My 'Cruel' Breakup, His Lifelong Regret

Chapter 3

Robb stood up straight and took a long breath, forcing the storm in his chest back down.

He stared at the wreckage, then turned on his heel and left.

He grabbed his keys and drove straight to the office.

He'd barely stepped through the door to his penthouse suite when he saw his assistant directing a crew of movers with a large, wrapped piece.

The dust cover slipped just an inch. A flash of vivid, burning color caught his eye.

Robb's gaze sharpened.

"What is all this?"

The assistant turned, flustered. "Mr. Bramwell! This is the painting from the charity gala. It just got delivered."

Robb's face went ice-cold as he stared at the covered canvas.

"Take it to the southside warehouse. Dump it there."

The assistant blinked, confused.

If he hated it that much, why spend twenty million on it?

But if he liked it, why lock it away in a dusty warehouse?

He didn't dare ask questions. "Right away, Mr. Bramwell."

Robb said nothing else. He walked into his office and sat down.

He flipped open a file on his desk. And then he stared at the same page without reading a single line.

Not long after, the assistant came back, phone still in hand.

"Mr. Bramwell… the organizers said they can't reach the artist. They've tried everything."

Robb didn't look up. His voice was dismissive.

"That's their problem. Don't come to me with excuses."

The assistant got the message loud and clear: make it happen. No exceptions.

"Understood. I'll follow up with them immediately.

"They said… the artist was already terminally ill when she consigned the painting. They're not sure they'll be able to track her down at all."

Robb's head snapped up. The fury in his face made the assistant's heart jump into his throat.

Then, he remembered what I had said before.

Some artists made up whole terminal illness sob stories just to jack up their prices.

Robb's lip curled into a sneer. "Figures Sienna turned into the exact thing she used to hate."

He tossed the file back on his desk.

"Tell the organizers: either she shows up in person, or I'm returning the painting. Full refund."

The charity gala's reputation would be ruined if a high-profile buyer returned the headline piece. It would tank their credibility for years.

The assistant looked at Robb's cold face and nodded.

Robb didn't leave the office until dusk was bleeding over the skyline.

He walked in the front door of his villa and heard noise coming from the basement.

He went to investigate and found Irene inside, rearranging shelves.

He frowned. "You should've let the workers handle this."

Irene jumped, then turned and smiled when she saw him.

"It's different when it's my space. I want to do it myself."

Robb said nothing. He looked around the basement—unrecognizable now, stripped of every trace of me—and a strange, hollow feeling settled over him.

Irene tilted her head. "What's wrong? Do you hate how I arranged it?"

Robb smiled "No. It's fine. Looks good."

Irene smiled back. She plucked at a wind chime on the wall and changed the subject.

"Robb, my parents called this morning. They want us to come over for dinner soon. They're dying to meet you."

Robb hesitated. He looked at her eager, hopeful face and gave in.

"Saturday, then."

He paused, then added, "Is there anything your parents like? I should bring something."

Irene lit up. "Oh, you don't have to! Bringing my boyfriend home is gift enough for them."

She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his waist.

When her fingertips brushed his lower back, Robb's shoulders tensed.

Then he forced himself to relax. He held her with one hand and dialed his assistant.

"Clear my schedule for Saturday. All of it."

The assistant paused, sounding hesitant.

"Mr. Bramwell… the organizers said Silencia agreed to meet.

"They scheduled it… for Saturday afternoon."