2. Isabelle
CHAPTER 2
ISABELLE
T he gallery is warm with the hum of conversation, the clink of champagne glasses, the subtle shuffle of heels on marble. My name—Isabelle Sinclair—is etched in gold on the placard at the entrance. It still doesn’t feel real.
I stand near the far wall, where the largest of my new pieces stretches wide across the canvas. Color and emotion collide in it—deep reds, fractured whites, streaks of cobalt that bleed like memory.
A man walks by, pauses, and tilts his head at the painting. “It’s about control, isn’t it?” he asks, half to me, half to the art. “Power and restraint.”
I smile softly. “Or letting go of both.”
He nods, thoughtful, before moving on.
Another critic scribbles notes. A woman in a designer dress whispers something to her friend and gestures toward the brushstrokes. A collector asks my assistant about pricing. I’m surrounded by people, by admiration, by proof that I’ve made it.
And yet…
My gaze drifts to the painting again. The center of it holds a single line—black, jagged, cutting through the color like a scar. Most people don’t even see it.
But I know it’s there.
It’s him.
Damian.
He’s not in my life anymore, but he’s still in my work. He exists in negative space and rough texture. In all the things I had to rebuild once I walked away.
I sip my champagne and remind myself that this—this success, this peace—was hard-won.
I’m not waiting for him.
But sometimes, when the night is too quiet or the wrong song comes on, I still feel him in the hollow places.
And I wonder if he ever feels me too.
* * *
I don’t realize he’s here until it’s too late to leave.
One moment I’m flipping through a catalog of architectural renderings for a joint exhibit—function meets form, they said—and the next, I start to hear whispers. Someone important must have entered.
I look up, and there he is.
Damian Kincaid.
Standing just beyond the entryway in a charcoal suit that fits him like it was stitched by power itself. He hasn’t spotted me yet—his attention is locked in polite conversation with one of the curators—but it doesn’t matter. My pulse has already spiked. My fingers curl against the catalog, gripping it too tightly.
It’s been years.
He looks… the same. No, not the same. More contained. More severe. As if someone tried to sculpt him from marble and only got halfway through softening the edges. The years have made him even more beautiful in a way that hurts to look at.
He turns. His eyes find mine, and I hate so very much that everything else falls away.
There’s a beat of stillness, like the world inhales and forgets how to exhale. I force myself to stand taller, chin lifted, even as the memories come roaring back—his hands on my skin, his voice low in the dark, the way he used to look at me like I was the one thing he could never control.
His expression is unreadable, but his posture has changed. He’s no longer facing the curator. He’s facing me.
I almost step back.
Almost.
But I don’t.
Instead, I say, “Damian.”
His name feels unfamiliar in my mouth and far too natural at the same time.
He crosses to me slowly, like he’s not sure I’m real. When he finally stops, there’s barely two feet between us. I can smell his cologne—sharp and clean and entirely him.
“Isabelle.” His voice is low and rough. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
I smile, and it’s practiced. Polished. Painfully professional. “It’s an art exhibit, Damian. Of course I’m here.”
A flicker of something passes through his eyes. Regret, maybe. Or longing. Or both.
Is that a crack? Not in me.
In him.
For all the stone he’s wrapped himself in, I see it. Barely a fracture, but it’s there, and I know I’m the one who caused it.
I shouldn’t care, but God help me… I do.
His gaze doesn’t waver.
That’s the first thing I notice. Not the fact that he’s closer now than he was a second ago or how the edge of his sleeve brushes against mine like a quiet threat… or a promise. It’s the way he looks at me, unapologetically, as if I’m the only person in this room worth noticing.
It used to make me feel invincible.
Now it just makes me feel exposed.
“You look…” He pauses, letting his eyes drift down the line of my dress and back up again. “Brilliant.”
“Damian,” I say, voice firm, “don’t.”
“What?” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Can’t a man compliment a woman he hasn’t seen in far too long?”
I cross my arms, more to anchor myself than anything else. “You never just complimented, Damian. You weaponized words, and you know it.”
That smile deepens into something more dangerous. “And you always saw through me. That’s what made it fun.”
“Fun,” I echo, dry. “That’s one word for it.”
He chuckles, and it’s warm and low. God, it still hits me like lightning. My chest tightens, my pulse betraying me with a sudden, aching rush. I haven’t thought about kissing him in years. Not seriously.
But right now, I remember every time.
“Still painting in reds and shadows?” he asks, his voice softening slightly. “I saw the gallery coverage last month. Fault Lines , right? That was yours?”
“Yes.” My voice is cool, but my skin is heating. “I’m surprised you noticed.”
“I notice everything about you, Isabelle.”
That shouldn’t make me feel anything, but it does.
I look away, pretending to study the nearest sculpture like it holds the answers to questions I shouldn’t be asking. “Why are you really here?”
His tone shifts, so subtle it’s almost imperceptible. “I’m not entirely sure.”
A silence settles between us. He doesn’t fill it with business pitches or veiled apologies or anything remotely expected of the man I once knew.
That might unsettle me the most.
Because for a flicker of a second, it feels like he’s not the empire-building, heart-shuttering version of himself. He’s just Damian, the man who once looked at me like I was the one piece of art he couldn’t let go of.
And worse? Some part of me—deep, buried, foolish—still remembers what it felt like to be his.
I take a step back. “It was good to see you.”
His expression falters just slightly, but he nods. “Likewise.”
I walk away before I do something I’ll regret.
I can feel him watching me the entire time.