Daniel sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his gaze locked on the floor like it might offer answers. Amelia hadn't said anything in the ten minutes since Isla's voice vanished from her phone.
Julian, ever observant, leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed, watching them like a scene unfolding in a private theatre.
"She sounded… composed," Amelia said finally. "Too composed."
Daniel's jaw twitched. "That's Isla."
Amelia folded her arms. "Who is she?"
He looked up, and she saw something in his eyes—shame, maybe. Regret dressed as memory.
"Isla was someone I thought I could love. Before I knew what love really meant."
Julian scoffed softly. "Charming."
Daniel ignored him. "She was a collector. Of art. Of people. Of control."
"An ex?" Amelia pressed.
"She was more than that," he said, voice quieter now. "And less. We were together for about a year. She found me when I was still building myself—before modeling ever paid, before I had anything of my own. She liked me best when I was malleable. Hungry."
Amelia's stomach turned.
"Why is she here?" she asked.
"I don't know. But she doesn't show up without a reason."
Julian stepped forward. "And you think this woman—who apparently collects broken artists like pressed flowers—is a threat?"
Daniel stood. "You don't know her."
"I don't need to. I've met her kind. They curate people like paintings. Hang them up. Then sell them when the fashion changes."
Amelia looked between them, her voice firm. "Enough."
Daniel softened. "I didn't expect her. And I didn't want her near this—near you."
She wanted to believe him. She did. But the sharp edge of doubt scraped against her ribs.
Julian saw it. "He's not the only one with shadows, Amelia."
She turned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You really think I came here for polite conversation?" he said, voice silk-wrapped steel. "I came because you're about to exhibit a painting that's already causing whispers. I came because I still believe in your brilliance—even if you've buried it under the weight of him."
Daniel stepped between them, his voice cold. "You should go."
Julian smirked. "I'm not your problem, Wolfe. But she might be mine again."
Amelia's breath caught.
Julian turned to her. "You still have a choice. Remember that."
Then he left—his cologne lingering behind like the echo of bad decisions.
The door clicked.
Silence again.
But not the comfortable kind.
Daniel touched her shoulder. She flinched—just enough for him to notice.
"You don't trust me," he said quietly.
"I want to," she whispered. "But trust isn't built in bedsheets. It's built in the days after."
Daniel nodded. "Then let's survive those days."
She looked up at him. "And if Isla doesn't let us?"
His eyes darkened. "Then I'll remind her—this time, she doesn't get to decide how the story ends."