Chapter 3: The Ghost in the Gallery

Elara had always prided herself on being a morning person, but the sunrise that filtered through her cottage windows felt like an invasion. She'd barely slept, her mind replaying the shock of seeing Damien standing across from her gallery like some perfectly tailored apparition from her past.

What are you doing here, Damien?

The question had torn from her throat before she could stop it, raw and desperate in a way that made her hate herself. Three months. Three months of careful healing, of building something real and meaningful from the ashes of their relationship, and he could still reduce her to that trembling girl who'd fled the Met gala with her heart in pieces.

She dressed with deliberate care—worn jeans that hugged her curves, a soft green sweater that brought out the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, her grandmother's silver pendant that had always made her feel grounded. Armor disguised as comfort, preparation for a battle she'd hoped never to fight again.

The walk to her gallery usually filled her with quiet pride. Salt & Canvas had become more than just a business—it was proof that she could build something beautiful from nothing, that her worth wasn't measured by someone else's willingness to claim her. The converted Victorian house with its cheerful blue shutters and weathered shingles had become her sanctuary, a place where she could be fully herself without apology.

This morning, it felt like a trap.

She was arranging the window display when she saw him. Damien stood on the sidewalk across the street, his expensive suit a stark contrast to the small-town charm of Main Street. He looked like a predator studying prey, all sharp angles and controlled intensity.

Her hands shook as she adjusted a landscape painting, the familiar coastal scene blurring through her suddenly watery vision. He was real. This wasn't some stress-induced hallucination or cruel dream—Damien Blackwood was actually in Seabrook, Maine, staring at her through her gallery window like he had any right to be there.

The bell above her door chimed with its usual cheerful welcome, but the sound made her flinch. She turned, expecting to see her first customer of the day, and instead found herself face-to-face with the man who'd taught her that love could be a weapon.

"We're closed," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

"The sign says you open at nine." He glanced at his watch—a Patek Philippe that probably cost more than her annual rent. "It's nine-fifteen."

"I said we're closed."

He stepped further into the gallery, his presence immediately transforming the space. Her sanctuary suddenly felt cramped, overwhelmed by his particular brand of controlled chaos. She watched him take in the exposed brick walls, the local artwork displayed with pride, the mason jars filled with wildflowers that she'd arranged just yesterday.

"This is beautiful," he said, and the genuine appreciation in his voice made her chest tight. "You did this."

"Don't." The word came out sharper than intended. "Don't you dare come in here and—"

"And what? Acknowledge that you've built something incredible?" He moved to study one of her paintings—a seascape that captured the wild beauty of Maine's coastline. "This is what you were meant to do, Elara. Not hiding in shadows, not being someone's secret. This."

The casual reference to their past hit her like a physical blow. "Get out."

"I can't do that."

"You can't do that?" Her voice rose, months of carefully controlled anger finally finding its target. "You can't waltz into my life, into my space, and decide what you can and can't do. You made your choice three months ago."

"I made a mistake."

"You made a choice," she repeated, each word precise and cutting. "You chose Victoria. You chose your family's approval. You chose everything that was safe and expected and—"

"I chose wrong." The words hung between them like a confession, raw and desperate. "I chose wrong, and I've regretted it every single day since."

Elara felt something crack in her chest, a fissure in the careful walls she'd built around her heart. This was what she'd dreamed of hearing in those first terrible weeks after the gala—his admission that he'd made a mistake, that she'd meant something more than a "temporary diversion."

But it was too late. The damage was done.

"Your regret isn't my problem," she said, turning away from him to fiddle with a display of local pottery. "You don't get to show up here and expect me to fix whatever guilt you're carrying."

"I'm not here for absolution." His voice was closer now, and she could feel the heat of his body behind her. "I'm here because I can't breathe without you."

The admission hit her like a sucker punch, stealing her breath and making her knees weak. She gripped the edge of the display table, her knuckles white with the effort of staying upright.

"That's not my problem either," she whispered, but the words lacked conviction.

"Isn't it?" He was so close she could smell his cologne—the same scent that had clung to her sheets for weeks after their last night together. "Because I think you're just as miserable as I am."

She whirled around, fury blazing in her eyes. "How dare you? How dare you assume that I'm—"

"Miserable?" He stepped closer, his grey eyes dark with something that might have been pain or desire. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't miss what we had. Tell me you don't lie awake at night remembering—"

"Stop." The word was a whisper, a plea. "Just stop."

But he didn't stop. He never had been able to stop when it came to her.

"I remember everything," he said, his voice low and rough. "The way you looked when you painted, like you were channeling something divine. The way you laughed at my terrible jokes. The way you felt in my arms when—"

"You're engaged." The words came out like a slap, sharp and final. "You're engaged to Victoria Ashford, and you're standing in my gallery talking about memories. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?"

Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or confusion. "Elara, I—"

"You what? You forgot? You thought I wouldn't know?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Your engagement was announced in the Times. There were photos of you and your perfect fiancée at some charity event just last week."

The silence stretched between them like a chasm. Damien's face went pale, his jaw clenching with the kind of tension she'd learned to recognize as his particular brand of internal warfare.

"The engagement is—"

"Real," she finished for him. "It's real, and I'm not interested in being your side piece again. I'm not interested in being the woman you visit when you need to feel something authentic before you go back to your gilded cage."

"That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?" She crossed her arms, her posture defensive and challenging. "What exactly are you offering me, Damien? Another six months of hiding in shadows? Another chance to be your dirty little secret?"

"I'm offering you everything," he said, the words torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "I'm offering you everything I should have given you three months ago."

"Everything except the truth." She shook her head, auburn curls catching the morning light. "You're still lying to yourself if you think you can have both worlds. You can't have your family's approval and me. You can't have Victoria's perfect pedigree and what we had. You have to choose."

"I chose you."

"No, you didn't." Her voice was steady now, final. "You chose to come here and disrupt my life because you're bored or guilty or whatever it is that rich men feel when they realize they can't have everything they want. But you didn't choose me. If you had chosen me, Victoria wouldn't exist. Your mother wouldn't be planning your wedding. You wouldn't be standing in my gallery in a ten-thousand-dollar suit trying to convince me that this time will be different."

The bell above the door chimed again, and Margaret Chen from the bookstore stepped inside, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her smile warm and genuine. She took one look at the tension crackling between Elara and Damien and paused, her expression shifting to protective concern.

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I didn't realize you had a customer."

"He was just leaving," Elara said, her voice carrying the kind of dismissal that brooked no argument.

But Damien didn't move. Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card, placing it on the counter with the careful precision of a man laying down a trump card.

"I bought the building next door," he said, his voice calm despite the storm in his eyes. "We're going to be neighbors."

The words hit Elara like a physical blow. The vacant building next to her gallery—the one she'd dreamed of expanding into someday when her business was more established—had been for sale for months. She'd walked past it every day, imagining what she could do with the space, how she could transform it into something beautiful.

"You did what?" The words came out strangled, barely above a whisper.

"I bought it this morning. The closing is next week." He straightened his cufflinks, a gesture she recognized as his way of regaining control. "I thought it might be nice to have a place to work while I'm in town."

"You can't do that."

"I can, and I did." His smile was sharp, predatory. "Like I said, we're going to be neighbors."

Margaret Chen cleared her throat softly, her presence a reminder that their private drama was playing out in public. "Perhaps I should come back later—"

"No," Elara said, her voice tight with barely controlled panic. "Mr. Blackwood was just leaving. Weren't you, Mr. Blackwood?"

He studied her face for a long moment, and she saw something shift in his expression—a flicker of the man she'd fallen in love with, the one who could read her moods like sheet music.

"I'll see you soon, Elara," he said softly. "Very soon."

After he left, the gallery felt too small, too cramped, like the walls were closing in. Margaret's concerned questions washed over her like white noise as she struggled to process what had just happened.

Damien had bought the building next door. He was moving in next to her sanctuary, invading the one space where she'd felt safe from the memories of what they'd shared. It was a power play, a calculated move designed to force her into proximity with him.

It was also, she realized with growing horror, exactly the kind of thing he would do.

That afternoon, she stood at her gallery window watching as contractors arrived at the building next door. They moved with the efficiency of professionals who'd been paid well to work fast, carrying materials and equipment that suggested major renovations were planned.

Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: I know you're watching. The space needed work anyway. - D

She deleted the message without responding, but her hands shook as she set the phone down. He was already in her head, already disrupting the careful peace she'd built. And the worst part was that some traitorous part of her heart was singing at his proximity, celebrating the return of the man who'd made her feel more alive than she'd ever thought possible.

That night, she lay in bed listening to the sound of the ocean and trying to convince herself that she could handle this. That she was stronger now, smarter, more self-aware. That Damien Blackwood couldn't waltz back into her life and expect her to fall at his feet.

But as she drifted off to sleep, her last coherent thought was of grey eyes and the way he'd looked at her paintings with genuine appreciation.

The way he'd looked at her.

Like she was something worth fighting for.