His to Preserve

The library door opened which caused me to flinch, I spun around expecting to see Eleanor with her cold, sharp stare, holding another shocking piece of my possible past.

But instead, it saw Cade.

Immediately I saw him, I heaved a sigh of relief wanting to run into his large arms while he comforted me, but I wasn't ready to let him know, until I was very sure.

He stood at the doorway with a smirk on his face. He is wearing a perfectly ironed white shirt with the first few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up revealing his large veiny arms. He looked like a Greek God with his perfectly sleeked hair and muscles bursting through his shirt. Every memory of being held in those arms would always be carved in my heart.

His ice-blue eyes found me instantly, and they somewhat brightened up.

"Hiding from your adoring public, Campbell?" he asked, his voice was a low, velvety rumble that did nothing to calm the frantic beating of my heart. The tease was there, but his gaze was burning through me.

I forced my lungs to work. "Just... the dust," I managed, gesturing weakly toward the boxes. "Allergies."

A lie, transparent and pathetic.

He took a few steps into the library, eyes locked on mine. His familiar scent suddenly brought back memories of how I was almost fucked in this particular library on my first day.

"I need you," he said, sending jolts of electricity through me.

 "A painting just arrived at the west gallery...its origin and authenticity seem questionable. I need your professional eyes." He said in his deep, hoarse voice.

Work, command, lifeline... that's something my trained, logical mind could understand, unlike the emotional predicament I was sinking into.

"Of course," I said, my voice steadier. "My tools are..."

"Already there." He replied.

He led the way, and I followed. trying to catch up with his fast strides. Several paintings of the Thornes filled the hallway, their eyes seemed to follow me as I walked by, whispering secrets I was only just beginning to guess.

The painting was a small, dark portrait of a woman with haunted eyes, her expression was covered in grief. It felt like a mirror to my own soul. I slipped on my magnifying headset, the familiar weight felt comfortable. I lost myself in the minute details of the brushstrokes, the fine cracks, the subtle layers of varnish, and for a few precious minutes, there was only the puzzle of the painting, saving me from the drowning thoughts of my life.

Cade didn't leave while I worked. Instead, he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. He was silent and let me work. I could feel his gaze on me, a physical heat that traced the line of my neck, the concentration on my brow. Every shared silence was now filled with the memory of our intimacy.

"Well?" he finally asked, his voice echoing softly. "Master or fake?"

I straightened up, flipping the lenses away. I clung to the solid ground of my expertise. "The brushwork is masterful, and the aging is perfect," I began.

"But in the underpainting... there's a use of a synthetic ultramarine, that's a dead giveaway for a late 19th-century restoration, at the earliest. It's not by the master's hand, but it's a magnificent piece of work in its own right."

I turned to face him. "It's a very intelligent fake."

A slow, genuine smile transformed his face. It wasn't the usual smirk or the cool mask of the CEO. It was a look of pure admiration and respect that stole the air from my lungs more effectively than any kiss.

"Perfect," he said, his voice low. "I knew I could trust your eyes." He smirked.

He closed the distance between us as he looked from the painting then back to me, his gaze so intense that it felt like a caress.

"There's dinner tonight," he stated, his tone casual, though his eyes were not.

"A family affair. My aunt Cordelia is in town. She's a dragon who sits on the Foundation board and enjoys breathing fire on newcomers." He jested.

A family dinner...The Thorne family. A fresh wave of panic shot through me. To sit among them, to make polite conversation, while the baby picture with my birthmark screamed in my mind...

"Cade, I don't think that's a good idea," I protested, using his name without thinking.

"It's the best idea I've had all day," he countered, his voice dropping. 

"You are the brilliant mind saving this family's legacy. They need to see that. I need them to see that." He reached out, and this time, his fingers did brush against the stray curl near my temple, a whisper of a touch that sent sparks across my skin. "And I want you with me."

The request was raw and undeniable, shattering my remaining defenses. This wasn't about business. This felt more like a date, but I refuse to put my hopes into it.

Before I could form a coherent thought, a voice, sharp and crisp cut through the gallery.

"The board is waiting, sir and their patience is thinner than the veneer on that dreadful Hepplewhite sideboard," Eleanor announced.

She stood there with a ledger in her hand, her expression filled with scorn. Her eyes flicked to me, and for a fleeting second, I saw something cold and calculating that had nothing to do with office politics.

"I'll be there shortly, Eleanor," Cade said, his voice regaining its edge.

"Of course," she said, her smile tight.

 "Do try to find something appropriate to wear for dinner, Miss Campbell. Aunt Cordelia has very... specific tastes. She once accused a duchess of committing a fashion felony with an ill-chosen brooch." 

She said with a dry, deadly tone, then turned and left.

 A hidden photo somewhere in this estate threatened my entire identity, coupled with a billionaire who looked at me like I held the stars, and now, a dinner with a woman who sounded worse than Eleanor.

Cade saw my struggle, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a rare, genuine show of humor. "She's not entirely exaggerating about Cordelia," he admitted. "Wear the black dress...The one from the club." His eyes darkened with memory. "The one that makes you look like you can conquer anything." He added, then winked at me.

He remembered every second.

He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at me, "Seven o'clock Isla...Don't be late."

Suddenly, he was gone, leaving me alone with the forged masterpiece and the terrifying, genuine masterpiece of my own unraveling life. 

 He was pulling me deeper into the heart of his family, even as I was beginning to suspect that I might be its long-lost daughter or some coincidence.