Page 17 of His Untouchable Heart

“Point is,” he said, “this isn’t about money. It’s about control. You’re trying to keep a grip on something that already changed. Maybe it’s time to stop fighting it.”

I didn’t answer. Because deep down, I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop fighting it.

By the time I arrived at the gallery, it was past eight o’clock. The moment I stepped inside the cool, air-conditioned facility, a sense of control settled over me, a stark contrast to the heat I’d left behind.

Work mode. That’s where I needed to be.

The restitution effort had a long way to go, and I had no time for distractions—especially not the kind I’d spent the morning trying to shove out of my head.

Yet, as I moved through the main exhibition hall, I spotted Gabrielle near one of the newly restored paintings, and whatever resolve I had left wavered.

She was absorbed in her work, her fingers skimming the edge of an ornate gilded frame as she studied the details of a Baroque-era portrait. The soft curve of her neck as she tilted her head in concentration, the way her hair framed her face, the barely perceptible furrowed brow—it all pulled my attention in a way I hadn’t expected. Or maybe I had.

I should have kept walking. Instead, I slowed, observing her with a curiosity I hadn’t let myself indulge before.

She adjusted her stance, crossing her arms as she examined the fine brushwork of the piece in front of her. A slight purse of her lips. A quiet inhale. There was something about watching her in this element—completely engrossed, entirely unaware of anything outside of what was in front of her—that made me feel like an intruder.

And yet, I didn’t move.

For the first time, I found myself wanting to know more—not just about her skill or knowledge of the art or what made her an asset to the gallery, but about who she was beyond this place, beyond the professionalism, beyond the sharp intelligence that always kept me on my toes and beyond the desire that sizzled between us.

The realization unsettled me.

I forced myself to move past her, my gaze snapping forward, my posture shifting. I needed to shake this off. I needed to remember that she was my colleague and nothing else.

I told myself as I reached my office, closing the door behind me with more force than necessary, that I needed to stay focused.

And yet, when I sat down at my desk, I wasn’t thinking about the reports waiting for me.

I was thinking about Gabrielle.

And I hated that I was.

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The evening air in the gallery felt different. Quieter. Heavier.

Most of the staff had already left for the day, leaving only the soft hum of security monitors and the occasional shuffle of footsteps echoing through the space. I was at my desk, eyes locked on the ledger in front of me, but I wasn’t reading a damn thing.

A knock at the door pulled me from my haze, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Gabrielle stood in the doorway, leaning lightly against the frame, her silhouette framed by the soft, fading light of the evening. Her dark blouse and tailored slacks gave her the same air of effortless elegance she always carried, but there was something different about her expression.

Something unreadable, almost as if she was keeping a secret just out of reach.

“I was just about to leave,” she said, crossing her arms with a casual grace that belied the underlying tension in her voice. “Want to grab a drink?”

I blinked, thrown by the question. Gabrielle wasn’t the type to ask for casual outings. At least, not with me. I hesitated long enough for her to arch a brow, her eyes glinting with a challenge I couldn’t quite decipher.

“It’s just a drink, Anthony,” she said, the corner of her mouth tilting slightly upward in a teasing smile. “Not a marriage proposal.”

I exhaled through my nose, forcing a smirk, but something about the offer—about the ease with which she said it—made my chest tighten with an unfamiliar tension. “I have a lot to do,” I said finally, my voice carefully measured. “I’ll probably be here late.”

For a split second, something flickered in her eyes. Disappointment? Amusement? I couldn’t tell, and it gnawed at me.

“Suit yourself,” she said, stepping back with a graceful shrug. “See you tomorrow.”

I watched as she turned, slung her purse strap over her shoulder, and walked toward the exit, her steps echoing softly in the hallway. I told myself I had made the right call. That keeping things professional was necessary. I wasn’t feeling the dull pull of regret as I watched her go. But when I caught sight of the taillights of her car disappearing out of the parking lot, the red glow fading into the night, I wasn’t so sure.

The gallery was silent now, save for the faint clicking of my keyboard.

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