’m not here to charm the press—I’m here to make sure you don’t get fucking trampled.”
The look he gave her was full of something raw. Fierce. And she almost melted into it.
Except her stomach was in her throat.
She adjusted the strap of her gown—a silky black slip that clung like paint to every line of her—and tried to take a breath. Her hair was styled in soft waves, her makeup flawless thanks to Amy’s people, but she felt like a walking illusion. Just three weeks ago, she was crashing on a couch in East L.A. with twenty bucks in her wallet and nowhere to be. And now?
Now they were announcing her name like it meant something.
“Rosalie Quentin! Rosalie, this way please!”
A photographer waved.
Rosie blinked, dazed.
“C’mere,” Isaac said, tightening his arm around her waist. His voice dipped low, only for her. “Smile. One foot in front of the other. I’ve got you.”
And God help her, he did.
Even if she had no idea what she was walking into.
Inside, the museum was glowing.
Warm light spilled out from the high-glass walls, illuminating everything with a golden, dreamy haze. Inside, the crowd pulsed—dresses shimmering, champagne flutes catching the light, velvet ropes parting for photographers and collectors and critics with silver hair and polished smiles.
Rosie had never felt smaller in her life.
And yet… never more seen.
Her heels clicked against the polished concrete as Isaac guided her through the entrance with a hand firm and low on her back. The buzz of conversations swelled around them—compliments, introductions, nods of recognition. A few people actually knew who she was. Rosalie Quentin. Artist. Newest name on the Cultured Magazine “25 to Watch.”
But Rosie wasn’t watching the crowd.
She was watching Isaac.
He hadn’t smiled since they got out of the car. Not once.
His jaw was locked. Eyes scanning every inch of the space. He looked like he’d been carved out of storm clouds and sharpened steel. Not a plus-one, not a date—something else entirely. Like her bodyguard. Like a soldier.
She leaned in closer as a group of gallerists passed, champagne in hand, nodding politely at her. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
That was a lie. She could feel the heat in him, the pressure rolling off his body like thunder. Every time a man looked at her too long—or worse, introduced himself with a smile—she felt Isaac’s hand tighten at her waist. Possessive. Tense.
And it wasn’t just jealousy.
It was deeper. Darker. Haunted.
Like he was bracing for something to go wrong.
Rosie was breathless. Partly from the attention. Mostly from him.
She turned toward him near a corner where the light spilled just right over a sculpture installation. “Isaac…”
He pulled her in by the waist.
Not gently.
His mouth dropped near her ear. His breath was hot against her skin. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me in this dress.”
She flushed, heat blooming under her collarbone.
He kissed her temple—soft, reverent—then her hair, careful not to smudge her lipstick. His hand slipped a little lower on her back. “All I can think about is dragging you out of here and fucking you against that glass wall.”
Her knees nearly gave out.
“But I won’t,” he growled. “Because you’ve worked your ass off for this. So I’ll behave. For now.”
Her breath hitched.
God. Him. In a suit. Saying things like that.
She reached up to touch his jaw, but—
A voice cut through the air.
“There she is.”
Rosie turned.
Greg Taylor.
Sleek. Sharp. Tall, with silver at his temples and a tailored navy jacket that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. Billionaire. Patron. Savior of the night. And right now—very interested in her.
He was smiling warmly. “Rosalie. You’re glowing.”
Isaac’s arm tightened.
Rosie felt the entire moment shift.
And everything inside her whispered: oh no.