Chapter 4 I Said No, but Life Said Otherwise

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"No."

The word came out sharper than I intended, but I didn't care.

Damon Blackwood's smirk froze-just for a beat-before it slid back into place, as confident as ever. "No?"

"You heard me," I said, crossing my arms like a shield. "I'm not signing your contract."

His gray eyes narrowed, calculating. "Bold choice. Risky, too, considering how close you are to losing everything."

My jaw clenched. I hated how calm he was, how sure of himself. It made my skin crawl.

"This conversation is over," I snapped, grabbing my bag. "And don't bother coming back."

Damon chuckled, low and smooth, as I turned to leave. "You'll change your mind, Sophia. Sooner than you think."

I didn't look back. But his words stayed with me, gnawing at the edges of my resolve.

---

The Notice

The next morning, my phone buzzed with a call from Mr. Brooks, my advisor. His tone was heavy.

"Sophia, you need to come in. Now."

The moment I sat down in his office, he slid a thick envelope across the desk. I recognized the bank's logo and felt the bottom drop out of my stomach.

I ripped it open with trembling hands. Foreclosure Notice.

"Thirty days," I read aloud, my voice barely above a whisper.

Mr. Brooks nodded grimly. "Sophia, I've been negotiating on your behalf, but the bank isn't budging.We're out of time."

"There has to be something," I said, desperation clawing at my throat. "A loan? Crowdfunding? Anything?"

He shook his head. "I've explored every option. The gallery's financial record makes it too risky for investors, and the debt is..." He trailed off, looking at me with pity.

"Don't say it," I said, holding up a hand.

"Sophia." His voice was softer now, almost fatherly. "I know you don't want to hear this, but Damon Blackwood's offer could save the gallery."

"No," I said immediately, shaking my head. "Absolutely not."

"Think about what your father would've wanted," he pressed.

That hit like a punch to the gut. My father built this gallery with his bare hands. It was his dream, his legacy-and now I was about to let it all slip through my fingers.

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The Break-In

That night, I stayed late at the gallery. I didn't want to go home and sit with my thoughts. Instead, I rearranged paintings, scrubbed every surface, and buried myself in paperwork.

But no matter what I did, Damon's smirk haunted me.

By the time I locked up, it was nearly 2:00 a.m. The city outside was quiet for once, and the gallery felt too still, too hollow.

As I turned to leave, a faint shuffle stopped me in my tracks.

"Hello?" I called, gripping my keys like a weapon.

Nothing.

I hesitated, then grabbed the nearest heavy object-a decorative vase-and tiptoed toward the noise. My pulse thundered in my ears as I rounded the corner.

The back office door was cracked open, and a faint glow spilled out.

"Hey!" I yelled, my voice cracking.

The light snapped off, and a figure bolted past me. I barely caught a glimpse-tall, hooded, and fast.

"Stop!" I shouted, but they were gone, disappearing through the back exit before I could move.

My hands shook as I stumbled into the office. Papers were everywhere. Drawers had been yanked open, their contents dumped onto the floor.

Then I saw it: the cabinet where my father kept his private collection. The lock had been smashed.

One piece was missing-a small, nondescript painting I'd barely paid attention to before.

The police arrived within twenty minutes, but their questions only added to my frustration.

"Do you know the value of the stolen item?" one officer asked.

"No idea," I admitted. "It wasn't even on display. It was part of my father's personal collection."

"Was it insured?"

I winced. "No. It... it wasn't cataloged yet."

The officer's face didn't change, but I could feel the judgment in his silence.

"We'll file a report and follow up," he said, closing his notebook. "But you might want to consider increasing security. If they came for something so specific, they might try again."

Great. That was exactly what I needed to hear.

I locked up after the officers left, my head spinning with questions. Why would someone risk breaking in for that one painting? What was so special about it?

Before I could spiral further, a sharp knock at the front door made me jump.

I checked the clock. 3:00 a.m.

"What the hell..." I muttered, grabbing the vase again as I cautiously approached the door.

When I opened it, my stomach sank.

Damon Blackwood stood there, leaning casually against the frame, his dark suit immaculate despite the late hour.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded, stepping into the doorway to block him.

"I heard about the break-in," he said, his voice calm.

"From who?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

He gave me that infuriating smirk. "I have my ways."

"Of course you do," I muttered. "Well, thanks for your concern, but I'm fine."

"Are you?" His gaze flicked past me, scanning the darkened gallery. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're in way over your head."

I crossed my arms. "What do you want, Damon?"

"To help," he said simply.

I laughed bitterly. "Right. Because you're just the generous type."

His smirk faded, replaced by something colder. "This isn't a game, Sophia. Whoever broke in tonight wasn't random. They knew what they were looking for. And they'll be back."

"How do you know that?"

He hesitated, his eyes briefly flickering with something I couldn't place. "Let's just say I've seen this before."

Suspicion prickled at the back of my neck. "You're not telling me everything."

"Maybe not," he admitted. "But that doesn't change the fact that you need protection. And I'm the only one who can give it."

"You're insane," I said, shaking my head.

"No, Sophia," he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I'm your best chance at surviving this."

I froze. "Surviving? What the hell are you talking about?"

Instead of answering, he handed me a folded piece of paper.

"What's this?"

"Proof," he said, his tone unreadable.

I opened it, and my heart stopped.

It was a photograph of the missing painting... and scrawled across the back, in red ink, were the words: "She doesn't know yet."

Before I could process what it meant, the lights in the gallery flickered and went out, plunging us into darkness.

"Damon-" I started, but he grabbed my arm, pulling me close.

"Stay quiet," he whispered, his voice tight. "We're not alone."