"You look stunning," I murmur, offering my arm.
The car takes us across the city to a neighborhood she recognizes. Her brow furrows as we pull up in front of the Castellane Gallery, one of the most exclusive art venues in the city.
"Nathan, this gallery requires appointments months in advance—"
"Not for me," I say simply, helping her from the car.
The curator greets us at the door, professional and warm. "Mr. Hale, Miss Sinclair. Everything is prepared as you requested."
Eve's hand tightens on my arm as we step inside, and I watch her face as she realizes what I've done.
The gallery is empty. Completely empty except for us. And on the walls are paintings by Celeste Morrison, the abstract artist Eve has admired for years. Pieces that aren't even supposed to be on display yet—I had them brought in specially.
"Nathan," she breathes, her voice catching. "How did you—"
"I pay attention," I say quietly, guiding her toward the first painting. "You mentioned her name once, months ago. Said her use of color reminded you of grief transformed into beauty."
She stares at me, green eyes wide and shining. "You remembered that?"
"I remember everything you say."
The curator begins the tour, discussing technique and inspiration, but I barely listen. I'm too focused on watching Eve's face as she moves from piece to piece. The way her eyes light up. The way she gestures animatedly when discussing the interplay of shadow and light. The way she bites her lip when she's deeply moved.
This is the woman I fell in love with. Not the broken creature I created in my obsession, but the brilliant, passionate artist I first saw at Alex's house. The girl who turned grief into beauty.
"This one," she says softly, stopping in front of a canvas dominated by deep reds and golds. "It's called 'Phoenix.' I saw a photograph of it once, but seeing it in person..."
She trails off, and I see tears on her cheeks.
"Do you like it?" I ask.
"It's perfect," she whispers. "This whole night is perfect. I don't... I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything." I wipe the tears from her cheeks with my thumb. "Just enjoy it. This is for you, Eve. Just you."
We spend an hour in the gallery, and she talks more than I've heard her talk in weeks. About color theory and emotional resonance. About how art can capture what words can't. Aboutthe courage it takes to create something vulnerable and put it into the world.
I listen to every word, storing them away like precious things.
Because this—her joy, her passion, her unguarded enthusiasm—this is what I wanted to protect. What I wanted to preserve when I destroyed everything else.
***
Dinner is at Maison Bleu, where the chef has prepared a private tasting menu just for us. The dining room overlooks the city, all glittering lights and possibility, and Eve is radiant in the candlelight.
"Thank you," she says as we're served the first course. "For tonight. For understanding what I needed."
"You needed to remember who you are," I say. "Not the CEO. Not the woman fighting to survive. Just Eve. The artist. The creator."
She smiles, and it reaches her eyes. "You see me more clearly than anyone ever has."
If only that were true.
If only she knew the depth of what I've done. Not just the stalking, the manipulation, the calculated destruction of her independence. But the original sin. The accident that took Alex from her.
The guilt rises like bile in my throat, but I push it down. Tonight isn't about my demons. It's about her.
We talk through seven courses, and I draw her out, asking questions about her creative process, her inspirations,her dreams. She tells me about wanting to design a collection inspired by Morrison's work. About how fashion and art can intersect.
