Chapter 19
The Mayson Art Gallery shimmered beneath crystal chandeliers, the light refracting off polished marble and glass like something suspended between reality and illusion.
Tuxedos and couture drifted through the space, a study in elegance and wealth, the air perfumed with florals and expensive cologne.
Laughter moved softly through the room, punctuated by the delicate swell of a string quartet.
I wore a black gown cut low enough to make a point without making an apology.
It skimmed my body with intention. Olivia stood beside me in emerald-green dress, her baby bump rounding the silk beautifully.
Her hair was swept into a loose chignon, diamond studs catching the light when she turned her head.
“You sure about this?” she murmured as I accepted a champagne flute.
“I’m sure.” I took a measured sip.
“You do realize Creed is here.”
“I’m aware.”
Her lips curved. “And you’re wearing the hell out of that dress. Are you trying to punish him or torture him?”
“Efficiency,” I said lightly, lifting my glass to my lips again. “Why choose?”
She laughed under her breath.
I felt him before I saw him.
The room shifted, subtle but unmistakable. My body reacted first, tightening, alert. Creed stood near a marble sculpture, his black tuxedo immaculate, dark blond hair perfectly disordered in a way that never looked accidental. He wasn’t scanning the room. He was already looking at me.
I didn’t meet his gaze. That would have given him leverage.
“I’m going to get you something non-alcoholic,” I said to Olivia.
As I crossed the room, I could feel his attention tracking me, a weight between my shoulder blades. My pulse quickened despite my resolve. I handed my empty glass to the bartender and ordered for Olivia and a dry martini for me.
“Peyton.”
His voice slid over me, smooth and deliberate.
I paused but didn’t turn.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked.
I looked back, meeting his eyes for the first time. His expression was calm, but tension sat tight along his jaw.
“Immensely.”
Something dark flickered in his gaze.
“You didn’t bring a plus one,” I said evenly.
“Didn’t see the point.” He stepped closer. The space between us contracted. My body responded before I could stop it. I forced my gaze back to Olivia, who was watching us with amusement.
“I’d like to speak with you before you leave.”
“Thank you,” I said, accepting a lemon-lime soda for Olivia, “What about?”
His mouth curved slightly. “Us.”
“There is no us.” I took the drinks from the bartender and walked away before Creed could respond.
“Oh my God,” Olivia whispered as I approached her. “He looks furious.”
I handed Olivia the glass. “He’ll survive.”
We drifted through the gallery, stopping to admire pieces, greeting familiar faces. I caught glimpses of Creed only in fragments: the line of his shoulders, the glint of a cufflink. He didn’t approach again, but I knew he was watching.
At the far end of the gallery, the crowd thinned and the lighting softened. That’s when I saw them. The three paintings, mounted beneath a single spotlight. My heart stuttered.
“Olivia,” I whispered.
She stepped beside me and went still. “Peyton... oh my God.”
The first was a garden at dusk, roses tangled in shadow and light. The second captured a storm-tossed sea pierced by a single blade of sunlight. And the third—
A woman seated by a window, head bowed, sorrow etched into every line of her body. The pain in it was so intimate it tightened my throat.
My mother’s work.
“Oh my God,” Olivia whispered. “Peyton... what is this?”
My hand brushed my throat. “I don’t know,” I murmured. “I didn’t... I didn’t know these were here.”
“Who would’ve—” Olivia’s gaze sharpened. “Wait.”
I turned.
Creed stood just beyond the light, watching me. His composure was intact, but his eyes burned with intent. I had no idea the paintings had been removed from the closet in my office.
I crossed the distance between us. “What did you do?”
“Are you ready to talk now?” he asked.
“Creed.” My voice sharpened. “Why are my mother’s paintings hanging in this gallery?”
His gaze drifted toward the paintings. “Do you remember when I offered to have a business partner look at her work?”
Months ago. He’d mentioned a professional connection. I’d agreed, then forgotten about it entirely.
“I figured they would give you feedback.”
“Leandra did more than look,” he said quietly. “She arranged a private viewing.” His mouth curved. “It seems your mother’s work has garnered some attention.”
My breath caught.
“Leandra is the older woman in the corner.”
A beautiful woman in an elegant navy gown stood nearby, talking quietly with one of her guests.
“She wants to feature your mother this fall.” His gaze sharpened. “There is also an art investor interested in buying that one.”
My eyes followed his to the painting of the sad woman.
I stared at him. “No. That one isn’t for sale.”
“Then it isn’t.” He nodded once. “But she can have more ready by this fall, right?”
I was sure Mommy was still up in the attic, breathing life into other creations. Her creations breathing light into her.
“Why?” I demanded. “Why would you do this?”
“Because it matters to you.”
The words landed heavier than anything else he’d said all night.
“I wanted tonight to be a gift,” he added. “Something good.”
“This isn’t fair,” I said softly.
“What isn’t?”
“You. Knowing exactly how to disarm me.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “That isn’t a weakness, Peyton.”
He stepped back, his hand falling away, but the connection between us didn’t break.
“You can go back to being angry with me later,” he murmured. “Right now, just enjoy the moment for your mother.”
And then he was gone.
I walked back over to Olivia. My chest tightened with emotion I wasn’t ready to name. My mother’s paintings glowed beneath the lights, quiet testaments to her talent. Creed had seen to that. He’d done this for her. For me.
“I don’t care what the man does; one thing we cannot deny is that he truly cares about you,” Olivia said from beside me.
I didn’t answer.
I just stood there, surrounded by art, proof of love given without asking permission.
My pulse was still racing when Olivia left for the ladies’ room, leaving me alone beneath the spotlight of my mother’s paintings.
I lifted my champagne flute to my lips, but the cool glass trembled faintly against my mouth.
Across the gallery, Creed moved easily through clusters of donors, exchanging a few low words, nodding, listening.
He was a force in the room—dark and commanding in that tailored tuxedo, effortless control radiating from every measured step and precise gesture.
The crowd parted around him without thought, as if instinctively aware of the gravity he carried. He listened with that focused intensity of his, but his gaze kept drifting back to me.
Always back to me.
The murmur of the room dulled beneath the pounding of my heart as he turned and started toward me. Slow. Unhurried. Like a man who knew exactly where he was going.
I should have left. I should have turned toward the exit and walked away. Instead, my feet stayed rooted, my chest tightening with every step he took closer.
Creed stopped in front of me, near enough that the faint scent of his cologne curled between us—dark spice, smoke, something clean and expensive underneath. My mouth went dry.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I said quietly.
“I wanted to,” he replied.
“You always do,” I said, sharper now. “You swoop in. You fix things. You take over.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “As I said before, that’s not a flaw.”
“No. A flaw is when you disappear afterward.” I held his gaze. “When you decide I’m too much—or not enough—and vanish.”
His jaw flexed. “You think that’s what happened?”
“I know it is.”
Something hardened in his expression.
“I’m not letting you pull me back in,” I said. “I’m not letting you make me feel—”
“Feel what?” His voice dipped low, smooth, and dangerous.
I swallowed. “Exposed.”
His gaze flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You already are.”
I stepped back, but he caught my wrist. Gentle. Unyielding. Heat bled through my bracelet, straight into my bones.
My breath hitched as he lifted my hand, his thumb brushing my knuckles.
“You can be angry,” he murmured. “You can tell yourself I’m dangerous. That I’m not what you need.”
“You’re not,” I said, even as my pulse betrayed me.
“And yet,” he said softly, “you’re still standing here.”
I pulled free. He let me go, but his gaze didn’t soften. “I don’t want this anymore,” I said. The words lacked conviction.
“You sure?” His eyes swept over me, deliberate and thorough.
Damn him.
“I’m not doing this again,” I said, nails biting into my palm. “I’m not stepping into a cycle where you decide when and how we exist.”
“Then don’t,” he said.
I blinked.
His mouth curved slightly. “Stop waiting for me to pull you in.”
“What are you talking about?”
He stepped closer again, heat brushing my skin. His fingertips rested lightly on my waist. “I’m saying stop waiting,” he said quietly. “If you want me, come get me.”
I shivered.
“I can think of three million reasons you should take my advice.” His knuckles traced my jaw, tilting my face toward his touch. His gaze burned, making it hard to breathe.
Bastard.
The air thickened between us. His mouth hovered near mine. One inch was all it would take.
Then something sharpened his eyes. He stepped back, hands falling away.
“You don’t want this?” he said. “Fine. But don’t pretend it’s because of me.”
“What does that mean?”
“Figure it out.” He walked away.
I stood beneath my mother’s paintings, breath tangled in my chest, heart hammering.
I turned my back, grabbed another champagne flute, and lingered near the painting of the sad woman. By the time the glass was nearly empty, Olivia returned, her eyes bright with curiosity.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well, what?”
“I saw that.” She arched a brow.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”