Chapter 7
780words
Without hesitation, she fired off an email from her university account, posing as an art history student researching "contemporary art sponsorship models."
The reply came within hours.
"Happy to discuss. Tomorrow, 3pm at my gallery."
Sophia's gallery occupied prime real estate downtown, its massive windows showcasing explosively colorful canvases.
Emma pushed through the heavy glass door, setting off a delicate chime.
Sophia sat behind a sleek white desk, draped in black, her lips painted blood-red.
She didn't rise when Emma entered, just examined her from head to toe with calculating eyes.
"You're not here about any sponsorship model."
Sophia's voice remained flat, stating fact rather than asking.
Emma's heart plummeted.
"Sit."
Sophia gestured to the chair across from her.
"You're with Alex."
Still not a question.
Emma nodded silently, fingers white-knuckling her bag strap.
Sophia laughed softly—a sound tinged with the sympathy of shared experience.
"Let me guess. He told you your perspective is unique? That your talent shouldn't be wasted?"
The blood drained from Emma's face.
"Did he materialize when you hit rock bottom, like some guardian angel solving all your problems?"
"Did he make you feel like the most special person alive?"
Each question cut like a scalpel through Emma's carefully constructed fantasy, exposing the raw truth beneath.
"That's his pattern."
Sophia lifted her coffee cup and sipped.
"He lives for it. Finding, saving, then admiring his handiwork. Perfect savior, terrible lover."
"Because once his 'masterpiece' no longer needs saving, his interest evaporates."
The gallery fell silent except for the soft hum of air conditioning.
Emma's blood turned to ice water.
"Did you…"
She forced the words out.
"Did you love him?"
Sophia stared out the window, her gaze distant.
"I loved the man who saved me. Later I realized he only loved the version of himself who was doing the saving."
That night, Alex's phone remained silent—no goodnight text from Emma.
He called. No answer.
Panic—raw and unfamiliar—crashed over him like a tidal wave.
He drove like a madman to her building.
She stood beneath the streetlight, her shadow stretching long and lonely across the pavement.
He burst from the car and seized her arm.
"Where the hell have you been? Why didn't you answer your phone?"
His voice shook with an emotion he couldn't name.
Emma didn't pull away.
She simply raised her eyes to his—those warm brown eyes now devoid of their usual softness, replaced by cold clarity.
"Alex."
Her soft voice pierced him like an ice pick.
"Sophia Dubois. Isabella Rossi. Catherine Lee."
"Remember them?"
The concern on Alex's face crystallized into something harder.
He stared at her, mouth working silently.
"I met with Sophia today."
Emma's voice remained terrifyingly steady.
"She's quite successful. Beautiful too. Just like your other 'collections.'"
"Collections?"
Alex's voice turned to gravel.
"I was helping them, just like… just like I'm helping you."
"Helping?"
Emma's laugh cut through the night—a sound more devastating than tears.
"Do you love me, Alex? Or just the pathetic creature who needed your rescue?"
Her question split his mind like lightning through darkness.
He wanted to say "I love you," but the words stuck in his throat, suddenly too heavy to lift.
He wanted to say "Of course it's you," but memories flooded back—the icy despair of his own withdrawal notice, the rush of satisfaction each time he played savior.
Those feelings versus what he felt for Emma—were they truly different?
He couldn't say.
"I…"
Meeting Emma's eyes, Alexander Romano—master of boardrooms and billion-dollar deals—found himself speechless.
"It's complicated…"
"No. It's not."
Emma pulled away, creating distance between them.
"You never loved me."
"What you loved was saving me."
She turned and walked into her building without a backward glance.
The heavy security door slammed shut with a hollow thud, dividing their worlds.
Alex stood alone on the empty street, city lights blurring as his vision swam.
He had won her. And lost her.
The danger he'd sensed all along finally materialized—a cold blade twisting in his chest.
The door's slam echoed like a gunshot, shattering the carefully constructed world he'd built.
He stood frozen under the harsh streetlight, his Bentley waiting uselessly nearby like an impotent guardian.
For the first time, he noticed how brutally cold Boston nights could be.
Wind cut through his bespoke suit, stealing the last traces of Emma's warmth.
He made no move toward his car.
He just stood there, staring at the closed door as if he could somehow see through concrete to her retreating figure.
His mind—for once—was utterly blank.
"What you loved was saving me."
Her words haunted him, echoing through the sudden emptiness of his mind.
