Chapter 56
RiNo Arts District — Denver — Three Weeks Later
The afternoon sun hitting the concrete of Walnut Street didn’t have any warmth to it. It was a flat, blinding glare bouncing off warehouse glass and the brushed steel of luxury sedans.
Inside the main room of the Halpern Gallery, the air felt exactly the way it always had—controlled, polished, expensive. White walls. Track lighting. Clean lines, sharp enough to cut yourself on.
For six years, Izzy had loved it.
Now it felt cold.
She stood in the center of her old office, taping the bottom of another wardrobe box, the harsh shrr—clack of the dispenser echoing through the mostly empty gallery.
Around her, pieces of her life sat stacked in careful rows—reference books, portfolios, framed sketches, notebooks filled with years of research.
Systematically dismantled.
Marcus Halpern leaned against the edge of the glass desk with the same effortless corporate polish he’d worn every day since she met him. Tailored charcoal trousers. Crisp white shirt. Silver at his temples styled enough to look accidental.
“You don’t have to pack the reference catalogs, Izzy,” Marcus said smoothly. “The new director is going to need the provenance files for the fall exhibition anyway.”
Izzy didn’t look up. She slid another portfolio into the box.
“The catalogs belong to the gallery,” she said evenly. “The research belongs to me.”
Marcus exhaled softly through his nose, amused in that careful, patronizing way she suddenly realized she’d always hated.
“Always a purist.”
Izzy reached for another strip of tape.
Marcus studied her a long moment. “You look different.”
That finally made her glance down at herself.
Black tailored trousers.
Cream silk blouse.
Hair pinned into the same sleek knot she’d worn to every opening and board meeting for years.
Only now it felt like a costume she’d forgotten she was wearing.
“I don’t leave my work for other people to clean up,” she said quietly.
“Clearly.” Marcus straightened from the desk. “Look, legal finalized the separation paperwork this morning. Once you hand over the digital access and client files, everything else should process automatically. There’s no need to make this more complicated than it already—”
The front chime rang.
Marcus stopped speaking.
What followed felt strange enough for Izzy to slowly turn around.
A man stood in the open doorway of her office, broad shoulders filling the frame beneath the sleek gallery lighting.
He wore a fitted white henley with the sleeves pushed back against deeply tanned forearms, dark jeans stacked naturally over worn leather boots, and a silver—belly Stetson settled low across his brow.
Grant.
Izzy’s lungs locked so hard she forgot how to breathe.
For one impossible second, her mind rejected the image entirely. Nothing about him belonged inside this polished Denver gallery. He looked like he belonged beneath Carolina skies and mountain fog—not standing against white walls beside abstract sculptures worth six figures.
Then he lifted one hand slowly, fingers brushing the brim of the Stetson back enough for the overhead lights to catch the impossible blue of his Carolina eyes.
Reality slammed into her.
“Grant,” she whispered.
Marcus blinked, his expression shifting instantly into aristocratic irritation.
“Excuse me,” he said sharply, stepping forward. “This is a private administrative area. If you’re here for the exhibition viewing, public access doesn’t begin until—”
Grant didn’t even look at him.
His eyes stayed fixed entirely on Izzy, taking in the boxes surrounding her, the silk blouse, the exhaustion she’d been trying to hide for three straight weeks.
“The truck’s idling at the curb,” Grant said.
His voice rolled through the room low and steady, carrying absolutely none of the uncertainty she’d spent the last three weeks drowning in.
“Brought the dually,” he added. “Figured you had more than a couple boxes.”
Izzy let out a breathless laugh that cracked halfway into something dangerously close to tears.
“You drove all the way from North Carolina?”
“Yeah.” One corner of his mouth shifted faintly. “Left Tuesday morning.
Marcus looked between them, visibly losing patience.
“Izzy,” he said tightly, “who exactly is this?”
Grant finally turned his head.
He looked at Marcus for all of three seconds.
The heavy, immovable stillness of a man who had absolutely no intention of leaving without her.
Marcus went silent.
Grant looked back at Izzy and crossed the room slowly, boots echoing against polished concrete until he stopped directly in front of her.
Up close, he looked road-worn and sun-browned and painfully real.
His hand settled against the top of the cardboard box beside her.
“You done with him?” he asked quietly.
Izzy looked around the office one last time.
The glass desk.
The white walls.
The career she’d fought herself bloody to build.
For years, she’d thought this place meant success.
Now it felt empty.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I’m done.”
Grant nodded once like there had never been another possible answer.
She stepped around the desk toward him, and neither of them moved.
Then Grant reached down, his rough fingers sliding tightly through hers.
“Burke said you promised you’d only be gone two weeks,” he murmured.
Izzy laughed shakily. “It’s been nineteen days.”
“Nineteen damn days.”
The words seemed to surprise him as much as they surprised her.
“The kitchen’s been too quiet.” His thumb brushed slowly against her hand. “And Naomi’s a terrible cook.”
A smile broke across Izzy’s face before she could stop it.
“Is there another reason you drove across the country, Grant Scott?”
His eyes held hers steadily beneath the brim of the Stetson.
“No,” he said softly. “Came because a Scott doesn’t let the woman he loves handle the heavy lifting alone.”
Emotion hit her so hard it nearly hurt.
Grant squeezed her hand once.
“Let’s go home, Iz.”
“Yeah,” she whispered.
“Let’s go.”