Izzy didn’t look up. She slid another portfolio into the box.
“The catalogs belong to the gallery,” she said evenly. “The research belongs to me.”
Marcus exhaled softly through his nose, amused in that careful, patronizing way she suddenly realized she’d always hated.
“Always a purist.”
Izzy reached for another strip of tape.
Marcus studied her a long moment. “You look different.”
That finally made her glance down at herself.
Black tailored trousers.
Cream silk blouse.
Hair pinned into the same sleek knot she’d worn to every opening and board meeting for years.
Only now it felt like a costume she’d forgotten she was wearing.
“I don’t leave my work for other people to clean up,” she said quietly.
“Clearly.” Marcus straightened from the desk. “Look, legal finalized the separation paperwork this morning. Once you hand over the digital access and client files, everything else should process automatically. There’s no need to make this more complicated than it already?—”
The front chime rang.
Marcus stopped speaking.
What followed felt strange enough for Izzy to slowly turn around.
A man stood in the open doorway of her office, broad shoulders filling the frame beneath the sleek gallery lighting.
He wore a fitted white henley with the sleeves pushed back against deeply tanned forearms, dark jeans stacked naturally over worn leather boots, and a silver—belly Stetson settled low across his brow.
Grant.
Izzy’s lungs locked so hard she forgot how to breathe.
For one impossible second, her mind rejected the image entirely. Nothing about him belonged inside this polished Denver gallery. He looked like he belonged beneath Carolina skies and mountain fog—not standing against white walls beside abstract sculptures worth six figures.
Then he lifted one hand slowly, fingers brushing the brim of the Stetson back enough for the overhead lights to catch the impossible blue of his Carolina eyes.
Reality slammed into her.
“Grant,” she whispered.
Marcus blinked, his expression shifting instantly into aristocratic irritation.
“Excuse me,” he said sharply, stepping forward. “This is a private administrative area. If you’re here for the exhibition viewing, public access doesn’t begin until?—”
Grant didn’t even look at him.
His eyes stayed fixed entirely on Izzy, taking in the boxes surrounding her, the silk blouse, the exhaustion she’d been trying to hide for three straight weeks.
“The truck’s idling at the curb,” Grant said.
His voice rolled through the room low and steady, carrying absolutely none of the uncertainty she’d spent the last three weeks drowning in.
