Santa Monica Doesn’t Understand Love

Charlotte's POV

The Beverly Hills Gallery buzzed with the kind of energy that only came when art met obscene amounts of money. Baccarat crystal champagne flutes clinked against fingers adorned with Harry Winston diamonds, and conversations about market valuations floated through the air like Tom Ford perfume.

I adjusted the collar of my custom Saint Laurent blazer—one of twelve identical pieces tailored specifically for my measurements in Paris last month. The "Los Angeles Urban Renaissance" exhibition was supposed to showcase local artists whose work would be "preserved" in our downtown development project.

Preserved. What a joke.

"Charlotte, darling!" Margaret Whitmore, the gallery owner, swept toward me with her arms outstretched. "Thank you so much for Morgan Industries' generous sponsorship. This exhibition wouldn't exist without your vision for the new downtown."

I smiled the practiced smile I'd perfected over years of board meetings. "Art is the soul of any community, Margaret. We're honored to support it."

The words felt like ash in my mouth. Since last night, since him, everything I said felt like a performance.

"Come, let me show you the featured pieces," Margaret guided me toward the main wall. "We've curated the most... suitable works for tonight's investors."

Suitable. Another word that made my stomach turn.

As we walked, I found myself scanning the room. Not for investors or board members, but for a familiar pair of Mediterranean blue eyes. For paint-stained fingers and that crooked smile that had haunted my dreams.

Don't be ridiculous, Charlotte. He wouldn't be here.

But then I heard it—raised voices cutting through the polite chatter.

"—told you, this wasn't part of the agreement!"

My blood turned to ice. That voice. That accent.

I turned toward the commotion and there he was. Mateo stood near the back wall, gesturing angrily at a blank space where a painting should have been. He wore the same ripped jeans from last night, but now they looked defiant rather than casual.

"Sir, please lower your voice," a security guard approached. "This is a private event."

"Private?" Mateo's laugh was bitter. "My work was supposed to be here. Three months I've been preparing for this exhibition, and now you're telling me it's too 'controversial' for your donors?"

Margaret's grip tightened on my arm. "Oh dear, we should—"

"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. "I want to hear this."

I walked toward them, my Louboutin So Kate heels—the same ones that cost more than most people's monthly rent—clicking against the imported Italian marble like a countdown.

"The piece was called 'Gentrification,'" Mateo continued, his voice rising. "Maybe that hit too close to home for your investors? Maybe they didn't like seeing what their 'urban renewal' actually looks like to the people who live there?"

That's when he saw me.

The recognition hit his face like a physical blow. Those blue eyes widened, then narrowed as he took in my expensive clothes, my perfect hair, and the way the gallery owner hovered behind me like a protective shadow.

"Well, well," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Charlotte."

"Mateo," I breathed.

"You know each other?" Margaret looked between us, confused.

"We met last night," I said carefully. "At his gallery."

"His gallery?" Margaret's voice rose an octave. "You mean the one on Sunset that's being demolished for phase two of your project?"

The air in the room seemed to evaporate. I watched as understanding dawned in Mateo's eyes, followed immediately by something that looked like betrayal.

"Your project," he repeated slowly. "Of course. Charlotte, what—Charlotte Morgan."

The way he said my last name made it sound like a curse.

"Mateo, let me explain—"

"Explain what?" He stepped closer, and I could see the fury burning in his eyes. "Explain how you played me last night? How you stood in my gallery, looking at my work, while planning to destroy everything I've built?"

"That's not—it wasn't like that—"

"Wasn't it?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Tell me, Charlotte, when you asked how much I needed to save the gallery, were you calculating how little it would cost you to buy my silence?"

The accusation hit me like a slap. "No! I was trying to help—"

"Help?" His voice cracked like a whip. "You want to help? Then stop this development. Stop turning my neighborhood into a playground for people who've never lived a real day in their lives."

"It's not that simple—"

"It never is, is it? Not for people like you." He gestured toward the champagne-sipping crowd. "You throw money at problems and call it charity. You tear down communities and call it progress."

"The development will create jobs, affordable housing—"

"Affordable for who?" he interrupted. "The families who've lived there for generations? The artists who can barely afford rent now? Or affordable for your friends here who want an 'authentic urban experience', they can Instagram?"

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat. Because looking at him—looking at him—I saw something I'd never seen before.

Passion. Real, raw, desperate passion for something beyond profit margins and quarterly reports.

"You know what kills me?" Mateo continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Last night, for about ten minutes, I thought I'd met someone real. Someone who understood what art could be, what it could mean to people."

"I am real," I said quietly.

"Are you?" He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell paint and rain and heartbreak. "Because the woman I met last night looked at that painting and saw beauty. She saw the truth. But you—you look at my neighborhood and see dollar signs."

"That's not fair—"

"Fair?" He laughed again, sharp and bitter. "You want to know what's not fair? You want to know what you're destroying with your shiny new development?"

He pulled out his phone, swiping through photos with shaking fingers.

"This is Mrs. Rodriguez. She's lived in the apartment above my gallery for forty years. She taught three generations of kids to read Spanish in that little room. Your development is going to 'relocate' her to a complex in Van Nuys."

Another swipe.

"This is Carlos. He's been fixing cars in that garage since he was sixteen. His father worked there before him. You're turning it into luxury condos."

Another swipe.

"And this—" His voice broke slightly. "This is where my father painted his first mural. The one that made him believe he could be an artist in America. It's been there for twenty-five years."

He looked up at me, and I saw everything in his eyes. Love, loss, fury, and something else—something that looked like disappointment.

In that moment, I became acutely aware of everything that separated us. My Hermès Birkin bag—waiting list of three years, worth more than his gallery's annual rent. My Richard Mille watch, ticking away seconds that cost more than most people make in a day. The private jet that brought me back from the Tokyo board meeting just this morning, the penthouse apartment in Century City where I'd never once cooked a meal, the driver waiting outside in my Maybach.

"You don't just destroy buildings, Charlotte. You destroy stories. You destroy the places where people learned to dream."

The gallery had gone quiet around us. I could feel eyes watching, whispers starting. But all I could see was Mateo, standing there like a warrior defending his kingdom with nothing but paint-stained hands and a broken heart.

"I didn't know," I whispered.

"Would it have mattered if you did?"

The question hung in the air like a cloud of smoke.

"I—" I started, then stopped. The honest answer was probably not three days ago. But now? Looking at him, seeing the pain in his eyes, feeling the weight of what my signature on development contracts meant?

"I don't know," I admitted.

Something shifted in his expression. Not forgiveness, but maybe... surprise.

"At least you're honest," he said quietly.

"Mateo—"

"No." He shook his head. "I've said what I came to say. My work might not be 'suitable' for your investors, but at least I know who I am. Can you say the same?"

He turned to leave, then paused.

"You know what the real tragedy is, Charlotte? Last night, when you looked at that painting, you saw her. The woman trapped by her own perfection. But you didn't realize—you are her."

And with that, he walked away, leaving me standing in a room full of people who suddenly felt like strangers.

Two hours later, I sat in the back of my Maybach, staring at my phone.

The Hermès leather seats that had been custom-dyed to match my office décor suddenly felt suffocating. Through the bulletproof windows, I could see people walking by—normal people, heading home to normal lives that didn't require security details and net worth calculations.

The contact information for the downtown development team was right there. One call, and I could stop the whole thing. Delay it, at least.

But I'd be breaking contracts worth hundreds of millions. I'd be betraying investors who trusted me with their generational wealth. I'd be risking everything I'd built—the penthouse, the private islands, the art collection worth more than some countries' GDP.

You destroy the places where people learned to dream.

Mateo's words echoed in my mind like a song I couldn't shake.

I thought about the woman in his painting. The one who looked like me, standing above the city, trapped by her own perfection—trapped by Michelin-starred dinners that tasted like cardboard, by galas where I smiled until my face hurt, by a world where everything was beautiful and nothing was real.

Maybe it was time to learn what imperfection felt like.

I pressed the intercom button. "Take me to the office, Marcus."

"The office, Miss Morgan? It's nearly midnight."

"I know what time it is."

As the Maybach pulled away from the curb, I dialed a number on my encrypted phone.

"David? It's Charlotte. I need you to set up a meeting with the city planning committee. Tomorrow morning."

"Everything okay with the development?"

I looked toward the gallery, where through the tinted windows I could see people still laughing, still drinking Dom Pérignon, still celebrating art that had been carefully curated to offend no one with money.

"I'm not sure yet," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "But I think it's time to find out."