Chapter 7 The Gallery Confrontation
1096 Words
Gabrielle
He looked worse than before—hollow‑eyed, unshaven, his clothes rumpled as though he'd been sleeping in them. The expensive cologne he used to wear was gone, replaced by the sour smell of sweat and desperation. His hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets, and his posture was hunched, almost feral. This wasn't the polished, calculating man who had broken my heart in that rental apartment. This was something else—something cornered and dangerous.
"Gabrielle." His voice was hoarse, scraping against my ears like gravel.
"Vance, you can't be here." I stood up from the desk, my chair scraping harshly against the polished concrete floor. The sound echoed through the empty gallery, bouncing off the white walls and high ceilings. "I told you to leave me alone. I changed my number. How did you find this place?"
He took another step into the gallery, his eyes scanning the paintings on the walls as if they were evidence of some crime.
"Don't think you can brush me off. I got the plate number of the guy who drove you away that day. So you've landed yourself a rich man and a big house—must be living the dream, huh?"
He moved closer, and I instinctively backed up until my shoulders pressed against the cold plaster. "I've been waiting. Watching. You think you can just erase me? Five years, Gabrielle. Five years of my life—and you destroyed it."
"I didn't destroy anything." My voice was steadier than I felt, but my heart was hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. I could feel the edge of the reception desk against my hip, a flimsy barrier between us. "You made your choices. You chose Sienna, you chose her father's money, you chose to throw me away like I was nothing. I didn't do any of that to you."
"Liar!" The word exploded out of him, reverberating off the bare walls. His face twisted, ugly with rage, veins standing out on his forehead. "She dumped me. Her father pulled the investment. My company is bankrupt. I'm drowning in debt—and it's all because of you. What did you tell her? What did you send her?"
"Nothing. I didn't send her anything." I gripped the edge of the desk, trying to ground myself. My fingers were trembling.
"Don't lie to me!" He slammed his fist against the wall beside my head. I flinched, pressing myself harder against the plaster, my breath catching in my throat. The impact sent a framed print rattling on its hook. "You're the only one who knew all my secrets. You must have told her about the offshore accounts, the tax stuff—"
"I didn't. I don't even know about those things." My voice cracked, thin and reedy. "Vance, you need to leave. Now. I'll call security."
"Call whoever you want." He laughed, a hollow, broken sound. "You really think the rich guy you're sleeping with will come running to save you? Don't kid yourself. I know men like him—they use women like you for entertainment, nothing more."
He leaned in close, his breath hot and stale against my face. "You think waltzing into some fancy gallery job gets you out of this? You owe me. I need cash. Real cash. You owe me that. After everything I gave you—the career, the opportunities, the life—you owe me."
"I don't owe you anything." I forced myself to meet his eyes, even though every instinct was screaming at me to look away, to shrink, to disappear. "You used me for five years. You made me your free labour, your emotional crutch, your safety net. And the moment you thought you'd found something better, you dropped me without a second thought. I owe you nothing." My voice shook on the last words, but I held his gaze. "You threw me away for Sienna's money."
"Bitch." The word was a hiss, venomous. "And you're just as selfish as she is." His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, squeezing so hard I felt bones grind together. I gasped, trying to pull away, but his grip was iron. "You were supposed to be different. You were supposed to be loyal. But you stabbed me in the back like everyone else. First my investors, then Sienna, now you—everyone leaves me. Everyone betrays me."
"Let go of me—" I twisted my arm, but he only tightened his hold.
"Not until you agree to help." He yanked me closer, his face inches from mine. "You owe me compensation. I need cash—real money. You must have saved something from all those years working for me. That man's loaded. Just tell him you need money for the gallery, and he'll write a cheque."
"I saved nothing. I worked for free, remember? You made sure of that." My voice was barely a whisper now. The pain in my wrist was sharp, radiating up my arm. My vision swam with the effort of staying upright.
"Don't play the victim." His eyes were wild, manic, darting across my face like he was searching for a weakness. "You think you can just walk away and pretend I don't exist? I'll find you. I'll keep finding you, wherever you run. You can't hide from me forever. You owe me, Gabrielle. And I'll collect—one way or another."
I opened my mouth to scream, but before a sound could escape, a voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"Get your hands off her."
The voice came from behind him, low and cold as steel. It was unmistakably Nathaniel's—that flat, commanding tone I had heard only once before, when he told me to put down the sculpture. But this time, there was something darker beneath it, something that made the air in the room feel heavy.
Vance spun around, his grip on my wrist finally loosening. I stumbled back, cradling my arm against my chest.
Nathaniel stood in the gallery doorway, his broad frame silhouetted against the harsh afternoon sun. He wore a dark coat, his golden hair catching the light like a halo around a very, very angry angel. His hands hung loose at his sides, but there was a coiled tension in his shoulders, a stillness that reminded me of a predator before it struck.
His blue eyes, cold and unblinking, were fixed on Vance.
"I said," Nathaniel repeated, stepping into the gallery with slow, deliberate strides, "get your hands off her. Now."
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