THE GRAVITY OF US

THE RETURN

The Gravity of Us -

Chapter One -

The gallery was like a shot of adrenaline, full of bright energy and excitement, each part immersing the entire room in the colors of laughter, the sound of soft violin music, and the sounds of luxurious dresses brushing against the polished marble floor while the models walked them. It was the peak of the summer in Barcelona- the art collectors, critics, socialites, and everyone else in view, enlightened under the golden light of the Museu dal Mar, the gallery where Elowen Hart had recently shown her art. Tonight was her night. Elowen had planted herself on the fringes of the great hall, her eyes thoroughly absorbed with the sight of the sparkling guests who were looking over the canvases that she had been working on for months. The sculptures were sparkling beneath the halos of spotlights, modern pieces intertwined with ancient relics, and for the first time ever, her name was not mentioned as Marcus Hart's sister but as Elowen Hart, curator. She took a deep breath. Finally. In relation to her family, she was a step ahead. "I know you're about to drop into the floor, but you need to stop looking that way," Clara Amarez whispered beside her, giving her a glass of champagne. Clara was her best friend and co-curator, and her look was a routine smirk, black eyeliner sharp as a blade. "You've made it, El. The critics are circling like sharks...and they are impressed. Drink before one of them bites." Elowen laughed almost inaudibly as she sipped the cold refreshing drink which, in turn, caused the tightness in her body to ease. She had worked like a dog for this- torn between sleepless nights, begging for money, and smashing her inner peace into pieces with the doubts that her last name was a real blot on her career. It was her time to demonstrate that she was indeed more than a Hart scandal. It was then that the atmosphere changed. Not the music, not the whispers. It was...him. Her fingers felt frozen around the glass while her eyes were glued to the tall figure that cut the crowd like a slice of cake. The man wearing a midnight black suit and broad shoulders, his hair swept back like an unkempt crown, and those storm grey eyes that seemed to strip a soul naked. Rhys Moretti. The mere mention of the name was enough to leave her breathless. Five years had passed, yet her body was more eloquent than her mind; the memory of his fingers on her skin, his kiss, and his last word were as vivid as a bright day. He was not supposed to be here. He couldn't possibly be here. "El?" Clara followed her gaze, her smirk vanishing. "Oh. Oh, hell. That's-" "Yes," Elowen whispered hitching her eyes again. Rhys was like a conqueror surveying his new territory, his presence a gravitational pull that distorted the room around him. Guests stood, murmuring, attracted like moths to his flame. Of course, it happened- he wasn't a man anymore just a man. He was the billionaire. The ex-Moretti who took failure and turned it into an empire, his tech company was a titan now, straddling Europe and beyond. And now, he was coming up directly to her. She felt the air stuck in her throat, her heels were too high, and her gown too tight. A flood of memories hoped into her head where they were mixed with nights when they had silk sheets, promises of always, and only then could she have all of them drowning in the sea of betrayal. "Elowen." His voice was like velvet over steel, it was colder and deeper than she remembered. She lifted her head. "Rhys." In the short silence that followed, her heart skipped a beat. His eyes darted around her face, stopping at her mouth, before settling into something sharp and unreadable. He looked just like the ruthless mogul he was, but underneath that, was it a flicker of anger, or something more dangerous? "You've done well for yourself," he said, his tone especially cold. "Curator of Barcelona's crown jewel. Fitting, isn't it?" She could feel the weight of her insult as it hit her. "And you? Founder of half the world&tech; empires. Congratulations. I suppose we both learned how to build from the ruins." His mouth contorted, it was not a smile but a blade. "Some ruins are harder to forget." Before she could say anything in return, one of the gallery directors, who was ecstatic, nearly flew to her. "Ah, Ms. Hart, perfect timing. I'd like to formally introduce you to tonight's patron." Elowen was stopped. No. The director's cheerful face was the epitome of happiness as he pointed northwest. "Mr. Moretti is the anonymous patron who made this exhibition possible. His generosity-" The gallery director's words trailed off. The only thing the blonde girl could hear was blood rushing in her ears. Patron. He was not merely here to make her miserable, he had really bought the exhibition at her expense. Elowen's gaze flared on Rhys, who watched her coldly with his stormy eyes that made her feel dumb. "You-" Her mouth opened, but in her angry expression, she could hardly form a full sentence. "Me," he leaned closer with his voice so low that only she could hear, "Surprise, darling. Did you really think fate would let you hide from me forever?" The space between them was sharp, intoxicating, and electric. Guests zipped past completely unaware, absorbed by their own trajectories, as if the entirety of existence had contrived to produce this sacred event: the collision of two entities after fears of charge, blame, and desire. The thrum of Elowen's heartbeat in her ears felt like a somber resonance in her ribs. She could not stand him. She could not bear the fact that in a deep place in her heart she secretly wished to be connected with him. Before she could discover the right words to injure, Rhys c****d his head, his eyes full of a dangerous promise shining. "This time, Elowen," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear, "you don't get to run."