What she had become to me in the span of one impossible night. I found myself thankful she rescheduled the meeting so that I could see her again.
At twelve-thirty, I made my way to the Ashcroft Gallery, the upscale exhibition space on the ground floor of our headquarters.
A neutral territory for the start of our meeting—neither my domain nor hers, but one where I held a particular advantage.
The gallery had been my idea, a space to showcase local artists while subtly reminding visitors of Turner Holdings' cultural contributions to the city.
It also provided the perfect setting for delicate negotiations, surrounded by beauty rather than the intimidation of a boardroom.
I arrived early, deliberately. Wanted to observe her before she saw me, to understand something of the woman beyond the vulnerability and passion I'd glimpsed in that hotel room.
The gallery was hosting a photography exhibition—stark, black-and-white images of urban transformation, neighborhoods in flux.
I moved through the space with practiced ease, nodding to the curator and exchanging pleasantries with a city council member who was viewing the exhibit. All while keeping one eye on the entrance.
She arrived at precisely twelve forty-five, fifteen minutes before our scheduled meeting.
Alone.
That surprised me—I'd expected Miles to escort her, to maintain his illusion of possession.
Her independence should not have pleased me as much as it did.
She moved differently here than she had at the wedding.
More assured, more focused.
This was her professional sphere, her armor fully intact.
A sleek charcoal suit accentuated the clean lines of her body without revealing too much; her hair was pulled back in a simple knot at the nape of her neck.
But it was her expression that caught me—intelligent, appraising, missing nothing as her gaze swept the gallery.
I hung back, watching as she paused before a particular photograph—a contrast of old and new San Francisco, Victorian alongside glass and steel.
Her head tilted slightly, considering the image with a focus that suggested she wasn't merely passing time but genuinely engaging with the work.
"Morgan's early series," I said, approaching at last.
"Before he became fixated on aerial perspectives."
She stiffened at the sound of my voice but didn't turn immediately.
When she did, her composure was admirable, only the slight dilation of her pupils betraying any reaction to my presence.
"Mr. Turner."
Her voice was cool, professional.
"I didn't realize you were an art enthusiast."
"Lucas," I corrected gently.
"And there's quite a lot you don't know about me. Yet."
A faint flush rose to her cheeks, but her gaze remained steady.
"This is a business meeting. Professional boundaries seem appropriate."
