Chapter 11
Renee stared at the glowing notification on her cracked phone screen as if it were a landmine.
1 new email from Owen Hale.
The name alone made her stomach pitch. It had been weeks since Paris had begun stitching her back together—weeks of painting in cold morning light, of Lucien’s quiet confidence, of pretending she wasn’t someone who had once loved a man who shattered her like thin glass.
She should delete it.
She didn’t.
Instead, she sat frozen on the edge of the Paris loft’s narrow bed, the thin blankets tangled around her legs like restraints. Dawn seeped through the skylight above, staining the ceiling pale gold, but nothing about the morning felt warm. The air was sharp with the metallic scent of fear.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
No.
Not yet.
She couldn’t open it.
Because whatever was inside that email—apology, accusation, threat, confession—had the power to collapse everything she’d rebuilt. Her fragile peace. Her anonymity. Her new identity as the hooded painter no one could trace.
And Lucien…
Lucien had no idea who she truly was.
He didn’t know she used to paint under another name.
He didn’t know she once belonged—unwillingly—to the Hales, Manhattan’s golden couple in the public eye and a decaying empire behind closed doors.
He didn’t know she had run not just from heartbreak, but from an entire world that would love to watch her fall.
She dropped the phone onto the mattress, as if distance could mute its threat.
Her breath shook.
Downstairs, the kettle whistled. Lucien must have slipped in from the street; he had a habit of arriving unannounced with croissants and chaotic enthusiasm. For someone who curated galleries like they were holy grounds, he moved through life with messy grace.
He called up to her, “Renee? You awake?”
Her blood iced.
She wasn’t ready—not for him, not for questions, not for the shadow of Owen reaching all the way across the ocean.
“Yeah,” she managed, voice thin. “Coming.”
She forced her hands to stop trembling before descending the wooden stairs. Lucien stood at the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair a little wild from the morning chill. He smiled when he saw her—an easy, unguarded smile that made the loft feel warmer than it was.
“You look like you barely slept,” he said.
If only he knew why.
“Just thinking,” she replied.
“About the exhibition?” he asked, pouring tea into two chipped mugs. “You don’t have to worry. You’re ready.”
Ready.
The word felt like a lie she wanted desperately to believe.
“Something like that,” she said.
Lucien didn’t press, but his eyes lingered on her a second too long, like he sensed the fracture threatening to split her open.
The phone buzzed upstairs.
The sound crawled down her spine.
Lucien didn’t notice. “I need to show you the lighting plan later. The townhouse has terrible wiring. It’s a miracle the place hasn’t burned down since Louis XIV.”
Renee managed a hollow laugh.
But her mind wasn’t in Paris anymore.
It was back in New York.
Back in a life she’d clawed her way out of.
Owen’s email waited like a ticking bomb.
And Renee knew—sooner or later—she would have to open it.
She just prayed that when she did, her sanctuary wouldn’t crumble.