The gallery was alive with activity, a subtle hum of murmurs merging with the delicate clinking of wine glasses. Eirian Vale's art display was an annual event, and Ana's paintings had been the exhibition's focus in recent years. Each brushstroke on her canvases conveyed a narrative of loneliness, perseverance, and a desire for independence. Tonight was no exception, with her most recent piece—a sweeping picture of the foggy valley at sunrise—commanding attention in the center of the exhibition.
Ana stood to one side, quietly satisfied as she observed the gathering. This life, so different from the dazzling parties and oppressive luxury of her past, was one she had fought hard to create. The locals' familiar faces consoled her, and their enthusiasm for her paintings served as a little but constant reminder that she belonged here.
But the instant she saw him, the calm she had felt vanished.
Dorian Blackwood stood at the entryway, his towering figure visible even among the busy crowd. His fitted suit, the gloss of riches that clung to him so easily, seemed out of place in the gallery's rustic appeal. His arrival was a shock to Ana's system, a clash of her history and present that she was unprepared for.
Her breath hitched as their gazes collided. His stormy dark stare, previously so familiar, latched on hers with an intensity that made her feel vulnerable. He appeared older, with deeper creases on his face, yet his imposing presence had not diminished. If anything, it had become sharper.
He approached her with methodical steps, like a predator closing in on its prey.
Ana turned fast, darting through the mob, her heart racing. She couldn't let him see her in this way, couldn't allow him destroy the fragile world she had created. But Dorian was unyielding, his voice piercing through the chatter of the audience.
"Ana."
She froze, his words holding her in place despite every instinct screaming at her to go. Slowly, she turned to face him, her head up in defiance, her hands trembling at her sides.
"Dorian," she said, her tone icy. "What are you doing here?"
His eyes traveled over her, capturing every detail—the tenderness of her face and the power in her posture. "I could ask you the same thing," he said. "Imagine my amazement when I noticed your name on one of the paintings. "And then your face."
Ana's stomach twisted. Why are we here, of all the galleries and places?
"Eirian Vale isn't exactly on the billionaire art circuit," she remarked abruptly, folding her arms.
Dorian grinned, but it did not reach his eyes. "I was not looking for you, Ana." But I'd be lying if I claimed I wasn't happy to see you."
"Glad?" she said, her tone increasing. "Dorian, you've been missing for five years. You've made your choice. "What could you possibly want from me now?"
He moved closer, and Ana fought the instinct to back away. "I didn't come here to fight," he explained, his voice softening. "I just... I needed to see you."
Ana laughed bitterly, slashing through the air like a sword. "Do you see me?" Why? To fulfill your curiosity? To check how the woman you left behind is doing?
"You think I left because I wanted to?" he said, his gaze hardening.
"You made it very clear," she retorted. "I was not enough for you. You didn't even have the courtesy to inform me before displaying her—"
"That's enough," he interjected, his voice low but forceful.
Ana remained silent, her heart pounding in her chest. His proximity, and the sheer emotion in his voice, were too much.
"Why now?" she said after a time, her voice cracking despite her best attempts to be composed. "Why after all this time?"
Dorian paused, his jaw stiffening. "Because I needed answers," he explained ultimately. "And because... I noticed something in the painting. "I thought something was gone."
Her breath caught. He was referring to a certain artwork, which she recognized. The one that recorded a recollection of a location they used to share, a little moment of bliss before everything went apart.
But before she could react, a soft voice pierced the silence.
"Mama?"
Ana and Dorian both looked toward the sound. Alaric stood a few steps away, his shaggy brown hair and big eyes mirroring those of his father. Behind him, Isolde held a little plush bear, her attention shifting between the two adults.
Ana's heart sank. She had feared this moment, when the flimsy barrier between her past and present would crumble.
Dorian's eyes widened as he gazed at the youngsters, the revelation coming over him like a storm. His stare returned to Ana, full with questions she wasn't prepared to answer.
"They're mine," he murmured, his voice scarcely audible.
Ana gulped hard, her chest squeezing as terror overtook her. "This isn't the place, Dorian," she murmured hurriedly, moving between him and the twins.
But Dorian was not listening. He bent down, his face softening as he gazed at the youngsters. "What's your name?" he asked Alaric.
Alaric paused, looking to his mother for support.
"Alaric," Ana stated forcefully, her voice as steel. "This is not the time."
Dorian straightened, his gaze locked on hers. "Not the time?" he said, his voice rising. "You have hidden this from me for five years, Ana. "Five years!"
"Because I had to!" she said, her voice shaking beneath the strain of passion. "Do you think I wanted this?" Do you think I wanted to raise them alone? You left me with no option, Dorian. "You were gone.
"I didn't leave," he responded, his voice tinged with rage and something deeper: anguish. "You've departed. You vanished, Ana. I sought for you. Do you know how many nights I spent up worrying if you were okay? "If you were still alive?"
Ana's breath caught, and her defenses wavered. "Don't twist this," she instructed. "You made your decision when you chose her."
"And I've regretted it every day since," he said, his voice raspy.
The words hung between them, weighty and unsaid, for far too long.
"Mama, is he mad at you?" Alaric's little voice pierced the stillness and brought Ana back to the present.
"No, sweetheart," she said, her voice softening as she looked at her kid. "He's just... confused."
Dorian's gaze shifted between Ana and the children, his expression unreadable. "We're not done," he whispered gently, his tone conveying a promise that sent shivers down her spine.
"I think we are," Ana said, her voice firm despite the fury growing inside her.
Dorian's jaw tensed, but he nodded once, his gaze resting on the twins before turning and walking away.
As the museum door closed behind him, Ana breathed shakily, her legs threatening to give way. Hazel arrived at her side, hand on Ana's shoulder.
"What are you going to do?" Hazel inquired, her voice quiet.
Ana shook her head, her gaze locked on the area where Dorian had stood. "I don't know," she muttered.
But one thing was certain: her history hadn't simply knocked on the door; it had busted it down. And she wasn't sure she had enough strength to keep it out.