The gallery was almost silent now. The opening night had ended, and all that remained was the rawness in the air—and Isabelle.
She stood alone in front of her final piece. Untitled No. 9. The only one not sold. Not priced. Not even labeled.
Because it wasn't for anyone.
It was for him.
For Lucian.
For the one who tried to own her body, and silence her soul.
It was her full-length nude, but it wasn't sensual. It wasn't even beautiful in the traditional sense. She stood there in the painting—unmade, unsmiling, eyes blackened with oil like war paint. One breast bore a faint red handprint. Her thighs, painted uneven. Her lips sealed shut with a streak of crimson.
And yet, it radiated the most haunting power.
"You look like a goddess in grief," a voice said from behind her.
She turned. Elijah.
His shirt was open at the throat, the jacket long discarded. His eyes were soft, but exhausted—like he'd wrestled with every reason to leave and lost.
"You waited," she said.
"I did," he replied. "I watched them all. Watched them look at you like an idea. A fantasy. And I kept thinking—none of them know. None of them see."
Isabelle looked back at the canvas. "Do you see?"
"Yes," he said. "And I still want you."
Her breath caught.
"But not like that," he added. "Not on a pedestal. Not on a wall. Not as a wound I want to lick clean. I want the real you. The everyday you. Mornings with ugly coffee. Nights with books you never finish."
She turned toward him slowly. "You don't get to want me now that I've made myself whole."
"I wanted you before," he said, stepping closer. "Before you were finished. When you were still afraid. Still hiding. I loved you before the world did."
She looked down at her hands—stained with paint even now. "Do you know what it cost me, Elijah? To hang myself on these walls? To turn shame into brushstrokes?"
He nodded, but said nothing.
Her voice dropped. "Lucian was here."
That name turned the air to ice.
"I felt it," she said. "Even before he left the envelope."
Elijah's hands clenched. "Where is it?"
She walked over to her purse and handed him the black envelope. Inside was a photo. Her, younger. Half-dressed. Eyes wild with something between fear and ecstasy.
"He said if I didn't pull the paintings down, he'd release everything," she whispered. "The old tapes. The raw footage. Even the—"
She didn't finish. She didn't have to.
Elijah looked at the photo. Then ripped it in half.
Then into quarters.
Then into dust.
"That's all it is now," he said. "Ash."
She watched the pieces flutter to the ground. Something loosened in her chest.
He stepped closer again. "You're not what he did to you. You're what you made from it."
A silence passed between them. Electric. Sacred.
And then he leaned in, gently brushing a curl from her cheek.
"But if you don't want me," he whispered, "say it now. I'll walk out and never look back."
She didn't speak.
Instead, she kissed him.
Fierce. Full. Without apology.
His hands gripped her waist, then her back, then her hips—like he couldn't decide what part of her he missed more. Her lips moved with a hunger that had been starving for years—not for a man, but for herself.
When they broke apart, her lips were swollen, her eyes half-lidded.
"I'm not yours," she said. "Not anymore."
"I know," Elijah said.
"But I'm not his," she added.
Elijah smiled. "Then who are you, Isabelle?"
She turned her gaze to the painting again.
Then to the mirror at the far end of the gallery.
Then back to him.
"I'm mine," she whispered.