Chapter 10: Unraveled Threads

Isabella's heart pounded as the latest text burned in her mind: Your art tells the truth. Time to face it. The words were a noose, tightening with every step she took through the gallery's sleek halls, Julian at her side. The shadowy figure she'd glimpsed moments ago—slipping into the crowd—felt like a ghost from Willow Creek, her past clawing its way into her present. Her cherry-red lips pressed tight, her hazel eyes scanning the elite crowd for Noah Grant's probing gaze, Lena's cold smirk, or Vanessa's calculated elegance. Someone was pulling strings, and she was done being a puppet.

"Stay close," Julian murmured, his hand brushing her lower back, a touch that sent a shiver through her despite the tension coiling in her gut. His gray eyes were a storm of resolve, but the weight of his secrets—his family, his business, his world—hung between them. "We'll find Noah. Get that flash drive."

Isabella nodded, her voice low. "And Lena. If she's feeding him my past, I want her to say it to my face." Her paintings, raw and crimson, lined the walls, their swirling shadows a mirror of her fear and defiance. Willow Creek—her mother's death, her father's betrayal—was in those strokes, but she'd never meant them to be a confession.

The gallery's private lounge was a cocoon of velvet and dim lighting, a haven for whispered deals and hidden glances. Ethan Caldwell leaned against the bar, his blond hair catching the light, his grin all charm as he spotted them. "Trouble's here," he said, raising a glass. "Isabella, you're stirring up more drama than a board meeting. Noah's been sniffing around, asking about your old man."

Isabella's stomach twisted, but she held her ground, her cherry-red lips curving into a defiant smile. "Let him sniff. My father's a ghost, and I buried him years ago." The lie tasted bitter—her father's shady deals had shattered her family, and Noah's files could drag it all back.

Julian's hand tightened on her back, a silent vow, but before he could speak, Mara Tate slipped into the lounge, her auburn hair a vibrant splash against her paint-splattered jacket. Her brown eyes lit up at Isabella, but there was a flicker of worry. "I found something," Mara said, her voice low, glancing at Julian. "A buyer's circling your paintings, Isabella. Big money, but they're asking about Willow Creek. I think it's tied to Noah."

Isabella's breath caught. "Who's the buyer?" she demanded, her voice sharp.

Mara hesitated, her gaze flicking to the lounge entrance. "Didn't get a name. But they're connected—high up. Someone with pull." She paused, her voice softening. "Your art's hitting nerves, Isabella. Be careful."

Julian's jaw clenched, but before he could respond, a new figure entered—a woman in her late 50s, with silver hair swept into an elegant chignon and a navy gown that screamed old money. Her warm brown eyes and soft smile were disarming, but there was a quiet strength in her posture that made Isabella pause. "Isabella Voss," the woman said, her voice smooth, almost maternal. "Your paintings are extraordinary. I'm Evelyn Hart, a collector. I'd love to discuss your work."

Isabella's guard went up, Mara's warning ringing in her ears. "Thanks," she said, her tone polite but wary. "But I'm not selling right now."

Evelyn's smile didn't falter, but her eyes held a knowing glint. "Oh, it's not just about buying. Your art… it feels personal. Like it carries a story. Willow Creek, perhaps?" Her gaze flicked to Julian, then back to Isabella. "I knew your mother, you know. Clara was a dear friend."

Isabella froze, her heart stuttering. Her mother's name—Clara—hit like a punch, dragging up memories of laughter, paint-stained aprons, and a car crash that stole her at sixteen. "You're lying," Isabella said, her voice trembling, her cherry-red lips set in a hard line. "My mother didn't know people like you."

Evelyn's expression softened, but there was a flicker of something—guilt? "Clara had her secrets, dear. Just like you. Your paintings… they're hers, too, aren't they?"

Julian stepped forward, his voice low, dangerous. "Enough, Evelyn. Whatever you're playing at, leave Isabella out of it."

Evelyn raised a hand, unfazed. "I'm not your enemy, Julian. But secrets don't stay buried in this city." She handed Isabella a card, her fingers brushing hers with a warmth that felt too familiar. "Call me when you're ready to talk. About Clara. About Willow Creek."

As Evelyn glided away, Isabella's hand shook, the card heavy in her palm. Julian's arm slid around her, his touch a lifeline, but his eyes were on Ethan and Mara, who exchanged a wary glance. "She's trouble," Ethan said, his usual charm dimmed. "Evelyn Hart's got more pull than Vincent. If she's after your art, Isabella, it's not just about beauty."

Mara nodded, her voice urgent. "She's right about one thing—your paintings are stirring up the past. I heard Noah's meeting with someone tonight. A source. Could be her."

Isabella's mind raced, the texts flashing: Willow Creek knows. Evelyn's words, Noah's files, Lena's schemes—they were a web, and she was caught in the center. "I need to find Noah," she said, her voice firm despite the fear clawing at her. "Now."

Julian's hand found hers, his grip steady. "We will," he said, his voice a vow. "But you're not facing this alone." His thumb brushed her wrist, a subtle spark that reminded her of the heat they'd shared, a promise of more if they survived this storm.

As they moved toward the gallery's main hall, Vanessa appeared, her platinum hair gleaming, her eyes sharp with urgency. "Julian, we've got a problem," she said, her voice low. "Noah's source? It's someone close. And they've got dirt—not just on Isabella, but on you."

Isabella's blood ran cold, but before she could speak, her phone buzzed with a new text: Clara's secrets are yours. Meet me at midnight, or they go public. The message included an address—a dive bar on the edge of the city. Her eyes met Julian's, and she saw her own fear mirrored there. Someone wasn't just after her past—they were after them both.