Shadows in the Gallery

I should have refused, I told myself that a hundred times on the ride to the Hale Gallery the following afternoon. The black car Richard had sent was discreet, elegant, and completely unnecessary. I could have taken a taxi. I could have stayed home. Instead, I sat in the back seat wearing a pale cream dress with my hair tied in a neat bun. 

 I barely remembered buying in this life, watching the city slide past the tinted windows while my stomach twisted into knots.

The gallery was located in the most exclusive district of the city, a modern glass-and-stone building that looked more like a fortress than an art space. When the car stopped, a staff member opened the door and greeted me by name. Richard was already waiting at the entrance.

He wore a charcoal suit without a tie, the top button of his shirt undone. The late afternoon light caught the sharp lines of his face and made him look almost soft. Almost.

“You came,” he said, and there was genuine pleasure in his voice.

“I said I would think about it.”

“And yet you’re here.” His smile was slow. “I’m glad.”

He offered his arm. I hesitated, then took it. The contact sent a fresh wave of those traitorous butterflies through me. I crushed them under the weight of old memories and let him lead me inside.

The exhibition was private; only a handful of invited guests moved through the spacious rooms. Soft lighting illuminated paintings and sculptures that looked expensive enough to fund a big hospital. Richard guided me from piece to piece, speaking knowledgeably but never condescendingly. He asked for my opinions. He listened when I gave them, he watched my face more than the art, It was… disarming.

Halfway through the second room, Claire appeared…she seems to be everywhere around in , the brief thought ran across my mind.

She wore a deep green dress that hugged her figure and made her look older than her years. Her smile was bright, but her eyes were sharp.

“Lisa! What a surprise.” She kissed both my cheeks, then turned to Richard. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a guest.”

“It was a last-minute decision,” Richard replied evenly.

Claire’s gaze flicked between us. “How lovely. Mind if I join you?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. For the next twenty minutes she stayed close, inserting herself into every conversation, laughing a little too loudly, touching Richard’s arm a little too often. I watched her carefully. In this life she and Richard were not yet lovers…at least, not publicly. But the hunger in her eyes when she looked at him was already there.

We reached a quieter wing of the gallery. A large abstract painting in deep reds and blacks dominated the wall. Richard stopped in front of it.

“This one is new,” he said. “The artist calls it Betrayal.”

The title landed like a slap. I stared at the violent strokes of color and felt my throat tighten.

Claire laughed. “Dramatic. Artists always are.”

Richard’s eyes stayed on me. “What do you think, Lisa?”

I kept my voice steady. “I think the artist understood that some wounds never close.”

Something flickered across his face curiosity, or perhaps recognition. Before he could speak, a staff member approached and murmured something in his ear. Richard’s expression shifted.

“I need to handle a small matter,” he said. “Claire, keep Lisa company. I’ll be right back.”

The moment he disappeared, Claire’s smile vanished.

“You should be careful,” she said softly.

I turned to face her. “About what?”

“Richard. He’s not what he seems.” Her voice was low, almost urgent. “Men like him… they collect people. And when they’re done, they discard them.” I studied her, and that was the same thing Isabella had said. 

In my first life she had never warned me. She had only smiled and encouraged the relationship. This version of Claire was different or she was playing a deeper game.

“Why tell me this?” I asked.

Claire’s eyes darted toward the hallway Richard had taken. “because I don’t want to see you get hurt.” The lie was almost beautiful in its smoothness, I chuckled.

Before I could respond, a soft voice spoke behind us.

The young gallery staff member approached with careful steps, holding a slim black box tied with a dark red ribbon.

“Miss Loneria,” she said quietly. “This was delivered to the private entrance a few minutes ago. The courier insisted it be given only to you… and that Mr. Hale should not open it.”

Claire’s eyes sharpened instantly. “A private package? How mysterious.”

Her expression cooled. “Who sent it?”

The staff member shook her head. “No name. Only instructions.”

I took the box. The ribbon was silk, the kind used for expensive gifts. My fingers felt slightly unsteady as I untied it. Inside, resting on black velvet, was a single photograph and a folded note written on thick cream paper.

The photo made my breath stop.

It was me, from last night.

Not the polite, distant version the other guests had seen. This was a close, intimate shot taken from the shadows of the garden: Richard’s hand on the small of my back, my face tilted up toward him, lips slightly parted, eyes soft with the exact conflict I had been fighting. The lighting made it look almost like a lovers’ portrait. My expression was unguarded… vulnerable… and far too telling.

On the back of the photo, written in sharp, elegant handwriting:

You looked at him the same way you did the first time.

Some mistakes are delicious to repeat, aren’t they, Lisa?

My pulse slammed against my throat.

I unfolded the note.

He still wants to own you and She still wants to replace you.

And you… still want to be wanted by the man who once watched you die.

I know what they did.

I know what you remember.

If you want to stop history from repeating itself…

come alone tomorrow night. 11:00 p.m.

The old glasshouse behind Loneria Estate.

Wear something he’ll never forget.

—From a friend who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.

The last line was underlined twice, I closed the box slowly, heart hammering so hard I was certain both Richard and Claire could hear it. The air around me suddenly felt too thin, too charged. Someone had been close enough last night to capture the exact moment my resolve had cracked. And worse… they knew about the first life.

Claire leaned in, trying to peer at the contents. “What is it? A secret admirer already?”

I snapped the lid shut and met her eyes with a calm I did not feel. “Something personal.”

Richard’s gaze stayed locked on my face, sharp and searching. “Lisa. Who sent that?”

I forced a small, polite smile. “I don’t know yet.”

But the truth was far more dangerous, Someone out there knew my secret, Someone had been watching me long enough to catch the precise second my heart betrayed me.

And tomorrow night, in the abandoned glasshouse behind my family’s estate, I would find out whether they were an ally… or a new kind of predator.

As the car carried me home later, I kept the black box on my lap, the note’s final line burning behind my eyes:

Wear something he’ll never forget.

A slow, reckless heat curled low in my stomach equal parts fear, fury, and something darker I refused to name.

This second life had just become much more dangerous.

And far more interesting!