“And I wouldn’t want to put him out,” she said.
“You won’t.”
“Burke.”
“Iz.”
She huffed a quiet laugh. “Look, if I stay in town, I can keep my head down. Hotel, in and out. Easy.”
“Sylva’s not Denver,” he said. “You stay in town, people notice.”
“I don’t think I’m that interesting.”
“You stand out a little.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you won’t make it from your car to the front desk without somebody texting Caitlin that her glamorous Italian best friend checked into the inn.”
She narrowed her eyes even though he couldn’t see her. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”
“Definitely a compliment,” he said, dry as anything. “But it also means word gets around. Fast.”
She leaned her shoulder against the wall, thinking it through. Small town. No anonymity. Caitlin finding out before they were ready.
“So Grant’s my hiding place,” she said.
“Exactly.”
“He’s going to love that.”
“He’ll live,” Burke said. “I’ll talk to him.”
Through the open doorway, the edge of the gallery came into view. Marcus Halpern stood near one of her favorite sculptors, gesturing with his champagne flute, explaining profit margins as if he were talking about countertops and square footage.
Something in her finally, quietly, snapped.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Simply… done.
A few days in Sylva. Caitlin’s birthday. Burke’s calm, solid voice instead of Marcus’s buzzwords.
Not just for Caitlin. For her.
Not running away—only stepping out before what she loved here became unrecognizable.
“How soon?” she asked.
“As soon as you can manage,” he said. “Text me your flight. I’ll handle everything on this end. She won’t know a thing.”
Izzy didn’t need to think about it.
Her nerves were already gone. Her patience had been spent on people who talked about art as if it were inventory.
“I’ll pack tonight,” she said.
She ended the call, slipped her phone into her pocket, and stood in the narrow hallway between the life she’d built and the exit sign.
For the first time all evening, she could breathe.
