I let a small, genuine smile touch my lips—a rare thing, a private thing.
“Another time, then.” My tone is light but carries more weight than I intend. The way her name sounds, shortened, on my tongue, is a revelation. I want to say it again.
She nods, a nervous little dip of her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks still hold that faint blush. “Maybe,” she manages, a ghost of amusement flickering through her composure. “When things are less hectic.”
“How about next Sunday, then?”
I can’t help the way my lips twitch in amusement. She’s either shy, which doesn’t quite fit, or she’s cautious, which would be much more interesting. There’s strategy in her restraint, Isense it. She’s not a woman accustomed to being cornered or swept away. She’s playing a part as much as I am, and the thought only intrigues me more.
It seems Isabella can’t think of a second excuse, so she nods. “Sunday, then. Sure.”
We finish the tour with a quiet politeness, our conversation returning to art, technique, the details of the upcoming show. Something in the air has shifted. Each brush of her sleeve against mine, each sideways glance, feels loaded with meaning now. When we reach the lobby again, Grayson is nowhere to be seen, leaving us alone in the warm hush.
Isabella stops by the front desk, her hand resting lightly atop the wood. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Sharov,” she says, her tone practiced and neutral, though her eyes flicker with something more.
I match her formality, inclining my head. “Thank you for your time, Miss Rossi.” The names taste false in my mouth; I want to call her Bella again, to keep her close for another moment.
A beat passes, too long for two people who are supposed to be strangers. She breaks it, flashing a polite smile and slipping through the office door, vanishing like a shadow against the polished glass.
I linger at the desk, fingers drumming a silent rhythm, before finally turning for the exit. My reflection stares back at me from the glass doors. Tall, dark, and unexpectedly off-balance. It’s been a long time since anyone left me standing, wanting.
The gallery door clicks shut behind me, and the city rushes in: traffic, horns, a hundred voices tangled in the spring air. I start down the steps, but her name echoes in my mind:Bella.The nickname fits her better than any title, the syllable soft and almost secret.
I walk slowly to my car, replaying every detail. The way she hesitated at my invitation, the guarded warmth behind her eyes, the way her poise slipped just enough to let something real show through.
She’s not like the women who orbit my world, drawn by money or fear or a hunger for power. She doesn’t want to impress, doesn’t want to be impressed. There’s something else in her… mystery, certainly, but also restraint, and under that, maybe even danger.
I realize, with a kind of surprise, that it’s the unpredictability that draws me. The possibility that she isn’t playing by anyone’s rules but her own. Not mine, not the city’s, not even her family’s.
For a man who’s made a life out of control, it’s that sliver of uncertainty that pulls me in, that keeps me off-balance in the most addictive way.
As I pull away from the curb, I see her silhouette through the window, lit by the last streak of daylight. She doesn’t watch me go, but I wonder if she’s thinking about me, about the invitation, about the way her name sounded in my mouth.
I drive, but the city blurs around me. My mind is crowded with her: her voice, her scent, the brush of her sleeve against mine. The women I’ve known before have always been easy to read: ambition, envy, greed, or the empty hunger for danger itself.
With Bella, I see none of those things and all of them at once. She’s careful, but I sense steel under her skin. If she’s hiding something, it’s not out of weakness. It’s out of strategy.
I know the signs. I’ve lived my life among people who conceal, who mislead, who know how to draw blood with a smile. I should be wary.
Instead, all I feel is curiosity and the stirrings of something darker, older—a hunger I’d thought I’d left behind.
Back in my office, Dimitri finds me at the window, drink untouched, staring out into the dusk. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Instead, he flips through a folder on my desk, rattling off details about the next shipment. I answer with half my attention, my mind drifting back to the quiet gallery, to Bella’s blush.
When he finally leaves, the silence is a comfort. I pull out my phone, scrolling aimlessly, half expecting her to appear in a message, to break the spell. She doesn’t, of course. She’s careful. She knows how to play this game.
Now, so do I.
I pour myself a fresh drink, letting the ice clink, savoring the sharp chill. The world outside the window grows darker. I think of her hands, the scent of her hair, the measured way she answered every question without giving herself away.
For a long time, I just sit, letting her name echo in the room.Bella.
Chapter Nine - Isabella
The morning light is soft, almost forgiving, as it slips between the curtains and drapes itself across my vanity.
I stare into the mirror, searching for something—fear, doubt, guilt—but all I find is a face I’ve spent years perfecting. The surface is calm: foundation flawless, lashes curled, mouth pressed into a line of careful composure.
Beneath the surface, my heart beats in a jittery staccato. My hands tremble as I uncap my lipstick. Cherry red. I glide it over my mouth, painting danger where a smile should be.
