But the gallery was silent.
And her father had been gone for six months.
Exhaling sharply, she shook off the ache in her chest and pushed the key into the lock. The door clicked open with a whisper, and she stepped inside.
Her boots echoed against the hardwood floors as she made her way to the front desk. She dropped her bag onto the counter and reached for the light switch.
Then she saw it.
A stark white notice taped to the glass, its bold red letters slicing through the dimness like a blade:
EVICTION NOTICE
Her pulse roared in her ears.
Charlotte snatched the paper off the door, her eyes racing over the words. Legal jargon blurred together, but one sentence stood out, each word a nail driving into her ribs:
You have thirty days to vacate the premises.
The floor beneath her tilted.
No, she whispered. No, this can't be happening.
She stumbled back, her shoulder hitting the edge of the front desk. The paper trembled in her grip as she reread it, praying she'd misread. But the words didn't change.
Thirty days.
A month.
That was all the time she had to save the only thing her father had left her.
Charlotte sucked in a shaky breath, fighting against the burn in her throat.
This gallery these walls, these paintings, this space was more than just a business. It was her father's legacy. It was the dream he had bled for, the thing he had spent his life building. She had promised herself she'd keep it alive, that she'd honor him by making sure it thrived.
Now, it was slipping through her fingers.
A dry laugh escaped her lips, brittle and sharp. Of course, it was.
Because in the end, no matter how hard she fought, life always found a way to take from her.
The sound of a throat clearing shattered the silence.
Charlotte's head snapped up.
A man stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the streetlights outside. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she recognized him Luther Crane, the gallery's landlord.
Dressed in an expensive suit and a silk tie that looked too tight around his thick neck, he stepped inside with the ease of a man who already considered this place his.
Miss Marcelli, he drawled, his tone almost pitying. "I take it you've seen the notice?"
She tightened her grip on the paper. What the hell is this?
He sighed, shaking his head. You've been behind on rent for months. I've been patient, but patience doesn't pay the bills.
I told you I just needed more time.
And I told you I couldn't give it to you. He glanced around, his gaze skimming over the paintings on the walls. I'm afraid this is final.
Charlotte's stomach twisted. Please, she forced out. "There has to be another way. I just need
A miracle? Luther chuckled, low and smug. I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but those don't come cheap.
Her nails dug into her palms. How much?
Excuse me?
She lifted her chin, even as fear curled around her spine. How much do I owe?
Luther smirked, as if amused by her audacity. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to her.
Her breath stalled as she unfolded it.
Then, everything inside her went cold.
$250,000.
A quarter of a million dollars.
Her fingers clenched around the paper, crumpling the edges. "This has to be a mistake.
Luther sighed. Back rent, late fees, penalties it adds up.
Charlotte's head spun. She had known she was behind months of struggling to scrape by, juggling bills, stretching every dollar until it screamed but she hadn't realized it was this bad.
This is impossible, she whispered.
I agree, Luther said, his tone almost cheerful. Which is why I'm giving you a heads up.
Her eyes snapped to his. A heads-up?
He rocked back on his heels, looking far too pleased with himself. You're not the only one interested in this space.
Her heart stuttered. What?
Luther asked, as if scolding a child. You didn't think I'd wait forever, did you? Someone else is looking to buy the property. Someone with the money to actually afford it.
Panic surged through her veins, sharp and electric.
No,she breathed. You can't
I can. And I will.
She took a step forward, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Who?
Luther's smirk deepened. Let's just say he's someone who knows the value of prime real estate.
Dread slithered down her spine.
Someone wealthy. Someone powerful. Someone ruthless enough to see an opportunity and take it without hesitation.
She swallowed hard. I still have thirty days.
For now. Luther straightened his cuffs. But if I were you, I'd start packing.
With that, he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving the door swinging shut behind him.
Charlotte stood frozen, the eviction notice clutched in her shaking hands.
One month.
That was all she had.
And if she didn't come up with a quarter of a million dollars…
She was going to lose everything.
Charlotte slumped onto the worn leather chair behind the gallery's front desk, her pulse still unsteady. The eviction notice lay in front of her, the red ink glaring like an open wound.
Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
She laughed. A hollow, brittle sound.
She barely had two hundred to her name.
Her fingers curled into fists against the desk. There had to be a way. There had to be something she could do.
Reaching for her phone, she pulled up her banking app. The screen flickered before displaying a number that made her stomach sink.
$248.96.
Her laugh turned into a strangled choke.
Closing the app, she opened her contacts and scrolled past names she hadn't called in years. Gallery clients, collectors, people her father had once charmed with his art.
She started at the top.
The first call went straight to voicemail.
So did the second.
By the fifth, desperation had begun clawing at her ribs.
Please, Mr. Lancaster, she said into the phone. I know my father meant a lot to you. The gallery is in trouble, and I could really use an investor
Beep.
Another voicemail.
Charlotte slammed the phone onto the desk, her breath coming fast.
It had been like this since her father died. When he was alive, people had adored him his charisma, his talent, his unwavering belief in art. He had been larger than life, a man who could make the most cynical investor believe in beauty.
But now that he was gone?
His legacy didn't mean a damn thing to these people.
The gallery was just another failing business.
And she was just another desperate woman begging for help.
The bell above the door chimed.
Charlotte's head snapped up, hope surging in her chest.
A man stepped inside tall, broad shouldered, with salt and-pepper hair and a sharp suit. His gaze swept over the gallery before landing on her.
Miss Marcelli, he said smoothly.
Her stomach clenched. Mr. Calloway.
Thomas Calloway. One of her father's oldest patrons.
She forced a smile. I was just about to call you.
I got your message.He pulled off his leather gloves and tucked them into his pocket. I came to tell you in person
The moment she saw the hesitation in his eyes, she knew.
No.
Not him, too.
I'm sorry,he said, shaking his head. I can't invest in the gallery.
Her nails dug into her palms. But you always believed in my father's work.
I did. Calloway sighed. But he's gone, Charlotte. And the art world it moves on.
Her breath hitched. So that's it? Just like that?
Calloway hesitated, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a check. I do want to help. It's not much, but
Charlotte took the slip of paper, her throat burning.
Five thousand dollars.
It was a generous donation. A kind gesture.
But it wouldn't save the gallery.
She set the check down. Thank you, she whispered.
Calloway nodded, looking almost guilty. I hope you find another way.
She watched him leave, the door swinging shut behind him.
And then, for the first time since this nightmare began, Charlotte let her head drop into her hands.
She was running out of time.
And even faster, she was running out of hope.
The shrill ring of her phone shattered the silence.
Charlotte jerked upright, her pulse pounding as she snatched it up.
Hello?
Well, aren't you a hard woman to track down?
A familiar voice, slick and amused.
Her stomach dropped.
Luther, she gritted out. What do you want?
The landlord chuckled. I figured you'd like an update on your little predicament.
Ice crawled down her spine. What do you mean?
You asked who was interested in the gallery, Luther said. Thought I'd save you the suspense.
Charlotte's fingers clenched around the phone. Who is it?
Silence stretched for a beat too long.
Then
Jackson Whitmore.
Charlotte's breath stopped.
The phone nearly slipped from her fingers.
No.
Not him.
Anyone but him.
Luther chuckled. Didn't expect that, did you?
Her stomach twisted.
No, she hadn't.
But she should have.
Because if there was one man in this world ruthless enough to take everything from her, it was Jackson Whitmore.
And now, he was coming for the gallery.
Charlotte's knuckles were white as she gripped her coffee cup, her mind still spinning from Luther's call.
Jackson Whitmore.
His name lingered like a curse.
She had barely slept, the weight of his looming presence suffocating. The moment she stepped into Savannah's Café, the familiar scent of espresso and cinnamon did nothing to ease the knot in her chest.
Savannah Bennett, her best friend and the café's owner, was already waiting at their usual corner booth, a steaming cup of chai in hand.
The moment Charlotte slid into the seat, Savannah's green eyes narrowed. You look like you saw a ghost.
Worse. Charlotte's voice was hoarse. I got an offer on the gallery.
Savannah's brows lifted. That's great news, right?
Charlotte let out a bitter laugh. Not when the buyer is Jackson Whitmore.
Silence.
Savannah blinked. Then she whistled low. Damn.
Charlotte nodded, staring blankly at the swirling foam in her coffee.
Okay, let's break this down, Savannah said, leaning forward. How bad is it?
Charlotte rubbed her temples. Luther said he's interested in the property. Which means if I don't come up with the money in a month, he'll swoop in and take it.
Savannah frowned. That bastard.
Charlotte exhaled sharply. Which one?
Both, Savannah said without hesitation.
Charlotte's lips twitched, but the amusement faded fast.
Because this wasn't a joke.
Jackson Whitmore wasn't just some businessman looking for a good investment.
He was her past one she had spent years trying to forget.
Savannah stirred her chai. You really don't have anyone else who could help?
Charlotte shook her head. I called everyone I could think of. The art world is fickle. Without my father's reputation, no one sees the gallery as worth saving.
Savannah was quiet for a long moment.
Then
You could ask Jackson.
Charlotte's head snapped up so fast she nearly spilled her coffee. What?
Savannah shrugged. He's loaded. He wants the gallery. Maybe he'd be willing to cut a deal.
Charlotte laughed, but there was no humor in it. You think Jackson Whitmore would help me out of the kindness of his heart?
No, Savannah admitted. But he might if he gets something out of it.
Charlotte scoffed. Like what? My soul?
Savannah smirked. Well, he always did have a thing for you.
Charlotte's stomach clenched. That was a long time ago.
Savannah gave her a look. Doesn't mean it doesn't still mean something.
Charlotte hated how those words made her chest tighten.
Because the truth was, Jackson had meant something to her once.
A lifetime ago.
Before everything had shattered.
Before he had turned into the man he was now cold, ruthless, untouchable.
I'd rather lose everything than ask him for help, she muttered.
Savannah sighed. Then you better find a miracle, babe.
Charlotte swallowed hard.
Because right now?
A miracle felt even further away than Jackson Whitmore.