Alexander's pov
"Now, shall we start over?" I asked, half-smiling as I offered her a towel.
She took it, dripping and furious. "You pushed me."
"You slipped," I corrected, fighting a laugh. "There's a difference."
She narrowed her eyes. "You were standing too close."
I shrugged. "You were talking too much."
Her jaw tightened. "You're insufferable."
"I've been called worse." I reached out to pluck a stray leaf from her wet hair. My fingers brushed her temple; she went still. For one suspended second the gallery noise thinned until there was only the small, sharp rhythm of her breath. Then she stepped back, wrapping the towel tighter against her chest.
"Don't touch me," she said, quietly.
The sting of it surprised me. I looked down, busying myself with a cufflink. "You're welcome for the rescue, by the way."
"You call throwing someone into a pool a rescue?"
"It looked like you needed cooling off."
Her mouth opened, a rebuttal forming, but the faint half-smile at my lips stopped her. She muttered something—I caught the edge of an insult—and started toward the exit.
I followed without thinking.
Light from the chandeliers slid across the wet marble, splintering into color on the hem of her dress. The fabric clung, outline and weight shifting with each step, and every careful plan I'd made that evening blurred against the rude clarity of watching her move. She was still Isobel—stubborn and graceful and incandescently unpredictable—but she didn't know me now. That ought to have made it easier. It didn't.
"Wait," I called.
She turned halfway, towel held like armor. "What?"
"You're shivering."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." I nodded toward the lounge. "There's a heater in there."
"I said I'm fine, mister—"
"Alexander," I supplied. "Just Alexander."
She studied me, then scoffed. "Right. Of course. The mysterious buyer with too much money and too little manners."
I bit my tongue against a smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't."
I closed the distance a fraction. "You always this charming to people who buy your work?"
"You always this arrogant to people who fall into pools?"
"Yes." I let the word land. "Especially the ones who blame me for it."
Her lips twitched; she tried to smother the smile and failed. The corner of her mouth softened, reluctant. Something inside me shifted—old, familiar—and I had to fight to keep my face neutral.
"Look," she said, folding her arms, "I don't know what you want from me, but I'd rather not be anyone's amusement tonight."
"I wanted to meet the artist," I told her. "That's all."
"Congratulations. You've met her."
"I was hoping for a better first impression."
"You ruined my dress."
"You started it."
Her laugh was short and incredulous. "You're impossible."
"Maybe," I admitted. "But I'm honest."
She glanced around; guests hovered at the edges of our little tableau, pretending not to watch. The gallery owner lingered nearby, irritation creasing his brow.
I stepped nearer, lowering my voice. "If you're worried about your reputation, don't be. Everyone here will forget this by tomorrow."
Her eyes locked on mine. "You sound sure of that."
"I'm good at making people forget things."
Her brow creased. "That's not comforting."
It wasn't meant to be.
She turned away again, heading for the back doors that led to the courtyard. I hesitated, then followed.
Outside, the night air was cool, charged with the scent of rain and city smoke. Water still dripped from her hair, pooling on the stone at her feet. I wanted to say something—anything that didn't sound rehearsed—but all I could think of was how different she looked now: steadier, sharper. Confident in a way that made the past year ache.
She was still herself, stubborn and luminous, but she had changed.
She finally spoke. "Why'd you really buy it? My painting."
I looked at her. "Because I wanted it."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the truth."
"Do you always get what you want?"
"Usually."
"Then I pity you," she said softly. "You've probably never learned what it feels like to lose something you care about."
The irony pricked. I almost laughed. "You'd be surprised."
She studied me, as if scanning beneath the surface of my words. "You talk like someone who's been hurt."
"I talk like someone who knows better now," I said.
Her expression softened for a fraction of a second. Then she shook her head. "You don't fool me."
"I'm not trying to."
"Sure you are," she said. "Men like you always are."
"Men like me?"
"Rich. Bored. Think everything's a game."
I closed the distance until there was barely space between us. "And what if I told you this isn't a game?"
She swallowed; her voice lowered. "Then I'd say you're lying."
"Try me."
Silence stretched between us. Streetlights stuttered on in the puddles, throwing shards of light over our shoes. She looked up, perhaps to deliver another cutting line, but her heel slipped on the wet tile. Without thinking I reached out and caught her arm.
Her palm came to rest flat against my chest.
Neither of us moved.
A light rain began again, cold and fine, tapping the glass of the courtyard. I could feel the quick thud of her pulse beneath her fingers. She looked up at me, eyes wide, uncertain. My throat tightened.
"You can let go now," she whispered.
"I could," I said.
"Then do it."
But I didn't.
For a suspended moment the world narrowed to that single breath: the damp curl of her hair against her cheek, the faint tang of paint and ozone, the warmth of her hand. I could have stepped back, pretended indifference, preserved the gulf between us.
Then she pulled away, and the spell broke.
"I should go," she said.
"You should."
She took a few steps, and I reached for her wrist—light, not a clamp but sure enough to stop her flight.
"Dinner," I said.
"What?"
"Have dinner with me. Tomorrow."
Her laugh was short and a little unsteady. "You must be joking."
"Do I look like I joke often?"
She hesitated, studying my face as if trying to read motive in the set of my jaw. "Why me?"
"Because you interest me."
"That's not enough."
"It's a start," I said.
She bit her lip and then said, "You don't even know me."
"I know enough."
"You really don't."
Before I could answer, a voice called from inside. She turned toward the sound. When she looked back, I'd closed the distance again.
Her breath caught when I said quietly, "Maybe I know you better than you think."
Her eyes widened. "What did you just—"
The courtyard door swung open, someone calling, "Miss Delacroix? The press is asking for you!"
She froze. I stepped back and set my expression to neutral.
"I'll see you tomorrow," I said.
"I didn't agree to that," she snapped.
Her voice trembled, just a fraction.
I smiled. "You will."
Then I turned and walked into the rain before she could find another retort.