Arabelle's paint-streaked hands trembled slightly as she shuffled through the pile of unopened envelopes on her small kitchen table. Her cramped apartment smelled of turpentine and linseed oil, the familiar aroma of late nights spent battling her canvas. This morning, however, the battle was with numbers, red and bold, stamped on every bill she had stacked before her.

"Late fee added," one read.

"Final notice," warned another.

She sighed, rubbing her temples. The gallery she had poured her life into was barely staying afloat. Foot traffic had dwindled, and wealthy patrons seemed more interested in Instagrammable sculptures than the kind of art Arabelle believed in. Her fingers brushed over her sketchbook - a sanctuary from the chaos, filled with rough outlines and half-realized visions.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. Frowning, she stood and opened it to find Sophie, her gallery assistant, holding an envelope.

"This just came for you. Looks fancy," Sophie said, plopping onto the only other chair in the apartment.

The envelope was made of thick cream paper, embossed with gold lettering. Arabelle's name was written in an elegant hand that contrasted sharply with her cluttered kitchen table.

She opened it, her curiosity piqued.

"You are cordially invited?" she read aloud, her voice trailing off as her eyes skimmed the rest of the letter. The sender was one Lucian Devereaux, a name she recognized but couldn't place. He was offering her a commission - a hefty sum that would keep her gallery afloat for months - on the condition that she work on-site at his secluded estate.

"Who's Lucian Devereaux?" Sophie asked, peering over her shoulder.

Arabelle shook her head. "No idea. Some rich guy, apparently. But this? this could save the gallery."

Sophie leaned back, smirking. "So, what's the catch?"

"The catch," Arabelle muttered, staring at the letter, "is that I have to leave everything behind for weeks. Maybe months."

Later that day, Arabelle found herself back at the gallery, organizing the latest exhibit. The sound of the door chime pulled her from her thoughts, and she turned to see Gabriel entering, his swagger unmistakable.

Gabriel Hawthorne was the kind of man people noticed. Tall, rugged, and self-assured, he had once been her greatest muse and her deepest regret.

"Belle," he said, using the nickname only he dared. "You're a hard woman to track down."

She crossed her arms, unimpressed. "What do you want, Gabriel?"

He grinned, leaning casually against the counter. "Word is you're in trouble. The gallery's not doing so well, huh?"

Her jaw tightened. "That's none of your business."

"Well, it could be," he said smoothly. "I've been doing pretty well for myself these days. I could help you out. Financially."

"For a price," she said, her voice cold.

His grin widened. "Come on, Belle. Don't make it sound so transactional. We had something good once, didn't we? Why not give us another shot?"

The memory of their tumultuous relationship surged in her mind: his charm, his possessiveness, the way he always seemed to want more than she could give. She stepped back, shaking her head.

"No, Gabriel. Not this time."

His eyes darkened briefly before he laughed it off, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Suit yourself. But my offer stands. Think about it."

The train ride to Lucian's estate felt like a journey into another world. As the city skyline faded into rolling hills and dense forests, Arabelle clutched her sketchbook, filling the blank pages with quick, messy strokes to distract herself.

When the train stopped at a small, nearly abandoned station, she found a black car waiting for her. The driver, a stern-looking man who introduced himself as Mr. Cavanaugh, offered no small talk during the ride.

The estate loomed into view after a winding drive through the forest. It was massive, its stone walls covered in ivy, with turrets that gave it the appearance of a gothic castle.

Mrs. Hawthorne, the housekeeper, greeted her at the door. She was tall and imposing, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of Arabelle's appearance.

"This way, Miss Leclerc," Mrs. Hawthorne said, leading her through a grand foyer. The interior was as imposing as the exterior - dark wood paneling, high ceilings, and chandeliers that glimmered like frozen stars.