Charlotte's POV
Charlotte moved slowly through the exhibition, studying each painting.
Mateo's new work was nothing like the portrait he'd done of her three years ago—that dramatic, passionate, almost desperate piece that had made her into something more and less than human.
These paintings were quiet. Observant. Compassionate.
An elderly woman buying bread at a boulangerie, her weathered hands counting coins.
Children playing soccer in a narrow street, sunlight streaming between buildings.
A street musician closing his eyes as he played violin, lost in the music.
Each painting had the same quality: seeing. Not projecting, not fantasizing. Just witnessing people as they were.
She stopped in front of a larger canvas: a woman sitting alone in a café, rain streaming down the window beside her. The woman's face was turned away, but something about her posture—the set of her shoulders, the way she held her coffee cup—spoke of loneliness that wasn't quite lonely. Solitude that was chosen, not inflicted.
The title card read: "Learning to Be Alone"
Charlotte's throat tightened.
"That one's my favorite," Sophie said quietly, appearing beside her again.
"It's..." Charlotte couldn't finish.
"He painted it the week after Henri died. Said it was about learning that being alone isn't the same as being lonely."
Charlotte turned to look at Sophie. "Did he... is there someone in his life now? Someone who..."
Sophie's expression was kind. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"
Mateo's POV — 9:30 PM
The evening was going well. Three paintings had red dots—sold. David was ecstatic. Critics were taking notes. A journalist from the LA Times wanted an interview.
Mateo should be thrilled.
Instead, he kept scanning the crowd, looking for blue.
There. By the window, studying one of his favorite pieces—the portrait of Madame Rousseau, Henri's neighbor who'd let Mateo paint her garden.
Charlotte was alone, tilted her head slightly as she read the description card. In the gallery's track lighting, her hair caught gold.
She looked different. Not in an obvious way—she was still beautiful, that hadn't changed. But there was something softer about her now. Less armor. More real.
She turned suddenly, catching him watching.
Their eyes met again across the room.
This time, Mateo walked over without being pulled.
"Are you stalking me, Mr. Delacroix?" Charlotte asked, a hint of a smile playing at her lips.
"In my own exhibition? Technically this is my territory."
"Fair point." She turned back to the painting. "Who is she?"
"Madame Rousseau. Henri's neighbor. She used to yell at me for smoking in her garden, then bring me lunch because she decided I looked too skinny."
Charlotte smiled. "She sounds wonderful."
"She was." Mateo studied the painting. "She died two months ago. Heart attack. Henri went to her funeral three days before he..." He stopped.
"I'm sorry," Charlotte said. And it wasn't the polite society condolence she'd perfected over years of charity events. It was real.
"Me too."
They stood in silence, looking at the portrait of a woman who'd fed pigeons and yelled about cigarettes and brought lunch to struggling artists.
"Can I ask you something?" Charlotte said.
"Anything."
"When you painted me three years ago... what did you see?"
Mateo was quiet for a long moment. He'd known this question would come eventually. "Honestly?"
"Honestly."
"A fantasy. Someone I needed you to be because I was too afraid to face who I actually was. I made you into a symbol—escape, success, validation. Everything I thought I needed." He met her eyes. "It wasn't fair to you."
Charlotte absorbed this. "And now?"
"Now..." He looked at her—really looked. Saw the tiny scar above her eyebrow he'd never noticed before. The way she shifted her weight when she was nervous. The fact that her hands were bare—no rings, no jewelry. "Now I see someone who's scared but doing it anyway. Someone who's here at a gallery opening when she could be anywhere else. Someone who..." He trailed off.
"Someone who what?"
"Someone I'd like to get to know. If she's interested."
Charlotte's pulse skipped. "That's the scariest thing you could have said."
"I know."
"I'm interested anyway."
Charlotte's POV — 10:15 PM
The crowd was thinning. Charlotte had been talking to Mateo for the past half hour—small talk, big talk, everything in between. It felt natural and terrifying at the same time.
Then the gallery door opened, and Charlotte's stomach dropped.
Thomas Ashford walked in.
Not the composed, perfectly groomed Thomas she remembered. This Thomas was disheveled, his tie loose, his eyes red-rimmed. He scanned the gallery and locked onto her immediately.
"Charlotte," he said loudly, cutting through conversations. People turned to look. "We need to talk."
Charlotte felt Mateo tense beside her.
"Thomas, this isn't the place—"
"You won't return my calls. You changed your number. What else am I supposed to do?" He moved closer, and Charlotte could smell alcohol. "Please. I made mistakes. We both did. But we can fix this."
The gallery had gone quiet. Everyone was watching.
Mateo shifted slightly, putting himself between Charlotte and Thomas—not aggressively, just present. "Do you want me to ask him to leave," he said quietly, "or do you want to handle this yourself?"
Charlotte looked at him. Saw no jealousy in his eyes, no male posturing. Just a genuine question: What do you want?
Three years ago, she would have wanted to be rescued.
"I'll handle it," she said.
She turned to Thomas, and something in her settled. This man had been her fiancé. She'd almost built a life with him. But looking at him now, she felt... nothing. No anger, no longing, no fear.
Just sad clarity.
"Thomas," she said calmly, "I hope you find what you're looking for. I really do. But it's not me. It never was."
"Charlotte, please—"
"We were both playing roles. You wanted a Mrs. Ashford who'd look good in photographs and work a room. I wanted someone my parents would approve of. That's not love. That's casting."
Thomas's face crumpled. "Is this about him?" He glared at Mateo. "The artist? Are you seriously throwing away everything for—"
"I'm not throwing anything away," Charlotte interrupted. "I'm choosing something different. I'm choosing to figure out who I am without someone telling me. And Thomas?" She softened slightly. "I think you should do the same."
Security was approaching now—David had signaled them. Thomas let himself be escorted out, shooting one last desperate look over his shoulder.
The gallery slowly resumed its hum of conversation.
Charlotte's hands were shaking.
"You okay?" Mateo asked quietly.
"I think so. That was..."
"Brave."
"Terrifying."
"Both can be true." He paused. "Thank you for not letting me rescue you."
"Thank you for not trying."
Their eyes met, and Charlotte felt it again—that pull. Three years ago it had been desperate, frantic. Now it was deeper. Quieter. More real.
"This party's going to run for another hour at least," Mateo said. "But I don't really want to be here anymore."
"Where do you want to be?"
"Somewhere I can actually hear you when you talk."
Charlotte smiled. "I'd like that."