Bound by fate

Chapter 1

6 months later

Matilda's Pov

The early morning sun streamed through the windows of the Jones Art Gallery, painting the hardwood floors with golden light. My hands were trembling as I adjusted the last canvas on the wall; a piece I had poured my soul into, an abstract interpretation of grief and resilience.

"You've truly outdone yourself, Matilda," Caresha said, her voice warm and encouraging. She stood beside me, her sharp gray suit perfectly pressed, her dark curls framing her face like a halo. "Your work has this... raw, emotional depth that people are going to connect with. Different art enthusiasts are going to be around for the exhibition later this evening. This collection? It's going to turn heads."

I smiled sheepishly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "Thank you, Caresha. I don't know if I'm ready for all those heads, though. Tonight feels like a turning point."

She placed a reassuring hand on my arm. "You've worked for this moment. Don't downplay it. Everyone's going to be here—the press, collectors, and even a few art critics. This is your time to shine; Bask in it love, you've earned it."

Her words made me feel so giddy with delight. This was meant to be the night my art truly made its debut into the world. But as much as I wanted to bask in the glory of it all, I knew where I was supposed to be, where I'd be needed the most.

"I have to tell you something," I began hesitantly, my voice soft. "I can't stay for the event tonight."

Caresha raised a perfectly arched brow, her surprise was evident. "What? Matilda, this is your big night."

"I know, and I hate to miss it, but Lily has her recital tonight. She's been rehearsing for months, and I promised her I'd be there. I... I can't let her down."

Her expression softened, and she gave me a knowing smile. "Ah, the life of a dedicated mom. I get it. Family always comes first. Don't worry—I'll handle everything. Your art will speak for itself and if there's any issue, which I doubt there will be, I'll let you know."

Relief washed over me. "Thank you, Caresha. You don't know how much this means to me."

She winked. "Just don't forget to check your messages later. I'll send you updates—and maybe a sale or two."

I laughed, a bit of the tension easing from my shoulders, and gave one last loom of longing at my collection before heading out.

That evening, as the gallery buzzed with excitement and champagne flutes clinked, a tall figure entered the room, exuding quiet confidence.

Bryan Michaels.

His slim figure and strong shoulders were accentuated by his well-fitting charcoal suit. Even in a crowd, he'd never go unnoticed. His grey, piercing gaze wandered across the space, lingering on the wall paintings.

He stopped in front of one painting, a swirl of greys and blues with crisp, golden lines that were eerily lovely.

He was drawn in by something about it that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He moved forward a few paces and came to a halt right in front of the piece of art.

"Captivating, isn't it?" Caresha's voice broke through his thoughts. She stood beside him, her eyes twinkling.

Bryan nodded, his gaze never leaving the painting. "Who's the artist?"

"Matilda Prescott," she said, pride evident in her tone. "She's new to the scene but incredibly talented."

"Where is she?" he asked, a faint curiosity in his voice.

"Unfortunately, she couldn't make it tonight. Family obligations," Caresha explained.

Bryan's expression turned thoughtful, his interest piqued. "Do you think you could arrange a meeting? I'd like to see more of her works and possibly have them hang on the walls of my new branch here in L.A."

"I'm sorry Bryan but she wishes to remain anonymous," Caresha responds.

"Can you please just let her know just in case she decides to hear me out? I'll wait and the meeting can be set with her schedule. I'll try my best to work with her time", Bryan says, still looking at the artwork.

Caresha tilted her head, studying him for a moment before nodding. "Of course. I'll let her know you're interested."

The following afternoon, I found myself pacing in my small living room, my nerves a tangled mess.

"Bryan Michaels?" I repeated, listening to Caresha on the other end of the phone. "Am I supposed to know who he is?"

"You don't know him because you just moved here. All you need to know is that he's wealthy enough to buy your works at reasonable prices," her voice chirped on the other end of the call.

"He's interested in your work, Matilda. He even asked for a meeting. I could set it up for tomorrow evening by 6:00 pm at The Redwood."

"I didn't want to meet anyone. I just wanted my art pieces sold and then you remit my percentage to me. I'm trying to remain unknown," I say, chewing my inner lips.

Caresha sighs. Then she says "It's a big opportunity, Matilda. Don't let it pass you by. You need to be recognized to make enough money to take care of Lily."

I swallowed hard, gripping the phone. "Low blow Matilda. I'll be there."

The next evening, wearing a knee-length body con dress that flatters my curves, I arrive at The Redwood, the upscale restaurant bustling with energy.

An uneasy flutter gripped my stomach the moment I crossed the doorway clutching my portfolio bag tightly. Everything was perfectly set up by Caresha—a lovely restaurant with a wonderful atmosphere and the ideal time for the meeting—but she didn't prepare me for the emotional rollercoaster I experienced over the last twenty minutes. As the hostess led me to the private dining room, I paused outside in an attempt to quiet my racing heart,

And then I see him.

He sat at the corner table, his strikingly familiar profile illuminated by the soft, warm light. He was older, sharper somehow, but the memory of him; his touch, his smile, his eyes came flooding back with a force that left me breathless.

I had to grip a chair to steady myself and the emotions that coursed through me.

Bryan looks up to follow the sound made by the chair. His eyes met mine, and the recognition was instant. His brows lifted in surprise, his mouth parting slightly as if to speak.

My heart stopped. Five years. Five years since that night, and now here he was.