Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
The back showroom is quiet, which isn’t a surprise as it’s well past three in the morning. But I couldn’t sleep. I’d only intended to take a quick walk and clear my head. Instead, my feet carried me here, the only place that’s ever truly felt like mine.
Now, I’m curled up on the old velvet couch, shoes kicked off, a glass of whiskey in my hand as I stare at a canvas I haven’t looked at in months. Stillwater, he called it. Swirls of blue and green and silver that look like water caught mid-motion. Like a lake holding its breath.
I remember the day he painted it.
We’d driven upstate for a weekend away from the city, away from our families, away from everything that made our relationship complicated. We’d rented a cabin by a lake so still it looked like glass. We spent most of our first morning in bed, our bodies sated and tangled.
I can still remember the way the sunlight had streamed through the curtains, painting golden stripes across his face as he moved above me.
The way he’d laughed when I pulled him back down for one more kiss.
The way everything had felt possible, like the world was ours and nothing could ever touch us.
Then he’d led me outside, a blanket around my shoulders, and we’d sat on the dock watching the water.
“That’s what you are to me,” he’d said after a few moments. “Still on the surface. But underneath...” He’d pulled me closer, pressed his lips to my temple. “Underneath, you’re a whole world I want to explore.”
He’d started the painting that afternoon, then worked late into the night while I’d dozed on the couch. When the sun urged me awake the next morning, he was still at the easel, and the canvas was alive with motion and muted colors.
“Hey.”
He’d looked up, clearly startled. I grinned, certain I’d just pulled him from what I called his artistic trance. I nodded toward the canvas. “It’s beautiful.”
His eyes met mine. “It is,” he said. “It’s you.”
Now, I close my eyes as the memory washes over me, both sweet and painful.
I take a long swallow of whiskey, letting the burn chase away the softness. I can’t afford softness right now. Can’t afford to remember the man he used to be when the man he’s become is systematically trying to destroy me.
I take another sip of whiskey and let my eyes drift to another canvas.
This one is smaller, more intimate—a study of hands intertwined, painted in shades of gold and shadow.
My hands and his. I’d watched him paint it one lazy Sunday afternoon, sitting across from him in his studio while rain streaked the windows.
Memories. Each of these canvases comes complete with memories. And right now it feels like torture being here. Loss and longing and only the tiniest bit of hope because at least he’s alive.
But he’s no longer mine.
How do I live with that?
I’m about to stand and force myself back to my suite when I hear footsteps, and my heart picks up tempo.
Not Chris—he’d have called out when he realized the alarm’s disabled.
Not David—once he’s asleep, it takes a marching band to rouse him.
Not Harper, she’d have texted first. And definitely not my father. I’d have felt the air turning to ice.
Gabriel.
“The gallery’s closed,” I say flatly. “And I’m not in the mood.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t leave, either. I can feel him standing there, watching me the way he’s been watching me for days. Like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve. Like I’m prey he’s not sure he wants to devour.
“Are you here to torture me some more?” My voice is hard, and I still don’t turn around. “Because I’ve already had a lovely conversation with my father, so I’ve met today’s quota for emotional abuse.”
Silence.
Then, quietly, “Isabella.”
Something in his voice makes my heart skitter. Something broken. Something raw.
And, dammit, before I can order myself not to, I turn.
Gabriel stands in the doorway, looking completely destroyed.
There’s no other word for it. The cold mask he’s been wearing since he walked back into my life is gone, shattered into a thousand pieces, and underneath it is devastation.
His eyes are bloodshot. His posture tense, his arms stiff at his sides.
He looks like a man who’s just watched his entire world collapse around him and doesn’t know how to stand in the rubble.
Good.
But the thought rings hollow. Because even now—even after everything he’s done to me—seeing him in pain makes something hard twist in my chest. Some stupid, stubborn part of me still wants to go to him. Still wants to smooth the anguish and tell him everything will be okay.
I hate that. Hate that I still care. Hate that some treacherous corner of my heart still loves this man who’s made it his mission to ruin my life.
“Get the hell out of here.” I turn back to the painting, gripping my whiskey glass tighter.
“No.”
“Fine.” I stand up. “Then I’ll go.”
I take a step, and he moves to block my way.
“Dammit,” I snap. “What the hell do you want from me? I know you think I’m an evil bitch.
You’ve told everyone who matters that I tried to have you killed, and you’re doing your best to rip the world out from under me.
So what now? What new torture are you here to inflict? ”
Silence.
“Tell me. Tell me what else you could possibly want?”
His eyes meet mine, then dart away. “I was wrong.”
I take a step back, fear bubbling. This is a trap. Somehow, this is a trap.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his already wrecked expression shattering even more as the words hang between us, heavy as stones. “I’m so goddamn sorry.”
I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.
“David told me,” he continues, his voice rough as gravel. “More like read me the Riot Act. He and Harper both. The investigations. Aspen. Everything you did after...after I died.”
A bitter laugh escapes him. “Except I didn’t die. I let you believe I did, and you spent years trying to find out what really happened. Trying to find out who killed me. Trying to find justice for a dead man who was alive the whole time, hiding in the shadows, planning his revenge.”
I swallow, then open my mouth to speak, but I have no words.
“I should never have believed what I believed,” he says, the words barely a whisper.
He moves closer. Close enough that I can see the wreck of emotion playing across his face despite the armored shell he’s built.
“They said they’d been hired by your father, but that you wanted to come personally.” He shakes his head. “I still believe the part about your father.”
He swallows, his eyes dipping to the ground. “The woman who was with them—all I could see were her eyes. One blue. One green. And before she pulled the trigger,” I saw her ring.” He nods to my mother’s ring. The one I always wear.
I start to speak, but my throat’s too clogged with tears.
“She said surprise,” he adds. “And then she pulled the trigger.”
“Oh, god.” I realize with a start that I’m sitting on the couch again.
“I should have known.” His voice is low.
Wrecked. “I did know. I knew you would never do that. And yet you did. You were there. Your eyes. Your ring. The only one who knew about the cabin. Who knew we’d been talking about a surprise party.
It all made a horrible kind of sense.” He draws in a long breath, then meets my eyes. “It still does.”
I frown, then hug myself tighter as a shiver runs up my spine. “If it makes sense, why are you here?”
He turns to face Stillwater, but doesn’t say a thing.
I stand, then take a single step toward him. “No, really. Walk me through it.”
When he stays quiet, I fill the silence. “There you were, all psyched to kill me. But then I put on the show of the grieving girlfriend. I spent years trying to find answers.”
I hear the bitterness creep into my voice and don’t bother to hide it. “That’s where your mind should go, right? That’s what the SOB who doesn’t trust me would think. She’s just covering her tracks.”
“I guess it is,” he says.
“Then why are you here?” I have to hug myself to keep from shaking. Not with fear. Not with smug redemption. Not even with joy. Honestly, I don’t know why. Maybe because whatever happens next, this, at least, is an ending.
Trouble is, I can’t quite see the new beginning that comes next.
“Why am I here?” he repeats, turning to face me. “Because I was an idiot.”
The words are flat. Simple. And as they hang between us, I feel something break open inside me. Hope, tentative and terrified, but stirring back to life.
“I should never have believed what I knew in my heart was a lie.”
He breaks off, then presses the heel of his hand against his eyes like he can force the tears back through sheer will. “I’m sorry. I’m so goddammed sorry.”
I should feel vindicated. Should feel triumphant that he finally sees the truth. But all I feel is tired. So desperately, bone-deep tired.
He draws a breath, then meets my eyes. “I can’t prove it wasn’t you,” he says, his voice flat. “The woman with the dual-colored eyes. I have no proof. All I have is what I know in my heart—what I should have always known. But I do know it. And I’m so, so sorry.”
“Sorry,” I repeat, the word bitter on my tongue.
How many times have I prayed for this, dreamed of it—Gabriel finally seeing the truth, finally understanding that I never could have hurt him?
A thousand times? A million?
But never did I imagine it would feel like this. Like a wound being reopened just as it was starting to scar over.
I set my whiskey glass on the small table beside the couch, then make finger quotes. “You know it? After everything? After the accusations and the stalking and the public humiliation, poof, you just know it?”
His brow furrows, but he says nothing. Smart man.
I take a step toward him. “And I’m supposed to—what? Fall into your arms? Forgive you? Pretend you haven’t fucking tortured me ever since you slid into that damn Town Car beside me?”