The gallery hummed with quiet reverence, even in the late afternoon hush. Sunlight filtered through the tall glass walls, dust motes dancing like lazy ghosts in the beams. Amelia stood before the portrait—Daniel's portrait—her brush still wet, her breath shallow.
It was nearly done.
But something in her hesitated.
She heard the soft chime of the studio door before she saw her.
Isla Maren didn't walk in—she arrived.
Dressed in black tailored silk, sunglasses pushed up into her dark auburn hair, she was the kind of beautiful that made people forget to blink. And she moved like she owned the ground beneath her.
"Amelia Hart," she said, her voice the slow pour of fine wine. "Even more radiant in person."
Amelia straightened. "Isla, I presume."
Isla smiled. "So he told you about me."
"Not enough. But enough."
Isla walked slowly around the studio, her eyes trailing over canvases and sketches with the clinical appreciation of a buyer at auction.
"It's strange," she said, pausing at the edge of the portrait. "Seeing him like this. Exposed. Yours."
Amelia's fingers curled around the paintbrush. "He's not property."
"No," Isla mused. "He's habit. Dangerous, delicious habit. You think you can break it. You can't."
Amelia stepped closer. "What do you want?"
Isla finally turned, their eyes locking. "Closure. Maybe. Or maybe to see if what you two have is real—or just another unfinished sketch in his long collection of distractions."
"You speak like he's a thing to be controlled."
"He was. Once."
Amelia's voice lowered. "Not anymore."
Isla studied her for a beat longer, then smiled—not cruel, but knowing. "You're lovely. And brave. But hearts like his… they don't belong on pedestals. They break."
Amelia didn't flinch. "Then let him break. But not under your hands again."
A long silence stretched. Then Isla walked toward the door.
"Have your show, Amelia. Hang his face on the wall for the world. But remember—some paintings aren't meant to be preserved. They burn."
She was gone before Amelia could reply.
Alone again, Amelia turned to the canvas.
Daniel's eyes stared back at her—open, vulnerable, painted in strokes that only she understood.
She picked up her brush again.
And made a single, deliberate change: she added a reflection in his eye. Not of light.
Of her.
Because this time, she was part of the story.
And no one—not Julian, not Isla—could paint her out.