Chapter Four

Isabella arrived at The Blue Sparrow ten minutes early, choosing a corner table where she could watch the entrance. She'd changed into a navy wrap dress and left her glasses at home, a calculated risk. The contacts and hair dye would have to be enough.

Caden walked in at exactly eight o'clock, scanning the room until his eyes found her. He smiled, and Isabella hated how her treacherous heart responded.

"Ella." He crossed to her table. "Thank you for meeting me on such short notice."

"Of course." She gestured to the seat across from her. "Though I admit I'm curious why this couldn't wait until tomorrow."

Caden settled into his chair, looking at her like he was trying to solve a puzzle. "I wanted to talk to you without the office walls listening. The gallery has eyes and ears everywhere, some of them reporting back to my father."

"You don't trust your own staff?"

"I don't trust anyone my father has access to." He signaled the waiter, ordered two coffees without asking what she wanted. He'd ordered it exactly how she used to take it, black with one sugar. Coincidence. Had to be. "Derek Cross has spent thirty years building an empire on other people's failures. He doesn't understand why I'd want anything different."

"Why do you?" Isabella kept her voice neutral. "Want something different, I mean. You're his son. You inherited his business sense, his connections. Why fight it?"

The waiter brought their coffee. Caden wrapped both hands around his cup. "Because I saw what his way of doing business cost. Five years ago, he destroyed a good man's company just to prove he could. James Reed ran a publishing and art acquisition firm with integrity and ethics. He was kind. He mentored me when my own father only taught me cruelty." Caden's voice roughened. "Derek gutted Reed's company and sold it for parts. Six months later, James had a heart attack. The stress killed him."

Isabella's hand trembled. She set down her cup before he could notice. "That must have been difficult for you."

"Difficult doesn't cover it." Caden met her eyes, and the pain there was raw. "James had a daughter. Isabella. She was brilliant and beautiful and she looked at me like I was someone worth believing in. I was in love with her, though I never told her. Too afraid of what my father would do if he knew I cared about someone."

The coffee turned to acid in Isabella's stomach. He'd loved her. Past tense.

"What happened to her?" She barely recognized her own voice.

"She came to my office when Derek was destroying her father's company. Begged me to stop it. And I just stood there. Frozen. Too much of a coward to stand up to my father." Caden's jaw clenched. "At James's funeral, she told me she'd make me pay for murdering her father. Then she disappeared. Changed her name, left the city, vanished completely. I hired three different investigators to find her. All of them came up empty."

"Maybe she didn't want to be found."

"Maybe she was right to disappear." He took a long drink of coffee. "Because I did kill her father. Not directly, but my silence was enough. If I'd warned James, if I'd stood up to Derek, maybe things would have been different."

Isabella felt like she was splitting in two, half of her screaming that he deserved this guilt, and half of her wanting to tell him the truth, to end this charade before it destroyed them both.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked carefully. "We just met."

Caden laughed, a short bitter sound. "I have no idea. There's something about you that feels... safe. Like I can say things I normally keep locked away." He looked up, and those grey eyes pinned her in place. "Have you ever lost someone and spent years trying to make amends to a ghost?"

"Yes." The word slipped out before she could stop it. "My father died when I was young. I spent a long time being angry at the world for taking him."

It wasn't even a lie. Just not the whole truth.

"I'm sorry." Caden's hand moved across the table, stopping just short of touching hers. "The anger doesn't really go away, does it? It just becomes part of who you are."

"No," Isabella whispered. "It doesn't go away."

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Caden straightened, the vulnerability shuttering behind a professional mask.

"Anyway, I wanted to discuss the exhibition. I saw in your portfolio that you have connections with several emerging contemporary artists. I'd like you to reach out to them, see who might be interested in showcasing their work."

Business. They were back to business. Isabella could breathe again.

"I have three artists in mind already," she said, pulling up notes on her phone. Notes she'd prepared specifically because these artists were volatile, unreliable, the kind who'd pull out at the last minute and leave Caden scrambling. "Jackson Rhee, Mira Osman, and Thomas Webb. All incredibly talented but underrepresented in major galleries."

"I know Rhee's work. Brilliant but temperamental."

"The best artists usually are." Isabella smiled. "I can handle temperamental. What I need from you is trust. Let me curate this exhibition my way, and I'll deliver something that makes the Cross Gallery legendary."

Caden studied her for a long moment. "You're very confident."

"I'm very good at what I do."

"I believe you." He pulled out his phone and typed something quickly. "I'm sending you access codes to all the gallery systems. Financial records, client databases, everything. You'll need them to coordinate with artists and vendors."

Isabella's pulse quickened. He was handing her exactly what she needed. "That's a lot of trust for someone you just met."

"My instincts are usually good about people." His phone buzzed, and he glanced at it, his expression darkening. "Except when they're not. Excuse me a moment."

He stood and moved toward the café entrance, phone pressed to his ear. Isabella watched him through the window, noting the tension in his shoulders.

Her own phone buzzed. A text from Gabriel: "We have a problem. Someone's running a deep background check on Ella Valentine. Military-grade investigation. If they dig deep enough, they'll find the holes in her history."

Isabella typed back quickly: "How long do we have?"

"Forty-eight hours. Maybe less. Whatever you're planning, you need to accelerate."

She looked up to find Caden returning to the table, his face carefully neutral.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

"Fine. Just my father being his usual charming self." Caden sat down, but the easy intimacy from before was gone. "He wants to meet you. Tomorrow, before you start at the gallery. Says he makes a point of meeting all key personnel."

Isabella's blood ran cold. "Is that normal?"

"With Derek, nothing is normal. He's either genuinely interested in the gallery's new direction, or he's planning something." Caden's eyes searched her face again. "You're not afraid of difficult men, are you, Ella?"

"I've dealt with worse than difficult," she said, meaning every word.

"Good. Because my father is going to do everything he can to undermine this exhibition. He thinks I'm making a mistake, trying to build something with meaning instead of just profit. He'll test you, try to find weaknesses."

"Let him try."

Caden smiled, and it was almost genuine. "You really are perfect for this job. I knew it the moment I saw you." He stood, dropping cash on the table. "I should let you get home. Big day tomorrow. My father at nine, then the gallery tour at ten."

Isabella stood as well, gathering her coat. They walked to the door together, and Caden held it open for her.

"Ella," he said as they stepped onto the sidewalk. "That thing you said about anger becoming part of who you are. Do you think it's possible to let it go? To become someone different?"

The question pierced through all her carefully constructed armor.

"I don't know," Isabella said honestly. "I think some anger is too big to let go. It becomes the foundation of everything you build next."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Caden looked at her one more time, and she could swear he saw straight through her disguise. "Goodnight, Ella Valentine. Whoever you really are."

He walked away before she could respond, leaving her frozen on the sidewalk.

Her phone rang. Marcus again.

This time, she answered.

"Hello, Marcus," she said into the phone.

Silence. Then: "Izzy? Is that really you?”