Chapter 3 Old Wounds

"You don't get to stand here like none of it ever happened."

Georgia's voice cracked like glass, the echo of her pain laced in every syllable. She stood at the window of the penthouse suite, watching rain sketch ghostly patterns on the glass. St. Louis shimmered in the distance, blurred and cold, like the past she tried to bury.

Weston didn't respond. Not yet. He leaned against the edge of the marble counter, his tailored charcoal suit crisp against the clean lines of the room. But his eyes, those eyes held the weight of five years, dark with something unspoken.

"You left," she whispered, arms folded tightly over her chest. "I begged you to fight for me."

"I did fight," he said quietly. "You just weren't watching."

She turned away. That wasn't the kind of fight she needed. Not back then. Not when her world shattered beneath her feet.

The memories crept in like a fog thick, unwelcome. The echo of slammed doors, unanswered calls, the bitter taste of goodbye scrawled in silence. Five years ago, she'd walked away from the only man she'd ever loved, and she'd left behind more than just heartbreak.

She'd left behind herself.

The night Georgia left was etched into her bones. The gallery opening had been packed, a blur of faces and champagne flutes. Weston had shown up late again wearing that same detached charm he offered the world but never her.

She'd waited for him, her best painting unveiled and left unnoticed. He'd kissed her cheek like she was an obligation.

Then came the whispers. The hand on his arm that wasn't hers. The quiet lies told in front of the press. The woman in red Isla Voss whose perfume lingered long after she vanished into the shadows with Weston.

Georgia had stood in the alley behind the gallery with a suitcase and a plane ticket, her heart pounding as hard as the rain. Her father's scandal had just broken in the news. Her family's legacy collapsing. And Weston? He hadn't even looked for her when she disappeared.

Because he knew. Because he let her go.

Back in the present, Weston took a step toward her. "I never stopped caring."

"You cared enough to forget me," she snapped. "You cared enough to let me walk into hell alone."

His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked. "That's not what happened."

"Then tell me what did."

A silence spread between them like a wound refusing to close.

She stared at him, waiting needing for the truth.

But all he said was, "You weren't the only one broken that night."

"Is this your idea of an apology?"

Georgia narrowed her eyes across the linen-draped table, the flicker of candlelight doing little to soften the edge in her tone. The private dining room Weston had reserved was too quiet, too luxurious, too perfectly staged.

He poured her wine with the precision of a man who controlled everything even the moments meant to be spontaneous.

"This isn't an apology," Weston said smoothly. "This is dinner."

Her laugh came sharp. "Right. Because nothing says 'reconciliation' like Wagyu steak and vintage Merlot."

They sat across from each other like two generals at a ceasefire meeting, forks and knives in hand instead of weapons, though the tension in the room could have cut glass.

Georgia looked stunning, too stunning, he thought with annoyance. The silk dress kissed her curves, her makeup subtle but ruthless. The woman who'd left with a suitcase five years ago had returned sharper, colder, more composed. But he saw the war still raging behind her eyes.

"I don't want reconciliation," he finally said. "I want compliance. The contract, Georgia. We both have something to gain from this."

"Do we?" She took a sip of wine. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're the one who wants a bride to parade for shareholders."

He leaned in, voice low. "You're not a prop."

"Aren't I?"

She didn't back down. Not anymore. But for a moment, just a breath, something shifted. Weston hesitated. The bite in his gaze softened as she reached for the breadbasket with hands that trembled.

And then she said it, almost too softly to hear: "You remember that night at the lake house? When we lit that fire in the middle of summer and swore we'd never be like our parents?"

He froze.

She watched the mask slip. Just a little. Just enough.

"You remember that night?" he murmured.

She didn't answer. She didn't have to.

The gallery hadn't changed. Still minimalist, still cold, still haunted by the ghosts of color and unfinished promises. Georgia walked through the exhibit slowly, heels clicking against the concrete floor.

It smelled of turpentine and varnish. Like memory.

Her fingers grazed the edge of a frame a painting she'd done just before everything collapsed. It was of a storm, heavy with grey skies, the brushstrokes angry and raw.

"Still drawn to chaos, I see."

His voice stopped her breath. Weston.

He stepped out from between two columns, dressed in black like the devil come to collect. She hadn't heard the door. Hadn't sensed him. But of course he'd find her here.

"Are you stalking me now?"

"You were always a creature of habit." He looked around. "This place is a shrine to who you were."

"I came to remember."

"And?"

"And I remembered why I left."

He smiled, slow and dangerous. "Yet here you are."

She folded her arms. "Did you follow me to gloat?"

"No," he said, voice low. "I came to see if the girl who painted fire was still alive in the woman pretending she doesn't burn."

Georgia inhaled sharply. That wasn't fair.

He stepped closer. "I missed this. The fire. The fight in you."

She stood her ground, even as the space between them narrowed to nothing.

"I didn't come here for games," she said.

"Neither did I."

There was a pause. A pull.

And then he kissed her. Or maybe she kissed him. It was a collision, not a choice. Mouths crashing, breath stolen, a fire reigniting with a vengeance they'd both tried to kill.

His hand slid up her back. She clutched his lapel. The world stopped.

Then he pulled away.

Abrupt. Brutal.

She blinked, breathless.

"I shouldn't have done that," Weston said, already retreating.

Georgia stared at the door he disappeared through, heart hammering.

The gallery echoed with silence.

And outside, the night swallowed everything whole.