Page 18 of His Untouchable Heart

I had meant to finish up financial reports before heading home, but my focus had drifted.

To Gabrielle.

To the damn dream.

To the way I caught myself watching her earlier, noticing things I shouldn’t.

Agitated, I leaned back in my chair, rolling the tension from my shoulders. My gaze flickered to my computer screen, the open file on my last search staring back at me.

A Lady and Gentleman in Black.

Gabrielle had mentioned it before—her curiosity about its origin, her suspicions that there was more to its history than the records showed. She hadn’t outright asked for my help, but I knew she wanted it.

And for some reason, I had pulled up the file. Privately.

I wasn’t sure why I didn’t just ask her about it directly. Maybe I didn’t want her to know I was thinking about her outside of work. Maybe I didn’t want to encourage whatever was happening between us.

Or maybe, deep down, I already knew it was too late for that.

I clicked through the information, scanning the provenance records, the restoration notes. A strange feeling settled in my gut—yet I found nothing out of the ordinary.

I was just starting to dig deeper when my phone buzzed against the desk.

I checked the screen.Unknown Number.

I stared at it for a second before swiping to decline.

Then, with one last glance at the gallery security feed—just to confirm I was alone—I reopened the file.

And kept searching.

CHAPTEREIGHT

Gabrielle

It was midmorning, and Anthony still hadn’t shown up. Or maybe he had—just briefly—and left before I arrived. The gallery felt oppressively still. Not the calm, anticipatory quiet that usually settled in before opening, but a heavy, hollow silence that pressed down on everything, as if the space itself had been abandoned.

I rubbed the tension from my forehead and forced my attention back to the documents spread in front of me—A Lady and Gentleman in Black. I’d reviewed the provenance record for what felt like the hundredth time, the chain of documented ownership offering no new clarity. On my screen, my Swiss contact’s email still glared at me, unanswered.

Still nothing.

As my fingers tapped on the desk, I resisted checking my phone again. The message I waited for remained absent. The only sound was the soft whirr of the ceiling fan overhead; the staff wouldn’t arrive for another half hour. It was just me, the paintings, and the weight of foreboding I couldn’t place. I shifted in my chair, rolling my shoulders back in an attempt to dispel the creeping unease.

Gather yourself, Gabrielle.

Yet something was off. I picked up my phone; its cold metal was a stark contrast to my rising anxiety.

No new messages—none from Anthony, none from my contact in Switzerland, none at all. The longer I stared at the blank screen, the more certain my gut became: something ominous was coming.

Swallowing hard, I shifted my focus back to the records, but a shadow moved in the hallway just then. My breath hitched. Was it just a trick of the light or the security guard? No. Someone else was there.

My pulse quickened as the shadow took shape.

Frank Curtain.

He entered with calculated ease, his expression unreadable. Without hesitation, he stepped fully into my office and, with deliberate intent, closed the door behind him with a soft click. He offered no greeting, no explanation. Instead, he stood there, adjusting his cufflinks with the slow precision of a man who knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.

I kept my expression neutral, even as every instinct screamed at me to tense, react, and move.

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