27. Chapter 27
Chapter 27
C
hapter 27
R osie stood near the far edge of the gallery, clutching her wine glass in one hand, the stem damp from her sweating fingers. Her other arm was pressed loosely across her waist, posed, casual, professional. Or trying to be.
She had smiled so much her cheeks ached.
But this was it. This was the night.
This gallery in Malibu wasn’t just some posh coastal venue—it was a cathedral of clout, a space where real deals were made, where art crossed from the emotional to the profitable. Rosie had three pieces on display. All of them personal. One had already been sold, the red dot sticker screaming quietly from the bottom of the frame. A good sign. A very good sign.
Still, her insides felt like a kettle boiling over.
She’d spent the last forty minutes fielding compliments, answering questions, trying to seem eloquent and composed, and not like the girl who’d once slept on the floor of a shared studio and cried into a fast food napkin.
Her dress—silk, dark blue, minimalist—was a gift from Amy. The makeup was her own. The hair was freshly washed, loosely styled. Glasses off. The red lipstick was to keep her brave.
She didn’t feel brave.
Until someone brushed her arm. Greg. He leaned in, said, “You’re doing great. This crowd is loving you.”
She smiled, whispered her thanks, took another sip of wine, and turned slightly toward the next person waiting to speak with her. She was doing it. It was hard. But she was doing it.
And then—
Out of the corner of her eye—
That walk.
That hair.
That smirk.
Rosie blinked.
No.
It couldn’t be.
He was—no. That couldn’t be Isaac.
Except it was.
Tall. Dark hair still a little messy even though he’d clearly tried to smooth it down. Tattoos peeking out from the collar of a fitted t-shirt that exposed just how fucking fit he was. And those damn brown eyes sweeping the room, already half-lit with the promise of trouble.
He was at the bar. Talking to women. Laughing.
She didn’t breathe for ten whole seconds.
What the hell was he doing here?
Had she—did she miss a text? An RSVP? Had Greg invited him?
No. No way.
Isaac didn’t do events.
He didn’t do quiet, polite, cocktail-sipping events.
He did beer and bonfires and backyard music.
Rosie, don’t lose your mind. Not here. Not now.
But she couldn’t unsee him now.
Couldn’t ignore the electric crackle of her heartbeat shifting course.
She watched as he leaned closer to the 50-something woman at the bar—a woman who laughed, eyes lingering on him.
Rosie’s stomach twisted.
And then another person approached him. Then another. Until there was a small crowd around him. He was gesturing animatedly, holding court, saying something Rosie couldn’t hear but that made everyone laugh. Big, open-mouthed laughs.
A few people glanced her way. One even pointed discreetly.
Oh God.
Rosie clenched her jaw.
No. Fucking. Way.
The heat crawled up her spine like wildfire. He was drunk. She could tell. His stance was too loose, his movements too big. He was buzzed and babbling and pulling focus in a room that was supposed to be hers.
And it wasn’t even that he was there. It was that he didn’t tell her. Like just to throw her off. Just to mess her up. And already, he was turning her night into something else.
Classic.
Her fingers tightened on the wine glass.
She had two options.
Let it go.
Or stop him before he did more damage.
She took a slow breath. Then another.
And then she started walking. In the opposite direction.
The hush of the ocean was a balm—brief, fleeting, but a balm nonetheless.
Rosie slipped through the side door of the gallery, the weight of too many conversations and one very familiar, very uninvited presence pressing hard against her ribs. She exhaled, stepping into the cliffside garden, heels tapping across warm stone.
It was beautiful out here. Stupidly, obscenely beautiful.
Twinkle lights strung between sleek patio beams. Well-manicured hedges. Sculptures that probably cost more than her entire art school tuition. The sea stretched out beyond the bluff in a painter’s dream of dusk and ocean spray.
She blended easily into the scene—wine glass still in hand, expression relaxed even though her chest was knotted.
Why did he come?
Why now?
Why like this?
She sipped her wine, lips parted as if to say something to no one. The truth twisted bitter in her throat.
Isaac Rayleigh always showed up when he wanted. And tonight, just when her life was finally on track, just when this whole dream was beginning to crystallize, he’d walked in—wild hair, sharp smile, drunk and magnetic. Cracking her composure in half.
Her fingers curled tighter around the stem of her glass.
“You looked like you could use a little break,” came a warm, smooth voice behind her.
She turned.
Greg.
He offered the crook of his elbow. “Walk with me.”
She accepted it before thinking, her hand resting lightly against his tailored tuxedo sleeve. His presence was steadying—polished, calm, genuine.
He gestured for a passing waiter and topped off her glass. “Enjoy,” he said with a smile, nodding toward the garden path. “You deserve it.”
She followed.
Together, they walked past the glowing sculptures and into the quieter edges of the property. The murmur of clinking glasses and laughter trailed behind them like perfume.
“I wanted to say—your work is speaking volumes tonight,” Greg said, voice low, private. “The conversations it’s started… I had three guests tell me your paintings made them cry. You’ve cracked something open.”
Rosie flushed, overwhelmed. “Thank you. I’m still trying to believe this is all real.”
He looked at her sideways. “Believe it. That program we talked about? It’s getting traction already. The interest is real. My team is running the numbers. I think we can build something… permanent.”
She turned to look at him.
“You’re the heart of it,” Greg said, sincerely. “Not just the artist. The voice. The story.”
“Thank you so much. For everything.”
“I should say you’re welcome—but I don’t want to be thanked. This is all very selfish of me, and I’d rather you see that.”
Emotion flooded her. Grateful. Awed. Still unsure if she deserved any of it.
They stopped near the edge of the cliff, where a modern sculpture framed the ocean beyond. Greg took her empty glass and passed it off to a staff member. The moonlight caught her hair. She felt seen, not just looked at.
And then.
From the corner of her eye—
A shift. A shadow.
Isaac.
Leaning casually near a hedge, dark jacket open, whiskey glass in hand. Watching.
She froze for a split second.
He wasn’t part of this scene. He didn’t belong here. And he knew it.
Her stomach turned. Her jaw clenched.
She was being watched. And not by a stranger, but by the one person who’d had a thousand chances to stand beside her and never once knew how to.
Isaac’s eyes met hers—dark, unreadable. He looked too smug. Too intense. Too possessive.
Greg didn’t notice. He was speaking again. Something about board meetings, expansion, art therapy circles. Rosie forced her attention back to him.
Be present.
Stay focused.
You belong here.
Whatever Isaac thought he was doing—lurking like some brooding punk rock watchdog—he wasn’t going to ruin this.
Not tonight.
She straightened her shoulders, turned back to Greg with a soft smile, and asked the next question about the program. The only answer she was interested in.
* * * * *
Rosie stepped lightly along the flagstone path, the chatter of the gala fading behind her as she followed the subtle glow of pathway lighting toward the main house. She needed five minutes. Just five to collect herself, reapply her lipstick, maybe cry silently in the guest bathroom, and pull herself together.
The ocean air kissed her shoulders. Her heels clicked a steady rhythm. The moonlight made her dress glow a deeper sapphire. Everything felt too much and not enough at once.
Then she saw him. Leaning casually against the garden wall, like he’d been waiting for her.
Isaac.
Her breath caught, and for one blessed, idiotic second, she thought he might just smile and wave and let her pass.
But no.
He pushed off the wall with that practiced nonchalance that was supposed to look like ease but was always hiding a storm.
“Hey,” he said.
Rosie blinked. Stared. Her heart was already pounding.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she said, voice low and sharp.
Isaac’s brow knit. “What?”
“You’re—you’re here. Right there. Watching me all night like some sniper in the hedges.”
“I wasn’t—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t watching you.”
She took a step closer, fury rising like fire in her throat. “You showed up uninvited, made up some crap about being an artist, hijacked the conversation—again—and now you’re stalking me along the goddamn garden path?”
“I didn’t hijack anything,” he muttered, defensive. “I was trying to support you.”
“Oh my God,” she breathed, laughing bitterly. “That’s your idea of support? Pretending you’re part of my art collective?”
“I didn’t say it like that,” he said quickly. “I needed a cover story.”
“You implied it. To donors. To actual collectors. And now I’ve got people asking me about my collaborator. You .”
“They were interested—”
“They were interested in me, Isaac!” she snapped. “Not you. Not the SEALs or your bullshit stories or your whiskey swagger.”
He went quiet at that. His jaw tensed.
“And Greg?” he asked suddenly, voice low and biting. “That guy’s just interested in your art, huh?”
Rosie’s stomach turned. “Don’t.”
He stepped closer. The edge in his voice sharpened. “You let him touch you like that? Arm-in-arm? The way he looked at you—”
“You don’t get to talk about how anyone looks at me,” she said, stepping right back into his space, “when you’ve spent the last decade parading every blonde with legs around your place and treating me like a fucking second cousin you sometimes remember exists.”
His eyes burned. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Yes,” she said flatly. “It was. And now you think you can just show up here, put on a smile, have a couple drinks, and what? Be part of this?”
“I want to be part of this,” he growled. “I want to be part of your life.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper, throat tight. “Since when?”
“Coco.”
“Don’t. I said—fucking, don’t. You took me for granted. That I would always be there, idolizing you from the shadows, as you fucked every model in sight.”
His eyes darkened.
She continued, “Isaac, time for us to face it. This childhood friendship—we’ve outgrown it. We are different people now. I’m different now. This is in the past.” She motioned between them. “Let me move on.”
Silence stretched between them. Music and laughter floated from the distance. The party—the life—went on, just steps behind her.
Rosie’s eyes shimmered in the shadows. She wasn’t crying. Not yet.
“Go home, Isaac,” she said softly.
He looked at her, like he wanted to say something—wanted to say everything. But his jaw clenched, his fists curled, and he didn’t say a word.
She turned.
Walked away.
And didn’t look back.