Chapter 5 The Painting That Knew Her Name

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The gallery was quiet.

Adrian moved through the halls like a man searching for something he couldn't name. The walls were washed in pale gold and soft shadows, the kind of space designed for stillness and wonder. Paintings lined the corridors - muted, provocative, expensive - yet none held his attention.

Until the last corner.

He turned. And stopped breathing.

She was there.

Not her, of course. But a painting.

A woman stood alone on a cliff's edge, her figure wrapped in a flowing black gown that rippled like smoke. Her face was turned slightly to the side, wind catching her dark hair, strands slashing across her cheek. Her eyes were closed, but there was no peace in her expression - only something achingly raw.

She was elegant. Guarded. Wounded. Defiant.

She looked like Selina.

Not the Selina the world once knew. Not the woman clinging to a crumbling marriage. But the woman who walked away from the ashes.

Adrian stepped closer, breath shallow. He didn't glance at the placard beside the frame. Didn't care who the artist was. He didn't even blink.

Because he knew.

> "That's her," he whispered.

The curator noticed him. "One of our most talked-about pieces. It's called 'Becoming.'"

Of course it was.

Adrian's gaze didn't leave the canvas. "I want it."

---

Bonus POV – Adrian (Flashback)

Title: The First Time He Saw Her

It was raining in Florence.

He hadn't planned on stopping at the café - but the weather made the choice for him.

He stepped under the awning, pulled off his gloves, and looked up.

And saw her.

She was seated alone by the window, barely visible through the fogged glass. Her head was bowed, dark strands falling like curtains around her face. One hand cradled a mug of untouched tea. The other rested against her cheek, fingers trembling slightly.

She looked like every kind of heartbreak a man could have.

Adrian had never seen her before. But something in his chest recognized the ache written across her spine.

A man passed the window and entered the café, stopping at her table. Her head lifted. Her eyes - red-rimmed, wet - widened.

He sat. She flinched.

Adrian couldn't hear their words, but he could read the tone: cold. Routine. Indifferent.

The man stood before finishing his espresso. He kissed her temple, mechanical. Then walked out.

Selina didn't move.

She just sat there. Perfect posture. Silent devastation.

And Adrian, across the street, soaked to the bone, felt it in his marrow:

> She was a woman who had given her whole heart to someone who never saw the weight of it.

He didn't know her name.

Not yet.

But that night, he ordered two extra bottles of Italian red from the café, took them home, and whispered to himself:

> "If she ever leaves him... I'll be ready."

---

Back in Geneva, Selina sat on her small couch, the tablet resting on her knees.

The glow of the screen lit up the darkened apartment. It was well past 1 a.m., but she hadn't even realized. Her tea had gone cold on the side table. The flame of her fig-and-cedar candle was now a glowing stub.

On-screen was the email Naomi forwarded.

"Upcoming Feature: The Face Behind the Rise of Moreau Beauty"

They'd asked for high-resolution photos. A quote from Selina herself. Possibly a short sit-down interview.

Naomi's message was short, cheeky: "Smile, queen. They're finally seeing you."

Selina's fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then dropped.

She didn't smile.

Not yet.

But her heart... stirred.

She didn't know how to react to this kind of attention anymore. Not when it wasn't based on scandal or association. Not when it was rooted in her. Her work. Her vision. Her rise.

> It felt like someone had noticed the mountain she climbed - not the man she left behind.

---

Lucas sat in his usual café in Florence, untouched espresso steaming on the table.

The barista, used to his silence, simply slid a magazine across the table.

His name was on the cover. But not beside Amara.

Selina's face - sleek, composed, stunning in black and white - filled the entire front page.

"Selina Moreau: The Billionaire Beauty Who Left Her Marriage and Built an Empire"

And beneath it:

> "And the ex-husband who never saw her coming."

Lucas stared. Frozen.

He hadn't even known she was still in Europe. Hadn't known she was making moves.

He thought she'd left to lick her wounds. That she was grieving, hiding, waiting.

He thought-

> "You underestimated her," Amara said from across the table.

Lucas flinched. He hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud.

Amara raised a brow. "You thought she'd fall apart without you?"

Lucas said nothing.

Amara stirred her tea. "That woman was never yours. You just borrowed her until she remembered who she was."

---

Adrian signed the paperwork for the painting that afternoon.

The curator was beaming. "It's an exquisite choice. It just arrived this week."

"Would you like it delivered?" the man asked.

Adrian shook his head. "No. I'll take it myself."

"It's quite large," the curator warned.

Adrian smiled faintly. "So is the feeling it gave me."

They carefully packaged the painting. Adrian arranged for a private transport, not trusting anyone else with it.

It didn't belong in a gallery. It belonged somewhere private.

> Somewhere she might see it one day.

---

That evening, Selina poured herself a small glass of white wine. She sat on the window ledge of her Geneva apartment, watching the light fade over the city. The rooftops glimmered like pewter. The wind whispered secrets she no longer needed to understand.

Her contract was officially active. Moreau Beauty had capital. And soon... it would have reach.

Her phone buzzed.

Naomi: "Lucas is spiraling. Just thought you'd like a bedtime story. 🐍"

Selina chuckled softly. No reply. Just... silence.

Her silence, these days, felt like armor. A sanctuary. A signal.

She was no longer screaming to be heard. She was letting the silence speak.

And it said everything.

She raised her wine to her lips, took a slow sip, and closed her eyes.

Not in grief. Not in escape.

But in peace.

> For the first time in a long time... she didn't feel alone.

---

Geneva woke slowly.

Selina did not.

She had already been up for hours, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her apartment, surrounded by drafts, formulas, photos, samples. A single lamp cast a circle of light over the chaos-the soft mess of a woman in motion.

Her hair was loose. Her sweater was inside out. Her tea had gone cold again.

But she was working.

Focused.

Alive.

The email from Modern Femme lay open beside her. They wanted her feature story by next week. A quote. A full photoshoot. And a list of her brand's top products.

She hadn't responded.

Not because she wasn't ready.

But because she wanted to make sure that when she finally stepped into the light-she was the one choosing it.

No spotlights handed to her. No legacy built on pity. No interviews framed around her ex-husband.

> This wasn't a comeback. It was a rebirth.

---

Naomi arrived with a croissant and sass.

"Tell me you've eaten."

"Define eaten," Selina replied without looking up.

Naomi groaned, tossed the bag on the counter, and walked over.

She surveyed the floor: packaging mockups, mood boards, two open laptops, and a rough sketch of a potential campaign called Power in Her Skin.

"You look like a genius who hasn't showered in three days."

Selina smirked. "Two."

Naomi flopped down beside her. "Lucas is still parading Amara. They were at some museum thing last night. Cameras everywhere. His team leaked that they might be 'exploring something serious.'"

Selina didn't react.

Naomi watched her closely. "You okay?"

Selina set her pen down. "I think so."

"That's not convincing."

"I mean it. I thought it would hurt. But all I feel is..." She looked around the room. "Free."

Naomi smiled. "That's how you know you're healing."

---

Later that evening, Selina stood at her window.

The city glittered beneath her like broken glass set in silver. Geneva was nothing like Florence. It was quieter, cooler, more distant. And she liked that. It didn't ask questions. It didn't whisper her name behind her back.

It simply let her exist.

She touched the glass with her fingertips.

She hadn't posted anything personal in months. Her social media was all business. No photos. No captions. Just clean strategy.

Until now.

Selina picked up her phone. Opened the gallery. Scrolled to a photo Naomi had taken earlier that morning-her standing against a white wall, no makeup, hair loose, sleeves pushed up, holding a test product in her hand.

She looked like herself.

She posted it.

No filter. No edits. Just a single caption:

> Becoming.

---

The post exploded in hours.

Former clients. Strangers. Fans from her early Moreau blog days. Women she'd once answered skincare questions for at 2 a.m.

They saw her. Not as a billionaire. Not as a headline. But as a woman who left and rose.

Adrian saw it, too.

He was in his office at the Voss building, finalizing a strategic acquisition in South Africa, when the notification lit up.

He clicked.

Froze.

She had eyes like smoke and purpose. A gaze that didn't ask to be adored-only understood.

> "You're still becoming," he murmured.

Then forwarded the image to someone on his team with one note:

> Get her on the New Faces dossier. Quietly.

---

Across the continent, Lucas saw the post in the backseat of his car.

Amara was beside him, scrolling through a press release.

He said nothing. Just stared.

She leaned closer. "Didn't expect that, did you?"

Lucas looked away. "She never posted things like this before."

"Maybe she finally has something to say."

Amara's voice wasn't cruel. Just honest.

"You thought you knew her. But all you saw was a shadow of me."

Lucas didn't answer.

Because maybe he hadn't seen her at all.

---

Selina didn't check the likes.

She didn't refresh for comments.

She closed the app, placed her phone face-down, and returned to her formulas.

Outside, the sky bruised with early nightfall.

Inside, she stirred something rare and real.

Not a serum.

Not a product.

Herself.