When Isabella arrives, it’s almost quiet enough to hear the tap of her shoes. She looks different in daylight: hair twisted up off her neck, stray strands curling loose, a pale blue blouse buttoned at her throat. The effect is softer, but no less arresting. Her face is clean, fresh; the faintest smudge of tirednesslingers beneath her eyes, but the fire is there, hidden behind composure.
“Mr. Sharov,” she greets, a calmness to her voice that wasn’t there in the club. “What brings you back today?”
I find myself wanting to say something honest, to admit I came for her and not for the paintings. Instead, I slip easily into the game. “You made a convincing guide last time,” I say, “and I realized I didn’t actually see all of the art.” My smile is polite, measured.
She nods, gesturing toward a row of landscapes at the far wall. “Then let’s do it properly this time.”
We walk together, her tone practiced and professional, giving details about each artist: backgrounds, techniques, provenance. I nod in the right places, make a few comments about composition or color. The truth is, I hardly hear a word. What captures me is the way she moves: graceful, certain, the careful way she positions her hands, the subtle straightening of her spine when I draw a little too close.
I let the silence stretch, then, as we pause before a painting, ask, “Did you always want to work with art?”
A flicker of something passes over her features. I see surprise, maybe, or suspicion. “For as long as I can remember,” she says. “There’s always been something comforting about order and beauty. About making sense of chaos.”
I study her, filing the words away. “You don’t strike me as someone who grew up around chaos.”
She glances at me, smile small and cool. “We all have our own kinds of chaos, Mr. Sharov.”
I let that hang, enjoying the measured cadence of her voice. She’s careful, giving nothing away, but I catch the undertone—somewhere between defiance and wariness. I want to see her crack, just for a moment. “Where are you from, Isabella?” I ask, voice soft. “You have a city accent, but not quite Manhattan.”
There’s the slightest hesitation. “New Jersey. My mother was Italian, my father—well, he wasn’t around much.” The answer is smooth, but she doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
I tilt my head, pressing gently. “I imagine it must have been difficult. New York isn’t always kind to people without a family behind them.”
She shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter, but I see the flicker of tension in her jaw. “I managed.”
We stand in silence before a portrait—a woman, all angles and darkness, staring defiantly out of the frame. Isabella steps closer, tracing the air just above the brushstrokes as she explains the artist’s method, her tone drifting almost into reverence.
When she leans in, I catch the faint scent of her perfume. It’s something floral, understated, like a memory I can’t quite place. For a moment, the cold inside me softens, the tight coil in my chest unwinding just a little.
I want to reach out, to touch her shoulder or tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, but I don’t move.
Instead, I ask, “Why art restoration? You could be curating shows, managing collectors. Why stay in the background?”
She hesitates, lips pressing together. “I like bringing things back to life. I like knowing that something damaged can still be made whole again.” For the briefest second, somethingraw flashes in her eyes before she shutters it behind her usual calm.
I hold her gaze, letting the silence settle between us. There are a thousand things I want to ask about her family, her real past, what she’s hiding behind all that poise. Instead, I let the distance linger, savoring the uncertainty. Here, in the golden hush of the gallery, I feel closer to peace than I have in years.
When she finally steps back, the connection thins, replaced by that careful professionalism again. “Would you like to see the new exhibit?” she asks, voice clear.
I nod, and follow, thinking I could spend the whole day in this quiet sunlit place, chasing the warmth in her eyes. For now, I let her lead.
The late afternoon sunlight slants through the gallery windows, gilding Isabella’s profile in the hush that follows her last words about the painting. The quiet is full, suspended—a moment neither of us seems in any hurry to break.
I watch her, taking in the way the soft blue of her blouse brings warmth to her skin, the way her lashes cast shadows across her cheeks as she looks down, collecting her thoughts.
I’m not a patient man, but with her, the impulse to rush has faded. Instead, I want to see what happens when she’s given space to fill the silence. I find myself searching for something real, something that doesn’t belong to the world of bargains and threats.
I speak before I think to second-guess myself. “Have dinner with me, Bella.”
The nickname slips out, unplanned but right. The sound of it lingers, softer than my usual voice. My words are firm—habit, necessity—but not unkind.
Her reaction is immediate: a rush of surprise, color blooming high on her cheeks. Her lips part in a small, startled breath, eyes widening for the briefest second before she tucks her gaze away, suddenly shy or maybe just careful. She turns to fuss with a corner of her notebook, buying time, her fingers tracing absent patterns along the edge of the paper.
I wait, letting her gather herself. The gallery is empty except for the two of us, the silence almost intimate. I notice how she sways, just slightly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She looks up—meets my gaze for a heartbeat, then glances aside again.
“I have work tonight,” she says at last, voice softer than before. “The new exhibit needs a final pass before opening.”
Her answer isn’t a no, and that fact alone sparks something bright inside me. She could have lied, could have given a sharper refusal. Instead, she leaves the possibility suspended in the air, and I know she feels it too.
