Chapter 6: The Ghost in the Gallery

The air in the "Luna Gallery" was thick with the scent of expensive champagne and desperation. It was one of the few social events I couldn't avoid. As "E.V. Designs," I had landed the contract to design the visual identity for the city’s most prestigious art gala. My work was plastered on every wall—sleek, minimalist, and haunting.

I stood in the corner, wearing a high-necked black dress that hid my growing bump and the jagged bob that had become my armor. The thick-rimmed glasses stayed on. I was a shadow in a room full of neon lights.

"The artist is a genius," a woman whispered nearby, gesturing to my main installation. "It feels like... mourning. Like someone who lost a war but refused to surrender."

I gripped my water glass. They were talking about me, yet they had no idea I was standing right there. For three years, I had been the "Blackwood Doll," a woman whose only job was to look beautiful and remain silent. Now, I was a voice without a face. It was safer this way.

Suddenly, the air in the room seemed to vanish.

The heavy oak doors swung open, and the chatter died down to a dull hum of whispers. I didn't need to look up to know who it was. My skin prickled, a primal instinct I had honed over a thousand nights.

Lucian Blackwood had arrived.

He didn't look like a bankrupt man tonight. He wore a tuxedo that probably cost more than my apartment, but there was a calculated sloppiness to him—the top button undone, his hair slightly disheveled. He looked like a fallen king who had stopped caring about the rules.

And on his arm, draped like a trophy, was Sarah.

She was wearing red. Of course, she was. She wanted to bleed into the consciousness of everyone in the room. She was laughing, her hand resting possessively on Lucian’s forearm.

"Oh, look at this dreary art," Sarah’s voice carried across the room. "It’s so... depressing. Who is this E.V. person? They clearly need a vacation."

Lucian didn't answer. He was staring at the centerpiece—a digital projection of a heart turning into a clock, then into ash. It was a piece I had created on a night when the morning sickness was bad and the silence was worse.

I felt his gaze shift. He began to scan the room.

Panicked, I turned toward the exit, but the crowd was too thick. I ducked behind a marble pillar, my heart hammering against my ribs so loudly I feared he would hear it.

Don't look this way. Don't look this way.

"Lucian, darling, come look at this sculpture," Sarah pulled at him.

"In a moment," he said. His voice was deeper than I remembered, or perhaps it was just the vibration of it in the small space. "I want to see who designed this."

He started walking toward the corner where I was hiding. Each footstep felt like a hammer blow. I pressed my back against the cold marble, my hand instinctively covering my stomach. My baby kicked—a small, sharp movement—as if it, too, recognized the presence of the man who had discarded us.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Blackwood?"

It was the gallery owner, thank God. She intercepted him just a few feet from my pillar.

"I'd like to meet the designer," Lucian said. His eyes were narrowed, scanning the shadows. "The work... it’s familiar."

"E.V. is very private," the owner replied. "She doesn't do introductions."

"Everything has a price," Lucian snapped, his tone turning predatory. "Tell her I want to buy the entire collection. Cash. Tonight."

"I'm afraid it's already sold, sir. To an anonymous buyer."

I bit my lip. The anonymous buyer was a shell company Marcus had helped me set up—I was buying my own art to keep my trail clean, using the very money I earned from the tech rebrand.

I saw Lucian’s jaw tighten. He looked frustrated, almost frantic. He took a step closer to the pillar, and for a split second, our eyes almost met through the gap in the marble.

I saw the exhaustion in him. I saw the dark circles. And for a heartbeat, I saw a flash of the man who used to hold me when I had nightmares.

"Lucian! We're leaving!" Sarah called out, her voice sharp with jealousy.

He hesitated, his gaze lingering on the spot where I stood. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

I slumped against the pillar, gasping for air. He was so close. So dangerously close. I realized then that no matter how much hair dye I used or how many names I changed, I was still tethered to him by a thread I couldn't cut.