Broken Threads

CHAPTER TWELVE part 2

Another pause. "She also asked if... Miss Mehta would be there."

I turned cold. "Did she?"

The silence on the other end of the line was answer enough.

She's watching this too. They all are.

And they think I'm slipping.

They think this is more than it is.

And maybe they're right.

But I can fix it.

I will fix it.

I stood, shoulders squaring, walking toward the cabinet behind my desk. Opened the drawer. Pulled out the sketch.

The one I made the night I saw her on that Vogue Italia cover.

The one no one knew existed.

Even then—before we ever met—I'd seen something in her.

Not beauty.

Not talent.

Power.

A mirror I didn't know I was missing.

I stare at the lines, the shading. How perfectly I'd captured the tilt of her head, the challenge in her eyes. I'd drawn it from memory. And I'd hidden it.

Because even then, I knew this wasn't admiration.

It was dangerous.

It still is.

I rolled the silver coin over my knuckles, staring at her likeness one more time before shoving it back into the drawer and locking it.

This is not love.

I say it again.

Out loud.

To the walls. To the ghosts. To the tight ache in my chest that won't go away.

"This is not love," I whisper.

Galleria Morano.
An art institution steeped in old-world splendor and veiled politics, where every brushstroke and champagne flute carried silent currency. Tonight's gala wasn't just about curation—it was about positioning. Appearances. And I'd never let mine falter. Not publicly.

I stood before the antique mirror in my dressing suite, adjusting the black velvet collar of my custom Brioni tux. Midnight charcoal, not black—an intentional deviation. Subtle enough to command attention without begging for it. A shadow among shadows.

"Should I alert security you're attending after all?" Matteo's voice came through the intercom, clipped and expectant.

"Yes," I replied. "And tell the curator I want my entrance quiet. No photos."

He paused. "Understood."

I stared at my reflection. Hair slicked back, every detail in place. Cufflinks, vintage Moretti crest. Pocket square, hand-stitched silk in a wine-stained burgundy. No ring. I never wore one.

I looked... perfect.

And I hated it.

Because none of this—none of the wealth or symmetry or empire-starched dignity—could suppress what was happening inside.

Her.

She was inside now.

Like a foreign element my blood couldn't metabolize. A storm I'd foolishly invited in, thinking I could contain it.

She said nothing sweet when she left.

She didn't need to.

Her silence clung to me more intimately than her perfume.