The gallery was almost empty when Cole arrived.

It was a soft opening—no press, no speeches, no crowds. Just dimmed lights, white walls, and the quiet murmur of a few invited guests drifting from one artwork to another. The kind of night meant for lingering, not being seen.

Cole kept his hands in his pockets as he stepped inside, shoulders slightly hunched, as if bracing himself for impact.

He hadn’t told anyone he was coming.

Not his coworkers who had encouraged him to attend. Not the acquaintance who had casually mentioned that Laura Smith—yes, that Laura—was back in the country for a commissioned exhibit. He’d nodded then, uninterested on the...