9. Isabelle
CHAPTER 9
ISABELLE
I ’m running late again.
The gallery’s prepping for a new feature, I’ve got three commissioned pieces due by the end of the month, and I still haven’t decided what to do about Damian’s proposal.
And not just the professional one.
The other one.
The one where he kissed me like he meant every second we lost and then held me like he might never let go.
I’m still thinking about that when I step into Hearth & Honey for a quiet moment and a shot of caffeine before I get swallowed whole by my studio. The bell above the door jingles, and the familiar scent of roasted beans and honeyed vanilla wraps around me.
A businessman sits at a window table. He’s polished and poised, like he was waiting for something… or someone.
I look away but the line is long, and when I glance that man’s way again, his eyes land on me, and his smile is smooth and disarming. His gaze lingers without feeling invasive.
I wish this line would move faster, especially as I notice the businessman out of the corner of my eye. He stands and steps toward me with a kind of quiet confidence that most men try to fake and few actually possess.
“You must be Isabelle,” he says, his voice like silk and slow bourbon.
I look at him again, but I don’t recognize him. Has he been to one of my galleries? “I’m sorry… Do we know each other?”
He chuckles and offers a hand. “No, but I’ve heard a lot about you. Vincent Grey.”
I take his hand briefly, cautiously. His grip is firm but not aggressive, and for some reason, that unsettles me more. He doesn’t push the way Damian does. He invites smoothly and intentionally.
I feel like I’m being pulled into a conversation I didn’t ask to be part of.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say carefully.
Vincent’s eyes glitter with something. Amusement? Challenge? I can’t quite place it.
“Your name has come up in the business world once or twice.”
I arch a brow. “Is that so?”
“Mmm,” he hums. “I didn’t realize the woman behind the work was quite so… compelling.”
His words are perfectly delivered, flattering without being overt and warm without being familiar, but it sets off a low alarm in my chest.
I tilt my head to the side and inch forward in line. “What do you want, Mr. Grey?”
He grins. “Just coffee and maybe a chance to get to know you.”
“And why would that interest you?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because I’m drawn to brilliance, and I always make time for what matters.”
I pause. On the surface, it’s all harmless. Charming, even. But I’ve spent enough time around powerful men to know when something’s off.
And Vincent Grey is off . He just wears it too well.
* * *
It starts with coffee because he’s there the next day when I get some.
Then there are flowers. A tasteful arrangement of white ranunculus and pale green eucalyptus arrives at the gallery the next day with a card that reads, “For the artist who paints emotion better than anyone I’ve met. —V.G.”
I don’t respond, but I also don’t send them back.
I’m behind on work, so Damian and I haven’t been spending quite as much time together. I have a feeling he’s behind on work too, but Vincent? Maybe I should’ve sent the flowers back because he keeps showing up. Not intrusive, necessarily. Always just enough to seem harmless.
Vincent catches me after a panel event and walks me to my car. He stops by the gallery on a slow afternoon and compliments a piece that no one else has even commented on. He always leaves before it becomes too much, which is what makes it so hard to call him out.
He’s thoughtful, charismatic, and maybe too smooth, and I hate how everyone around me seems to like him.
My assistant said he’s “dashing.” My gallery manager called him “a dream to work with.” Even my friend Jules texted, asking if I’d met the handsome donor Vincent who’s been boosting local artists.
I know I should talk to Damian. He knows businessmen, so it’s probably safe to assume they know each other, but what would I even say?
There’s a businessman charming the city, and I have a bad feeling about him.
Except I don’t know if saying I have a bad feeling is accurate. All I truly have is the sense that Vincent Grey is always two steps ahead of the room, and I wonder if his interest in me is less about admiration and more about strategy.
Sometimes I catch him watching me when he thinks I won’t notice. Just for a second too long. Not like he wants me.
More like he’s planning something.
But then he smiles, offers to carry something, or mentions an article he read about my exhibit, and the moment passes.
So I start to second-guess myself. After all, what has he really done? Nothing.
And yet, every time I see him, I feel like I’m losing a game I didn’t know I was playing.
* * *
A week later, I’m at a private preview for an upcoming charity auction. It’s a small, invite-only affair—art collectors, patrons, the usual sharp smiles and firm handshakes. I’m sipping wine and trying to decide how long I have to stay when Vincent Grey materializes at my side. He doesn’t announce himself. Just slides in with a comment about one of the bronze sculptures near the entrance, and suddenly we’re talking.
I don’t want to linger, but I don’t want to be rude, and I think he realizes that.
“You always look thoughtful at these things,” he says, his eyes on mine. “Detached, even. Like you’re cataloging the room instead of participating in it.”
I shrug. “I guess that’s how I protect my energy.”
He smiles. “Smart. People will take more than you’re willing to give if you let them.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes, almost like he’s leading me somewhere but hoping to let me think I’m guiding the conversation.
“You’ve really gotten under Damian’s skin,” he adds casually.
The wine nearly slips from my fingers, but I steady it as I glance at him. “So you do know him.”
“Of course.” Vincent’s tone is smooth, unreadable. “We have… history.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s vague.”
“Well,” he says, swirling his glass, “so is Damian, isn’t he?”
I stiffen.
“I don’t mean to be unkind,” he adds quickly. “He’s brilliant. Ruthless, yes, but brilliant. I respected that once.”
Once.
I don’t ask.
After a poised, patient moment, he continues, “He built his empire off of precision and sacrifice. He sacrificed partners, opportunities… people.”
“Which people?” I ask carefully, wondering if maybe this is why Vincent’s sought me out. He was hurt by Damian before, and he wants to “save” me.
Although I was hurt by Damian before already myself…
Vincent tilts his head. “For starts…” He wrinkles his nose and looks away before clearing his throat, righting himself, and staring me in the eye. “There was a woman before you. Two years ago. He was in love with her—deeply, I think—but when she got in the way of a merger deal, he chose the acquisition.”
I blink. “You’re saying he ended a relationship… for business?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Vincent replies, voice silk and shadow. “I just hope that if you and him are… talking… that he tells you everything.”
He lets the words linger, hanging like smoke between us.
Then he finishes his drink and offers me that same infuriating, perfect smile. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your evening. Always a pleasure, Isabelle.”
And he’s gone before I can even think of a response.
I stare after him, my thoughts spinning, my heartbeat uneven. Damian was certain allowed to date other women after me. Two years ago… that was after our… mess of a first crack at a relationship. But for him to pick business over her? He basically did the same thing to me, although I was the one to end things with Damian over it, and it sounds like he might’ve been the heartbreaker this time.
So the worst part isn’t necessarily what Vincent told me or that I believe him.
It’s that I don’t know if I can ask Damian about this and be told the truth.