Cherry Lips

Isabella's fingers tightened around her phone, the latest text searing into her mind like a warning shot: Willow Creek isn't done with you. Neither am I. The words dragged her back to a past she'd buried—Willow Creek, a small town of stifling memories, where her mother's death and her father's betrayal had left scars she'd painted into her art. Standing in Julian's penthouse, the Manhattan skyline glittering beyond the windows, she felt exposed, like the city itself was watching her. Her cherry-red lips pressed into a hard line, and she turned to Julian, his gray eyes studying her with a mix of concern and resolve.

"Whoever's sending these texts knows me," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. "They know Willow Creek. My past. And they're using my paintings to get to me."

Julian's hand found hers, his touch warm, grounding, but his jaw was tight. "No one's getting to you, Isabella," he said, his voice a low promise. "I'll find them. But you need to tell me everything—Willow Creek, your art, what you're running from."

She pulled her hand back, her hazel eyes flashing. "I'm not running," she snapped, though the lie tasted bitter. "I left that town because it broke me. My mother died in a car crash when I was sixteen. My father—he wasn't the man I thought. He lied, cheated, left us with nothing. My paintings… they're what kept me whole." Her voice softened, vulnerability creeping in. "But I didn't think they'd follow me here."

Julian's expression softened, but the storm in his eyes didn't fade. "Your art's powerful," he said, stepping closer, his fingers brushing her cheek. "It's you—raw, unapologetic. But it's stirring things up. Lena, my father, Vanessa—they're all circling because of it."

Isabella's heart skipped at the mention of Lena and Vanessa, their cryptic warnings echoing the texts. "And this journalist Mara mentioned?" she asked, crossing her arms. "Some guy poking into my past? That's not a coincidence, Julian."

He nodded, his hand dropping to his side. "I'm already looking into it. Ethan's got contacts who can track him. But I need you to trust me, Isabella."

"Trust?" She laughed, sharp and brittle. "Your world's a maze of secrets, and I'm caught in the middle. I trust myself, Blackwood. That's enough for now."

His lips twitched, a flicker of admiration in his gaze, and the air between them crackled with that familiar pull. He stepped closer, his breath warm against her ear. "You're impossible," he murmured, his voice a caress that sent a shiver down her spine. "And I wouldn't have you any other way."

Her cherry-red lips parted, tempted to close the distance, to let his touch drown out the fear. But the weight of the texts, the mention of Willow Creek, held her back. She stepped away, needing space to think. "I need answers, Julian. Not promises."

He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "Then let's get them. Come with me to the gallery tonight. There's a private event—Lena will be there. We can confront her."

Isabella hesitated, but the fire in her gut won out. "Fine. But if she's behind this, I'm not playing nice."

The gallery was a different beast at night, its sleek walls bathed in soft lighting, the crowd thinner but no less elite. Isabella's black dress hugged her curves, her cherry-red lips a bold contrast as she moved through the room, Julian at her side. His hand brushed her lower back, a subtle claim that sent warmth through her, but her focus was on the crowd, searching for Lena's cold hazel eyes.

Instead, she spotted Ethan Caldwell, his blond hair catching the light as he leaned against a bar, charming a group of investors. His grin faltered when he saw her, but he raised his glass in a playful toast. "Isabella," he called, sauntering over. "You clean up nice. Julian, you're slacking—where's the champagne for this one?"

Julian's hand tightened on her back. "Ethan, focus. Where's Lena?"

Ethan's eyes flicked to Isabella, a spark of curiosity there. "Running late, as usual. But I heard she's got a new player in her corner." He leaned closer, his voice lowering. "Some journalist sniffing around your girl's art. Sound familiar?"

Isabella's blood chilled, but before she could respond, a new figure approached—a man, late 20s, with a lean frame, messy brown hair, and glasses that didn't hide the intensity in his green eyes. His casual blazer stood out among the tuxedos, and his gaze locked onto Isabella like he'd been waiting for her.

"Isabella Voss," he said, his voice smooth but probing. "I'm Noah Grant, freelance journalist. Your paintings—they're making waves. Care to talk about what inspired them?"

Her heart pounded, Willow Creek flashing in her mind. This was him—the journalist Mara mentioned. "Not much to tell," she said, her voice cool, her cherry-red lips curving into a guarded smile. "Just paint and passion. You're barking up the wrong tree."

Noah's smile was disarming, but his eyes were sharp. "I don't think so. I've been to Willow Creek. Talked to folks who remember you. Your father, especially. He had some… interesting stories."

Isabella's breath caught, her facade cracking. Julian stepped forward, his presence a wall. "Back off, Grant," he said, his voice low, dangerous. "She's not your story."

Noah raised his hands, unfazed. "Just doing my job, Blackwood. But when art starts rattling billionaires, it's news." He glanced at Isabella. "I'll be in touch."

As he walked away, Lena appeared, her sleek black dress and cold smile cutting through the crowd. "Trouble follows you, doesn't it, Isabella?" she said, her hazel eyes glinting with malice. "You should've stayed in your little town."

Isabella's fists clenched, but she held her ground, her voice steady. "If you've got something to say, Lena, spit it out. Or are you just scared of what my paintings might show?"

Lena's smile tightened, but before she could retort, a commotion erupted near the gallery entrance. Vanessa Reed stormed in, her platinum hair gleaming, her eyes locking onto Julian. "We have a problem," she said, her voice clipped. "The board's pulling the deal, and your father's leading the charge. He thinks Isabella's art is a liability."

Isabella's stomach dropped. Her paintings—her heart, her escape—were now a weapon against her. Julian's hand found hers, his grip firm. "We'll handle it," he said, but his eyes held a storm of doubt.

As the crowd buzzed, Isabella's phone vibrated with another text: You can't hide forever. Willow Creek knows. Her blood ran cold, and she looked at Julian, Lena, and Noah's retreating figure. Someone was pulling strings, and she was running out of time to find out who.