Page 35 of Stalked
“Well, I should be going. I have dinner with Elliot to discuss the gallery opening.”
“Of course. Elliot mentioned you were doing remarkable things with the space. He has high hopes for your... partnership.”
The way he sayspartnershipsends prickles down my spine.
“The Blackwoods now have their fingers in every pie in Ravenwood, I see.”
Vane laughs. “Yes, that gallery, for instance...”
“Don't tell me you're suddenly an art enthusiast,” I say.
“I've developed many interests over the years, Lia.” His eyes never leave mine. “Some old, some new. You'd be surprised what I'm willing to invest in.”
“Invest all you want. It doesn't change anything between us,” I say, taking a deliberate step back to break whatever spell he's casting.
“Doesn't it?” Vane moves forward, erasing the distance I created. “You come back to Ravenwood after fifteen years and expect to avoid me? In a gallery with Blackwood money behind it?”
My pulse quickens. “What are you implying?”
“I'm not implying anything.” His smile is sharp enough to cut glass. “Just finding it interesting that after all this time running away, you've walked right back to me.”
“I took a job, Vane. Not everything revolves around you.”
“And yet here we are.” He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear before I can stop him. “Still circling each other after all this time.”
The casual touch sends heat cascading through me. I jerk away, hating my body's instant reaction to him.
“Don't.” I clutch my portfolio against my chest like a shield. “Whatever game you're playing, I'm not interested.”
“No games, Lia.” His voice drops lower. “Just unfinished business.”
“There's nothing unfinished between us. It was one night.”
“Was it?” His eyes darken. “Is that why you ran to New York without looking back? Because it meant nothing?”
The accusation hits its mark. I feel my cheeks flush hot with anger and something else I refuse to acknowledge.
“I left for college. To build a career. Not everything was about escaping you.”
“Liar.” The word isn't harsh—it's almost tender, which makes it worse. “I saw your face that night. You can build all the walls you want, but some things don't change.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as unwanted memories flood back—his hands on my skin, the way he'd whispered in my ear, how completely I'd surrendered. I've spent fifteen years burying those feelings, constructing a life where I'm always in control.
“You don't know me anymore,” I say. “Whatever you think happened between us was teenage hormones and poor judgment. Nothing more.”
I turn sharply on my heel, clutching my portfolio like armor against my chest. My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain he can hear it as I stride away, focusing on the steady click of my heels against the pavement to drown out the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.
One block. Just make it one block, and you can breathe again.
“Running away again, wildflower?” Vane's voice carries down the street.
Wildflower. The name he'd whispered against my skin that night, claiming I was beautiful but untamed, impossible to contain. How many nights had that endearment haunted my dreams in college? How many times had I jolted awake, feeling phantom fingers tracing my spine as that word echoed in my mind?
My steps falter for just a moment, betraying me. I don't turn around, but my spine stiffens, and I know he sees it—that momentary crack in my composure. Damn him for still knowing exactly how to get under my skin.
“Don't call me that,” I call back, not breaking stride, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing my face.
But even as the words leave my mouth, the way my body reacts—pulse quickening, cheeks flushing—tells a different story. One I've been denying for fifteen years.
