Chapter Four: The Gallery of Secrets
By Adele G. Orenzo
Arabella stood outside the tall, glass-paneled building, the silver key gripped in her palm, her heart pounding against her ribs like a warning bell. The address had brought her here, to a place she hadn't stepped foot in since the year she lost everything — or thought she had.
Three years ago, she had bid on this building at an estate auction, dreaming of converting it into her first luxury studio space. She'd imagined it: walls of fabric samples, mood boards stretching from floor to ceiling, a spiral staircase in the center that led up to her private sketching loft.
She didn't get it. An anonymous buyer swooped in with an obscene offer, and she'd walked away furious, crushed, and convinced the universe just wasn't on her side.
She never knew… it was Dimitri.
The key in her hand was heavy. Literal and symbolic. She stared at the brass handle for a full minute before slipping the key into the lock. It clicked open.
The air inside smelled faintly of jasmine and something more expensive — cedar, maybe, or vanilla smoked leather. The scent of curated luxury.
Her heels echoed as she stepped in, and the doors closed behind her with a whisper. The space was breathtaking. Tall windows spilled light onto glossy marble floors. Along the walls, tall white panels displayed dozens of designs — her designs.
She froze. They weren't just sketches from her public collections. These were private. Abandoned. Some barely formed. Some so personal she'd tucked them away, unfinished.
Designs she'd once shown Dimitri during late nights tangled in sheets and laughter, when her dreams spilled freely and he listened like he worshipped every inch of her soul.
And here they were — framed. Preserved. Displayed like fine art.
There was a note at the base of the display: "These are yours. They always were." — D
Her throat tightened. This wasn't manipulation. It wasn't grandstanding. This was remembrance.
She walked further in. A glass case held something she hadn't seen in years: her very first sketchbook from fashion school. She'd lost it during a move. Or so she thought.
She turned a page. Inside, on the faded edge of a drawing of a silk corset dress, was her old scribble: "Dreams stitched with heartbreak still hold."
She hadn't known he kept this. She didn't know how to feel.
Her emotions swirled like silk in a cyclone — pride, confusion, longing, fear.
And then she saw him. At the far end of the gallery, in front of a velvet-covered structure, stood Dimitri. Black-on-black suit. No tie. His eyes locked on hers the second she walked in.
Arabella's breath caught. But she didn't stop walking. Not now. Not anymore.
He didn't speak as she approached, not until she was standing just a breath away.
"You came," he said softly, like the words were a wish made real.
She folded her arms. "You kept all of this? My sketches? My lost journal?"
Dimitri nodded. "You once told me your art was the most honest thing about you. I didn't want it to disappear just because we… broke."
"You bought the building I wanted. Didn't say a word."
"I couldn't let someone else have it. It was meant for you. Always."
She swallowed. "Why now? Why show me this now?"
His jaw flexed. "Because I thought I had more time. I thought I could wait until you were ready to see me again, to hear the truth. But seeing you that night… I realized how foolish that was. You don't wait for someone like you. You fight."
Arabella blinked back the heat rising to her eyes. "This isn't an apology," she said, voice sharper than she meant. "It's a museum."
"It's a memory," he said. "And maybe, a beginning."
He turned and pulled back the velvet curtain behind him.
Arabella gasped.
Before her stood a single mannequin, dressed in a gown made of shattered glass and silk. The bodice sparkled with hand-beaded crystal fragments, and the skirt fell in soft, liquid layers of silver fabric that shimmered like moonlight.
It was… breathtaking.
She walked slowly to it, fingertips hovering over the fabric.
"You…" She turned to him. "You made this?"
He nodded once. "Inspired by the sketches you never finished. I brought in artisans. We recreated it exactly the way you imagined it during that summer in Mykonos. You remember?"
Arabella did. Vividly. They had been lying on a rooftop under the stars, and she'd talked for hours about a dress that looked like
heartbreak — beautiful, dangerous, and unforgettable.
"I thought it was just a dream," she whispered.
"It still is," he said. "But it's yours, if you want it."
She turned fully to face him.
"I don't know if I should be impressed or terrified."
"Why not both?"
She smiled. Briefly. Then sighed.
"You always knew how to do this. The grand gestures. The perfect words. But Dimitri, what about after the gallery closes? What happens when the lights dim and life gets messy again?"
He stepped closer.
"Then we stay. We talk. We don't run. I've learned that now."
She looked up into his eyes.
"I'm not the same girl you left."
"And I'm not the same man who walked away."
They stood in silence. The space between them humming with electricity, unspoken things, and three years of unshed tears.
Arabella shook her head slightly.
"I don't trust you."
"I don't blame you."
"But I still..." She looked away. "I still feel something."
He reached for her hand, slow and deliberate.
"I don't want to erase the past," he said. "I just want to be part of your future."
Their fingers touched. The air thickened. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears.
He leaned in. Just a whisper of space between their lips now. His breath warm against her cheek.
Then—
Her phone rang. Loud. Sharp. Jarring.
Arabella jerked back. She fumbled for it, glaring at the screen. Sophie. Of course.
She pressed decline and stepped away.
"I should go," she said, voice trembling with everything she didn't say.
Dimitri nodded, even though every muscle in his face said he wanted to scream no.
As she walked to the door, she turned once more.
"You said you'd prove you've changed. Don't stop here."
"I won't," he said.
She hesitated. Then, quietly:
"Don't disappear again."
"Never."
And then she was gone.
The echo of her heels faded. The gallery fell silent again.
But something had shifted. A door cracked open.
And neither of them would be the same again.The morning after the gallery encounter broke like any other in Arabella Monroe's luxury Soho apartment — except nothing felt normal.
The air was thick, her coffee tasted like cardboard, and her phone was vibrating non-stop like a ticking bomb. She hadn't slept. Not really. Not with Dimitri's words still echoing in her ears.
> "I just want to be part of your future."
He had looked at her like she still mattered.
That was the problem.
She padded barefoot into the living room in one of Dimitri's old Oxford shirts she never managed to throw away, pulled her phone from the charger, and braced herself.
Fifty-seven missed calls. One hundred and thirty unread messages.
She blinked.
Sophie:
Call me NOW. Your face is all over the damn internet.
Are you okay??
BELLA — it's everywhere. Who the hell leaked this??
Arabella's stomach dropped.
She opened her Instagram.
There, under trending tags: #ArabellaAndDimitri, #BillionaireExes, #ScandalInSilk.
She clicked one of the links and nearly choked.
BREAKING: Billionaire Dimitri Valeris and designer Arabella Monroe spotted in very intimate setting — EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS inside secret fashion gallery reveal touching moment, steamy reunion.
The photo was crisp. High resolution. Paparazzi-grade. Dimitri leaning in. Her looking up at him, that shimmer of want in her eyes impossible to deny.
They hadn't even kissed — but the tension in the photo screamed otherwise.
The article read:
> The world thought their romance was ancient history. But last night, sources confirm that Greek billionaire and tech mogul Dimitri Valeris privately unveiled an unreleased fashion exhibit for ex-lover and fashion icon Arabella Monroe. Is this a rekindled romance or just smoke and mirrors?
Arabella's phone slipped from her hand and hit the hardwood with a hollow crack.
"Oh. My. God."
---
When Sophie stormed in thirty minutes later, her hair was wild, her heels off, and she had a look on her face that meant one thing: business mode had been activated.
"You didn't tell me you met with him again," she snapped, tossing her phone on the couch. "And now we've got Vogue calling, Page Six emailing, and your brand rep from Milan threatening to suspend your next show if this 'distraction' continues."
Arabella groaned, covering her face. "I didn't know anyone saw us. It was private."
Sophie gave her a look. "Nothing's private when your ex is on Forbes' Top Ten Most Watchable Billionaires list. Bella, you're trending."
"I didn't ask for this."
"You're in fashion. You live for this."
Arabella looked up, eyes tight. "Not this. Not my pain being turned into headlines. Not the 'scandal' of a woman simply existing near a man who broke her."
Sophie's expression softened slightly. "What do you want me to do?"
Arabella stood, pacing. "I want it to go away. But I know it won't. So… manage it. Deny the story. Tell them it's an art collab. Say I'm curating a new silent exhibition. Whatever."
"You sure?"
Arabella paused. "No. But I need time to think. And space."
Sophie exhaled. "Okay. I'll spin it. But, babe, this won't stop them. Not unless you confront it — or him."
---
Meanwhile, Dimitri sat in his downtown penthouse, jaw locked, scrolling through the same article with rage in his blood.
"Who the hell did this?" he muttered.
He'd made sure the gallery was secure. Only two guards. One assistant. No press.
He picked up the phone.
"Nikos," he said coldly. "Find out who leaked those photos. I don't care what it takes."
He hung up, tossed the phone, and paced like a lion in a cage.
The photos had gone viral.
Worse — Arabella's name was being dragged through the mud in comment sections. People questioning her motives, suggesting she was only using his name for clout. As if she hadn't built her brand from scratch with nothing but raw talent and grit.
He couldn't let that happen.
He wouldn't.
---
Three hours later, Arabella was in the middle of a crisis meeting with her marketing team when her assistant popped in, panic flashing in her eyes.
"There's someone here," she whispered. "He's... not leaving."
Arabella didn't even need to ask.
Dimitri Valeris walked in like he owned the air.
Black turtleneck. Wool coat. Rain dripping from his hair. And rage in his eyes.
Arabella stood slowly. "You have some nerve—"
"I didn't leak it."
"Then how did it get out?"
"I don't know. But I will find out."
Her team cleared the room fast, sensing the storm brewing.
He stepped forward. "They're tearing you apart. And I hate that I'm the reason why."
Arabella swallowed hard. "That night wasn't supposed to be news. It wasn't even supposed to be real."
"It was real to me."
She blinked.
He reached into his coat and handed her an envelope.
"What is this?"
"A cease-and-desist letter. I already sent it to the publications. And… a list of possible sources. Including someone who used to work for me. Someone who had access."
Arabella opened the list.
She paused.
Sophie's name wasn't on it.
But another familiar one was.
Lance Ashcroft.
A former PR executive — and her ex-creative director. Fired six months ago after being caught stealing design ideas.
"Lance," she whispered. "He's trying to ruin me."
Dimitri nodded. "I think he sold the story. Maybe even staged the shot."
Her breath left her in a rush. "And you came here to… what? Protect me?"
"Yes."
"I don't need protection."
"I know. But I want to help anyway."
They stood in silence.
The tension wrapped around them again — tight and burning.
"You're making this harder," she whispered.
"I don't care."
She looked at him. Really looked. His eyes weren't angry anymore.
They were… pleading.
"I shouldn't want you here," she said, "but part of me does."
"Then stop fighting it."
"Why? So we can fall back into each other's beds and repeat the cycle?"
"No. So we can break the cycle."
She stared at him, heart beating too fast.
He stepped closer.
"So what do we do now?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he leaned in. Not to kiss her — not yet — but close enough for her to feel his breath, the heat of him, the temptation rising.
"I think," he said softly, "we give in. Just this once."
Their lips were inches apart.
Her phone rang. Again.
This time, she didn't flinch.
She let it ring.
She grabbed his coat lapel. "Kiss me."
And he did.
Hard. Deep. Hungry. Like three years of longing had finally broken free.
She melted into him. Her hands around his neck. His body flush against hers. The world forgotten.
Until a crash outside the glass doors made them pull apart.
Sophie stood frozen, mouth wide open, holding a coffee tray — and what looked like a tabloid magazine.
"Umm... Bella?"
Arabella turned, cheeks flushed. "This… isn't what it looks like."
Sophie arched a brow. "Girl, it exactly is."
---
Hours later, Arabella sat curled in her office, face in her hands.
"I kissed him," she muttered.
Sophie grinned. "Oh, I know. You kissed him like the world was ending and your soul had a timer."
Arabella groaned.
"But here's the thing," Sophie added, "you didn't kiss him because you're weak. You kissed him because you needed to know."
"Know what?"
"If the fire was still there. And it is. So now what?"
Arabella stood. "Now I take control. I release a statement. I spin this. I protect my name."
"And him?"
She paused.
"I don't know yet."
---
That night, Arabella posted a statement to her verified social accounts:
> "To the press and the public: I am not defined by who I was seen with. I am defined by what I create. Any personal moments captured without my consent are just that — personal. The rest? You'll see it on the runway."
She turned off her phone and stared out the window.
Across the city, Dimitri saw her post and smiled softly.
Because this time?
He wasn't chasing headlines.
He was chasing her.