Pearl froze.
His words still ring in her ears. 
Recognition danced dangerously in his gaze, and Pearl felt her heart plunge. She gripped the back of a chair without realizing it, the chill in her fingers spreading all the way to her chest.
Did he recognize her?
The scandal was years ago, but the internet never forgets. A viral art protest turned into a tabloid storm. Her face had been splashed across enough gossip blogs to haunt her forever. If he truly had any art connections—no, worse, if he was connected to the press—
“I’m sorry,” He said suddenly, blinking as if shaking himself out of a trance. “You just remind me of someone I used to know.”
Pearl swallowed, too stunned to speak.
“My ex,” He added, his mouth curling into a half-smile. “She had your eyes. That same… fight in them.”
Pearl exhaled, a short, shaky laugh tumbling out of her. Relief swept over her.
“That’s the worst pickup

The apartment smelled like oranges and lavender. It wasn’t grand, but it was warm. Lived-in. Safe. The kind of place with mismatched cushions, sun-faded curtains, and shelves heavy with books that hadn’t been dusted in a while.
She pushed open the door with her shoulder, balancing Juno on her hip. "Come in," she said casually, as though she hadn’t just invited a stranger into her private world.
He stepped in slowly, observing the space keenly. Shoes tucked neatly by the door. A chipped ceramic lamp glowing beside a faded armchair. A child’s crayon drawing taped crookedly on the wall.
"Sorry about the mess," she muttered, setting Juno down. "I wasn’t expecting company."
He shook his head. "It’s...nice."
That surprised her. He didn’t seem like the type to find charm in messes. Or comfort in clutter. But there he was, crouching to help Juno unstrap her shoes, mumbling something about Velcro

The room tensed in unison.
Pearl—Melody—felt her heart seize the moment her eyes met the man. He stood there in the doorway, one foot forward. His presence swallowed the space and only tensed the room up.
Melody could feel the fear triggered-hiccup coming up her throat.
Her breath stuttered.
His gaze moved slowly from her to Gary, hovering a beat too long on the man’s clenched jaw and the closeness between them. The covered frame under his arm shifted slightly, but his grip never faltered.
Gary scoffed, stepping forward. “Can I help you?”
“I suppose I should be the one asking that?”
He didn’t blink.
His tone was calm. Civil, even yet sharp and cutting. Pearl felt she could recognize it instantly but she had been around people with such demeanor. His however was compelling. 
Gary glanced at Pearl, then laughed under his breath. “And who the hell are you to say that?”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. He stepped into the gallery with the measured control of someone who had never needed to raise his voice to get what he wanted. He placed the wrapped painting on the closest table and pulled out his phone with steady fingers. He read the room and saw that it was just the lady, Pearl and the older man–he understood immediately what this was. 
“I’m someone who doesn’t like men cornering women. Especially when the woman looks like she doesn’t want you here, especially—” He shoved his hands into his trousers, his gaze still stern.
“Excuse me—”
Pearl’s voice cracked as she found her footing. “Gary, you should go.”
Gary looked between them again, visibly annoyed, but something in his stance, the way his body took up space, made the decision for him. There was nothing performative in his posture. He was relaxed—but in the way large predators were before they pounced.
Gary straightened his shirt and left with the door’s bell jangling behind him.
The click of the closing door echoed louder than it should have.
Silence returned, heavy.
Pearl didn’t breathe until the sound of Gary’s car engine faded outside.
She turned back to the young man, her fingers still tightly wrapped around her notepad.
He raised a brow. “Friend of yours?”
Her throat tightened. “Not really.”
“Didn’t look that way.”
He studied her, and she forced her gaze away. Her pulse was erratic, slamming against her ribs like it wanted out. She could still smell the faint scent of turpentine and leather clinging to his jacket, and it hurt, how effortlessly she would let a man, this man slip into her life without knowing what he is or where he'd come from. She had been through a lot, even more so recently with Juno's father that she was unsure if she craved a man for love or if it was just her fear of abandonment speaking to her right now. 
There was something ironic about the way the universe worked. It had taken everything from her—family, dignity, career—and now it had placed yet another man back in front of her. Not a memory. A man. As a possibility, to what? Ruin her further? She thought…she questioned
She didn’t realize how long she’d been staring, carried away by thoughts she didn't know she processed, until the sounds around her dulled into a distant murmur, like the world had moved a few steps back to give her mind room to spiral. Her lips parted, not in speech, but in a breath she forgot to release, drawn too deep into a quiet unraveling she couldn’t name.
Her lips parted to speak again, but she hesitated. Was there even anything to say that wouldn’t unravel her?
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I didn’t need saving. But… thank you.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t feel right to just stand there.”
There was a calm to his voice that unsettled her more than if he’d shouted. He was so… composed.He looked around the gallery, eyes taking in the worn wood floors and the canvases propped against the walls. His gaze softened.
“I’m delivering this,” he gestured to the covered painting, “on behalf of Lennox Corporate. One of our partners commissioned a piece from your owner. Said I’d drop it by.”
Pearl stared at him, momentarily stunned. “You… work with Lennox?”
“Just a staff.” Ethan Lennox lied with a straight face. His assistant was on leave because of flu. He was on a whim to run some errands himself, and didn’t expect a drive-by delivery would take such an interesting turn. 
She froze at that point like him being with Lennox wasn't enough. Lennox was one of the very few leading Art Maisons in the continent, Lennox Foundations sponsored her art exhibition, Lennox—and that was when it hit her.
He was probably there at the Warhol exhibition when her life started to fall apart. She wanted to ask him, just to confirm yet wanted to keep this meeting light.
A strange nausea settled under her ribs.
She took a half step back, keeping her expression steady. “I’m Pearl. I manage the floor.”
“I’m Ethan,” he then said her name, almost like a whisper. “Pearl.”
There was a subtle shift in his voice as if he were tasting the word for something familiar.
Then he looked at her again… really looked.
And she knew the moment it hit him.
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. His brows drew in, but he didn’t speak right away.
Instead, he tilted his head, a shadow of thought sliding across his face.
“Have we met before?”
Her blood went cold and her brows furrowed. 
She forced a smile. “Not that I remember.”
But her voice, her voice trembled slightly on the last word. Not enough for most people to notice. But he didn't just exactly look like most people.
He stepped closer, slowly. “You just… look familiar. It’s been bothering me since I walked in.”
Her heart was pounding now, and she hated that she couldn’t calm it. She was good at hiding. She’d built this life brick by brick on the promise that the past would never catch up. Dearly, she didn't desire to associate anything from her past with what little thing she had built for herself here, not even a sliver of it. 

Pearl froze.
His words still ring in her ears. 
Recognition danced dangerously in his gaze, and Pearl felt her heart plunge. She gripped the back of a chair without realizing it, the chill in her fingers spreading all the way to her chest.
Did he recognize her?
The scandal was years ago, but the internet never forgets. A viral art protest turned into a tabloid storm. Her face had been splashed across enough gossip blogs to haunt her forever. If he truly had any art connections—no, worse, if he was connected to the press—
“I’m sorry,” He said suddenly, blinking as if shaking himself out of a trance. “You just remind me of someone I used to know.”
Pearl swallowed, too stunned to speak.
“My ex,” He added, his mouth curling into a half-smile. “She had your eyes. That same… fight in them.”
Pearl exhaled, a short, shaky laugh tumbling out of her. Relief swept over her.
“That’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard,” she teased. Something in her shifted—strange and warm, like she’d b

CHAPTER 7