"I'll take you to Mr. Devereaux after you've settled in," Mrs. Hawthorne said, stopping at a guest room that was both luxurious and cold, lacking any personal touch. "Dinner will be served at eight."
When the door closed behind her, Arabelle exhaled, sitting on the edge of the plush bed. She felt both overwhelmed and defiant. If Lucian Devereaux thought he could intimidate her, he was in for a surprise.
At exactly eight, she was escorted to the dining room. The table was long enough to seat twenty, but only one chair was occupied.
Lucian.
He sat at the far end, shrouded in shadows. His presence was commanding, his figure broad and upright. The flickering candlelight hinted at the scars on his face, but his expression betrayed nothing.
"Miss Leclerc," he said, his voice low and measured. "Thank you for accepting my invitation."
Arabelle met his gaze without flinching. "I'm here for the commission, not the company."
His lips twitched, almost forming a smile. "Good. I prefer honesty."
They ate in near silence, the only sounds the clinking of silverware and the crackling of the fire.
"I've seen your work," Lucian said suddenly, breaking the quiet. "It's raw. Unrefined. But it has… potential."
Arabelle bristled. "I wasn't aware I was here to be critiqued."
"You're here because I believe in potential," he replied, his tone sharp. "But whether you can meet the standards I expect remains to be seen."
Her temper flared, but she held it in check, her voice even. "Then I suppose I'd better get started."
For the first time, his expression softened, though his eyes remained guarded. "Indeed."
The air in the gallery felt heavy, weighed down by more than just the layers of varnish and oil paint that hung faintly in the air. Arabelle moved quickly from one display to another, fussing with placements, adjusting lighting, anything to keep her mind occupied. The letter from Lucian Devereaux sat in her bag like a stone, its promise of salvation tangled with the strings of mystery.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp chime of the gallery door. She glanced up and froze. Gabriel Hawthorne.
He stepped inside with the same confident stride she remembered, his broad shoulders filling the small entryway. Dressed in a tailored leather jacket and dark jeans, he looked effortlessly put-together, a stark contrast to the chaos that always seemed to follow him.
"Belle," he said, his deep voice curling around the nickname like a caress. "It's been a while."
She forced herself to relax her posture. "Gabriel."
His eyes swept over the gallery, taking in the muted lighting and scattered clusters of people inspecting the art on display. "Still fighting the good fight, I see."
"I don't have time for games," she said, crossing her arms. "What do you want?"
Gabriel's smirk deepened as he sauntered closer. "Straight to the point. I like that about you." He paused, letting the silence hang between them. "Word is you're in trouble."
Arabelle felt a sharp pang of irritation. "Word is wrong."
"Is it?" he said, arching an eyebrow. "Come on, Belle. I know you. You wouldn't be working yourself to the bone here unless things were tight. You always cared too much."
She bristled at the implication but didn't respond. It was true, after all, that the gallery was on the brink of collapse. The mounting bills and dwindling foot traffic spoke for themselves.
"Look," he continued, his tone softening, "I came to offer you a solution. You don't have to struggle anymore."
"And what exactly is this 'solution'?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
He leaned against the counter, his smile both charming and infuriating. "I've been doing well for myself, as you might've heard. My company's expanding, and I've got more money than I know what to do with. I could help you out - invest in the gallery, make sure you're back on solid ground."
Her stomach turned. "And what would you want in return?"
Gabriel tilted his head, pretending to consider her question. "Nothing too complicated. I'd call it… a partnership. You and me, like old times."
Arabelle's heart sank. She had seen this coming the moment he walked through the door, yet hearing it still hit her like a blow. "So this is about us. Not the gallery."
"Why can't it be both?" he countered, spreading his hands in mock innocence. "You're talented, Belle. I always believed in you, even when no one else did. You just need the right backing."
The weight of his words settled over her like a lead blanket. Once, she might have been tempted. Gabriel had a way of making her feel seen, of convincing her that she could conquer the world with him at her side. But she also remembered the price.
"I'm not interested," she said firmly.
His expression darkened, though the smile never fully left his face. "Don't be so quick to dismiss me. You've got to admit, it's a pretty sweet deal. You get the funding you need, and we get another chance to - "
"No, Gabriel." Her voice was sharp now, cutting through his sentence like a blade. "I've worked too hard to build something for myself. I'm not going to trade that for… whatever this is."
Gabriel straightened, his jaw tightening. For a moment, he looked almost wounded, but the flicker of vulnerability disappeared as quickly as it came.
"Fine," he said, his tone colder now. "Have it your way. But don't come crying to me when this place goes under."
Arabelle felt her cheeks flush with anger. "I won't. And for the record, I don't need your money, or your pity."
He lingered for a moment, his eyes searching hers as if waiting for her to change her mind. When she didn't, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
"Good luck, Belle," he said over his shoulder. "You'll need it."
The door slammed shut behind him, and Arabelle let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Later that evening, after the gallery had emptied and the lights were dimmed, Arabelle sat alone in her office. The encounter with Gabriel replayed in her mind, each word cutting deeper than she cared to admit.
She pulled the letter from her bag and unfolded it, tracing the embossed name with her finger. Lucian Devereaux. The promise of financial stability was right there, within her grasp. All she had to do was step into the unknown.
Her phone buzzed, breaking the silence. She glanced at the screen. A text from Sophie: Hey, how'd things go with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Trouble?
Arabelle smirked despite herself and typed back: About as well as you'd expect. He wants to "invest" in the gallery - at a cost.
Let me guess, Sophie replied. His definition of "cost" involves wine, dinner, and a lot of regret in the morning?
You're not far off.
Ugh. What a jerk. You're better off without him.
Arabelle stared at the screen, her smirk fading. Was she better off? Gabriel's offer, manipulative as it was, had been a lifeline. Refusing it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down at the jagged rocks below.
Her eyes drifted back to the letter. Lucian's estate loomed in her mind, a place as enigmatic as the man himself. She thought of the staggering amount he had offered for the commission. Enough to pay off her debts, save the gallery, and give her the breathing room to create again.
But the question lingered: at what cost?