Chapter 8 A Private Matter
1260 Words
Gabrielle
The voice came from behind him, low and cold as steel. Vance spun around, and I saw Nathaniel standing in the gallery doorway, his broad frame silhouetted against the harsh afternoon sun. The light blazed around him like a warning, casting his features in shadow, but there was no mistaking the coiled tension in his shoulders or the way his hands hung loose at his sides—ready, I realized, for something far more physical than words.
Vance's face contorted with rage, his lips pulling back in a snarl. But the moment he took in Nathaniel—broad-shouldered, expressionless, radiating a quiet authority that filled the entire gallery—something in him faltered. His grip on my wrist loosened by a fraction, and I seized the chance to yank my arm free, stumbling backward until the edge of the desk pressed against my hip.
"Who the hell are you?" Vance spat, his voice cracking with a mixture of fury and unease. His eyes darted between Nathaniel and me, trying to piece together a connection he clearly hadn't anticipated.
Nathaniel didn't answer. He walked inside, unhurried, his footsteps echoing with deliberate slowness against the polished concrete floor. His phone was already in his hand, screen lit, thumb hovering over the keypad. His eyes flicked from Vance to my reddened wrist—I saw him register the angry marks already blooming against my pale skin—and his gaze darkened, the blue turning cold as winter frost.
"I said, let her go. Then leave." His voice was level, but there was an edge beneath it, sharp as a blade. "Or I call the police and file a restraining order. The security footage here will back it up. And I promise you, Vance, I have the resources to make sure that order sticks."
Vance's jaw worked, muscles twitching beneath his unshaven skin. He looked between Nathaniel and me, his eyes wild with desperation and humiliation. I could almost see the calculations running through his mind—how much he could push, how far he could go before the consequences became irreversible. Then recognition flickered across his face. He'd seen Nathaniel before, I realized. In business publications, in the news, at the kind of events where the Sterling name carried weight and doors opened without a knock.
"One of those rich bastards," Vance muttered, stepping back with a sneer that didn't quite hide his fear. "Always getting everything handed to you on a silver platter. Must be nice, having the world served up like that."
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, utterly unmoved. "Three seconds."
Vance's face went through a dozen emotions in the span of a heartbeat—rage, shame, and finally, a cold, simmering defeat. He turned and shoved past Nathaniel, shoulder-checking him as he stormed out of the gallery. The door slammed behind him, the glass rattling in its frame. A moment later, his car engine roared to life, tires screeching against the asphalt as he sped away into the afternoon haze.
I sank into the nearest chair, my legs finally giving out beneath me. My wrist throbbed, a dull, angry pulse that radiated up my forearm. My hands wouldn't stop shaking, and I pressed them flat against my thighs, trying to still the tremors.
Nathaniel didn't approach at once. He walked to the door first, checking through the glass that Vance's car was truly gone. Only then did he turn and come back, stopping by the desk but keeping a respectful distance, as if he understood that I needed space to breathe.
"Are you alright?" His voice was softer now, the steel replaced by something almost careful.
"I'm fine." I pressed my other hand over the bruises, wincing at the contact. "Thank you. You didn't have to come—"
"I know." He paused, and for a moment, his mask slipped, revealing a flicker of something raw beneath. "But I wanted to."
He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down, his eyes scanning the gallery walls and ceiling with a professional assessment that seemed oddly out of place. "Speaking of which, the security system here really needs an upgrade. Anyone can just push the front door open. I thought we installed a new electronic lock last month."
I blinked, confusion cutting through the haze of adrenaline. "How do you know that so well?"
Nathaniel tilted his head, a faint, wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips—the closest thing to warmth I'd seen from him since our reunion. "Because I'm the actual owner of this gallery. I bought it three months ago. The previous owner had health issues, and I wanted to expand into art investment, so I took it over. Later, when I heard you needed a job, I asked Caleb to pass it on as if he were the investor—but the money came from me."
I stared at him, my mind going completely blank. The words hung in the air between us, refusing to coalesce into meaning. "Wait… this gallery is yours?"
"Technically, it's owned by a holding company under my name," he said calmly, as if he were discussing the weather. "But yes, I have the final say. So, in a strict sense, Gabrielle, you've been working for me this entire time."
My mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out for a long moment. "Does Caleb know?"
"He knows. We agreed on it. He was afraid you'd refuse if you knew it was my offer, so he only said he was the investor." Nathaniel's gaze held mine—assessing, yet not unkind. "But judging by your face, you don't seem too horrified?"
I took a deep breath, my thoughts spinning in chaotic circles. He had bought the gallery. He had arranged my job. And I had been working here for three weeks without the slightest clue—sitting in his property, handling his business, Even when I complained to Caleb about some minor work hassles during dinner, Nathaniel would listen in silence.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Because I wanted to wait until you were properly settled in," he shrugged, a hint of dry amusement flickering in his eyes. "And, to be honest, watching you work hard and occasionally frown at things turned out to be more entertaining than I expected."
I glared at him, but somehow I couldn't muster real anger. A sense of absurdity washed over me, and a bitter-sweet laugh escaped before I could stop it. "You two—one keeping me in the dark, the other playing along. Should I thank you for your 'good intentions'?"
"You're welcome." He stood up, smoothing his collar with practiced ease. "But now that we're on the subject, I should warn you—men like Vance don't give up on their own. You'll need a proper restraining order, and better security. I'll have the locks upgraded by tomorrow."
He paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder. "And Gabrielle? For what it's worth, I'd rather have you manage this place than anyone else. That part wasn't a favour—it was a choice."
Then, as he made to turn away, he suddenly spun back and stood before me, looking down. We were so close that I could make out every one of his long eyelashes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Heat crept up my cheeks, and I felt suddenly, acutely aware of my own heartbeat. And then Nathaniel spoke.
"Gabrielle. There's something I'd like to discuss with you. Privately. When you have a moment."
- Writer
