Part 1: Getting Ready
Charlotte's POV — 6:47 PM
The fifth dress hit the bed.
Charlotte stood in her underwear in the cramped Culver City studio apartment, staring at the pile of rejected options. Too formal. Too casual. Too "trying too hard." Too "I gave up."
This was ridiculous. She'd attended hundreds of gallery openings. She could do this in her sleep.
Except she'd never attended one where her heart was threatening to break through her ribs.
Her phone buzzed. Sophie: Still picking you up at 7:30. Don't chicken out.
Charlotte smiled despite her nerves. Sophie Mercier—Mateo's best friend, now somehow becoming hers too. They'd connected on Instagram two weeks ago after Charlotte had nervously DMed: "I got the Morrison Gallery invitation. Is he... does he want me to come?"
Sophie's response had been immediate: "He's been asking if you RSVPed. He pretends he doesn't care. He's a terrible liar."
Charlotte picked up the deep blue vintage dress she'd found at a consignment shop in Silver Lake. Not Chanel. Not even a recognizable designer. Just beautiful fabric that moved when she walked, that made her feel like herself—whoever that was turning out to be.
She slipped it on, studied herself in the mirror.
Her hair was shorter now, just past her shoulders. Less maintenance, more movement. Her makeup was lighter. She looked... younger? No. She looked alive.
On her dresser sat Maria's painting—those hands kneading dough. Honest work. Honest art.
Charlotte picked up her purse, checked inside. Wallet. Phone. Keys. And Mateo's letter from Paris, folded carefully, the edges soft from being handled.
"I hope you found your way out of whatever cage you were in..."
She took a breath.
"Okay," she said to her empty apartment. "Let's find out."
Mateo's POV — 7:15 PM
The gallery was already filling up, and Mateo felt like he might throw up.
"You good?" Sophie appeared at his elbow, handing him a glass of champagne he definitely needed.
"Fine."
"You're sweating."
"It's warm in here."
"It's 68 degrees and you're wearing a t-shirt."
Mateo downed half the champagne. Around him, Los Angeles's art world mingled—collectors, critics, other artists, people who could make or break a career. Morrison Gallery's opening night was a big deal. His big deal.
He should be networking. Schmoozing. Being charming.
Instead, he was watching the door.
"She might not come," Sophie said gently.
"I know."
"And if she doesn't, it's okay. This night is about your work. About Henri. About everything you've—"
"I know, Sophie." He softened. "I know. And you're right. This matters regardless of whether..." He trailed off.
The door chimed. An older couple walked in. Not her.
Morrison Gallery's owner, David Chen, clapped him on the shoulder. "Mateo! There's someone I want you to meet. Major collector, very interested in the Montmartre series—"
Mateo let himself be pulled away, casting one more glance at the door.
Part 2: Arrival
Charlotte's POV — 7:52 PM
Charlotte sat in Sophie's car outside Morrison Gallery, unable to move.
Through the large windows, she could see the crowd inside. Beautiful people holding wine glasses, admiring art, laughing. Her world. Except it wasn't anymore, was it?
"You can still leave," Sophie said. "I'll tell him you got sick. No judgment."
Charlotte shook her head. "I said I'd come."
"You don't owe him anything."
"I know. That's not why I'm here." She took a breath. "I'm here because I want to know if..."
"If what?"
"If two people who've both changed can still see each other."
Sophie smiled. "Only one way to find out."
Charlotte opened the car door before she could change her mind.
The gallery was packed. She'd forgotten how these things were—air kisses, small talk, the performance of appreciation. She recognized a few faces from her old life. A couple of them recognized her back, their eyes widening slightly before they looked away.
Charlotte Morgan, the girl who'd said no to Thomas Ashford. The family disappointment.
Let them look.
She moved through the crowd, scanning for—
And then time did something strange.
It didn't stop. The noise didn't fade. All those romantic clichés didn't happen.
What happened was simpler, and somehow more devastating:
Mateo was across the room, talking to an older woman in expensive jewelry. He was gesturing at one of his paintings, animated, passionate. He looked different—his hair was a bit longer, he'd filled out slightly, but it was more than that. He held himself differently. Less desperate. More grounded.
And then he turned, mid-sentence, as if he'd felt her presence.
Their eyes met.
Charlotte's breath caught. Her hands were shaking. Three years. Three years of growing, changing, becoming someone new. And now here they were, strangers who'd once known each other, about to find out if anything was left.
Mateo excused himself from the collector and started walking over.
No, not walking. Moving like he was being pulled.
Charlotte's feet carried her forward too.
They met in the middle of the gallery, in front of a painting of an old man feeding pigeons in a Paris square.
Their reunion:
"Charlotte."
God, his voice. Still the same timbre, but steadier now. Calmer.
"Mateo."
Up close, she could see more differences. Laugh lines around his eyes. A small scar above his eyebrow. Paint still under his fingernails—some things didn't change.
"You came," he said.
"I almost didn't."
He smiled—a real smile, not the charming mask she remembered. "I'm glad you did."
Silence. Not awkward, but full of everything they weren't saying.
"Your paintings..." Charlotte gestured at the walls, suddenly self-conscious. "They're nothing like I expected."
"Good different or bad different?"
"Beautiful different. Real different." She looked around at the canvases—all those ordinary moments elevated to art. "I don't see me in any of them."
Something flickered in Mateo's expression. "I learned to see other things." A pause. "Or maybe I learned to actually see, period."
Charlotte felt heat rise to her cheeks. She was acutely aware of how close he was standing. Close enough that she could smell him—paint and soap and something distinctly him.
"You cut your hair," he said suddenly.
"You noticed."
"I notice everything about you." The words came out before he could stop them. His eyes widened slightly. "Sorry, that sounded—"
"Don't apologize," Charlotte said quickly. "I like it."
Their eyes locked again. Charlotte's heart was doing complicated things.
"Mateo!" David Chen appeared, all polished enthusiasm. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's a couple from San Francisco who want to talk about commissioning a piece—"
Mateo looked torn. "I—"
"Go," Charlotte said, taking a step back. "It's your night."
"Charlotte—"
"I'm not leaving," she said softly. "I promised, remember?"
Relief flooded his face. "Don't. Please don't."
"I won't."
He held her gaze for one more moment, then let himself be pulled away by David.
Charlotte released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
Sophie materialized beside her with a glass of wine. "Well?"
"I think I forgot how to breathe," Charlotte admitted.
"That's a good sign."