Chapter 9: Tangled Lies

Isabella's pulse raced as she slipped her phone back into her clutch, the latest text,You can't hide forever. Willow Creek knows-a cold shadow over the heat of Julian's presence. The gallery's soft lighting and elite crowd buzzed around her, but Noah Grant's words echoed louder: Willow Creek. Your father. Interesting stories. Her past, a wound she'd buried in the crimson swirls of her paintings, was clawing its way to the surface. Her cherry-red lips tightened, her hazel eyes scanning the room for Lena's venomous smirk or Vanessa's calculating gaze, but all she felt was Julian's hand on her lower back, steady, warm, a tether to the present.

"We need to talk," she said, turning to him, her voice low but firm. The gallery's hum faded as she faced his storm-gray eyes, seeing the flicker of worry beneath his billionaire polish. "Noah knows about Willow Creek. My father. Things I never told anyone. Someone's feeding him my past, Julian, and I need to know who."

Julian's jaw clenched, his hand tightening briefly, a protective edge to his stance. "I've got people looking into him," he said, his voice a low growl. "Ethan's digging through his contacts, and Vanessa's checking his sources. We'll find the leak." His fingers brushed her cheek, a touch that sent a shiver through her, reigniting the fire that never fully died. "You're not alone in this, Isabella."

Her heart ached at his words, torn between trust and the fear that his world—Lena, Vincent, Vanessa—was the source of her unraveling. "I want to believe you," she whispered, stepping closer, her cherry-red lips inches from his. "But every time I get close, another secret surfaces. I'm not built for games, Blackwood."

His eyes darkened, not with anger but with a hunger that mirrored her own. "No games," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "Just you and me." He guided her through a side door into a private office, the city's glow filtering through a single window, casting shadows over a sleek desk and leather chairs. The door clicked shut, and the world narrowed to the heat between them.

He pulled her close, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was both desperate and deliberate, a collision of need and promise. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into his tuxedo lapels as she pressed herself against him, craving the escape of his touch. His hands roamed her back, one slipping to her hip, gripping with a possessiveness that made her breath hitch. "You're my weakness," he whispered, his voice rough, his lips trailing to her jaw, then lower, kissing the sensitive curve of her neck. Her head tilted back, a soft moan escaping as her nails grazed his scalp, the tension coiling tighter.

He lifted her onto the desk, her dress riding up to reveal the black lace beneath, and she gasped, her legs wrapping around his waist. His fingers traced her thigh, slow and teasing, igniting a fire that drowned out the texts, the threats, the past. "Isabella," he growled, his mouth finding hers again, deeper, hungrier, as their bodies moved in sync, the desk creaking under their weight. The city lights blurred outside, a distant echo of the blaze between them, and she surrendered to the moment, her heart pounding as they lost themselves in each other.

They collapsed against the desk, breathless, tangled, his forehead resting against hers. "You're rewriting my world," he murmured, his thumb brushing her cherry-red lips, swollen from his kisses. Her smile was soft but defiant, her voice a whisper. "Good. It needed a new story."

Before she could say more, a sharp knock broke the spell, followed by a voice—gruff, unfamiliar, and urgent. "Blackwood! Open the door. We've got trouble."

Julian cursed under his breath, helping Isabella off the desk as she smoothed her dress, her skin still humming. He opened the door, revealing a man in his 40s, broad-shouldered, with a weathered face and dark eyes that screamed street-smart intensity. His gray suit was slightly rumpled, a stark contrast to the gallery's polished elite.

"Rico Salazar," he said, his voice clipped, his gaze flicking to Isabella with a mix of curiosity and caution. "Private security. Ethan sent me. We've got a problem—your journalist friend, Noah Grant, just left with a flash drive. Looks like he's got photos of your paintings, Isabella, and some old files from Willow Creek."

Isabella's stomach dropped, her past a noose tightening around her. "Files?" she said, her voice sharp. "What kind of files?"

Rico's eyes narrowed. "Police reports. Court documents. Stuff about your father's… business. Looks like someone's trying to tie your art to his old deals." He glanced at Julian. "And Lena's meeting with the board tonight, pushing to kill your deal, Blackwood. She's got Vanessa whispering in her ear."

Julian's face hardened, but his hand found Isabella's, squeezing tight. "Lena's playing dirty," he said, his voice low. "But we'll play dirtier."

Isabella's mind raced, the texts flashing in her memory—Willow Creek knows. Her father's "business" had been a web of lies—shady deals, broken promises—that had shattered her family. Her paintings were her rebellion, not a confession. "If Noah's got files, someone gave them to him," she said, her cherry-red lips set in a hard line. "Lena? Vanessa? Your father?"

Julian's eyes met hers, a storm of guilt and resolve. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I'm not letting them touch you." He turned to Rico. "Track Noah. Get that drive. Now."

Rico nodded, his gaze lingering on Isabella. "You've got a target on your back, Ms. Voss. Your art's kicking up dust someone wants buried." He paused, his voice softening. "Ethan says you're the real deal. If you need a friend, I've got your back."

Isabella's throat tightened, Rico's rough sincerity a contrast to the polished danger of Julian's world. "Thanks," she said, her voice steady. "But I fight my own battles."

Rico smirked, a spark of respect in his eyes, and left, his footsteps fading. Julian turned to her, his hand cupping her face. "You don't have to fight alone," he said, his voice a vow. "I'm in this, Isabella. All the way."

Her heart ached, torn between his warmth and the shadows closing in. She leaned into him, her lips grazing his, a fleeting spark of defiance. "Then we need to move fast," she said. "Because someone's coming for me, and I'm not going down without a fight."

As they stepped back into the gallery, a shadow moved in the corner of her vision—a figure, too quick to identify, slipping into the crowd. Her phone buzzed with a new text: Your art tells the truth. Time to face it. Her blood ran cold, and she gripped Julian's hand, the fire between them her only anchor as the past roared back to life.