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Davie was having trouble finding parking near their destination, and they’d been circling around for a while now. She looked out of the car window as they crossed the Chicago River and saw the Noble Enterprises building towering a few blocks away.

Was she really the same naive young woman who had attended her celebratory cocktail party there, she who’d been so brittle, so uncertain . . . so defiant lest anyone notice? And was it really she who had first entered Ian’s penthouse, her enthrallment associated more with the enigmatic man who stood beside her than the sight of his magnificent penthouse and display of art . . . the stunning view?

They’re alive, the buildings . . . some more than others. I mean they seem like it. I’ve always thought so. Each one of them has a soul. At night, especially . . . I can feel it.

I know you can. That’s why I chose your painting.

Not because of perfectly straight lines and precise reproductions?

No. Not because of that.

Her eyes burned at the potent memory. He had seen her so well, even then, seen things in her she hadn’t. He’d cherished those things, cultivated her strengths until . . .

. . . no. The answer was no. She was no longer that same young woman.

Davie parked in a paid garage on Wacker Drive, south of the river, farther east than their desired destination. Francesca shivered uncontrollably when the river wind sliced straight through her thin wool coat as they crossed the bridge. Davie noticed and took her under his arm. Justin got into the spirit and put his arm around her from the other side, hunkering around her, their bodies helping to protect. Caden, too, had to join in on the gallantry, much to her amusement, hooking arms with Justin to help block her from the brutal, east lake wind. They’d bundled her so close between them that as they guided her down the sidewalk once they cleared the river and bridge, Francesca stumbled.

“You guys, I can’t see!”

“But you’re warm, aren’t you?” Justin asked jovially.

“Yes, but . . .”

Suddenly Justin and Caden were pushing her into a revolving glass door. Her eyes sprang wide when she realized where they’d maneuvered her. She balked, but Justin was pushing from behind her and she had no choice but to go forward into the Noble Enterprises lobby.

She stared around, aghast to find herself in Ian’s territory so suddenly . . . so undesirably.

Several dozen faces looked around at her ungraceful arrival. She saw Lin’s familiar, smiling face, and Lucien’s and Zoe’s . . . and—she gasped—Anne and James Noble beamed at her from a distance. That elegant man with the salt-and-pepper hair that held up his champagne glass to her in a silent salute, wasn’t that Monsieur Laurent the curator of the Musée de Saint-Germain whom Ian had introduced her to in Paris? No. It couldn’t be.

Her eyes widened in sheer disbelief when she recognized her parents standing awkwardly next to a fern, her father tight-lipped, but her mother doing her best to attempt a warm smile.

“Why is everyone looking at me?” she whispered to Justin when he stepped up next to her. A panic rose in her chest at the surreal scene before her. Justin kissed her warmly on the cheek.

“It’s a surprise. Look, Francesca. It’s all for you. Congratulations.” She gaped at where he pointed, the once-empty swath of wall that dominated the lobby. Her painting had been framed and mounted. It looked awesome . . . perfect . . .

Justin gently tilted her jaw when she couldn’t stop gawping at the centerpiece, urging her to see what else was in the room. The entire lobby had been filled with her paintings, each displayed on easels, all of them professionally mounted and framed. People were strolling around in black-tie attire, sipping champagne, and seemingly admiring her work. A small string quartet played Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 2.

She glanced from Justin to Davie, slain. Davie gave her a reassuring smile. “Ian planned it,” he said quietly. “Some of the most affluent collectors, renowned art experts and critics, museum curators and gallery owners from around the globe are here tonight. This party is in your honor, Francesca . . . a chance for the world to see just how talented you really are.”

She cringed inwardly. Oh my God. All those people looking at my work? But no one appeared to be laughing or snidely incredulous, at least, she thought as she checked several faces anxiously.

“I don’t understand. Did Ian plan this before London?” she asked.

“No. He contacted me a day or two after your return from London and asked me to help him arrange things. I had all of the paintings mounted and framed. We’ve even managed to acquire four more of your paintings to add to the collection. Ian can’t wait to show them to you.”

A sudden prescience struck her, and she looked into the crowd.

Ian stood next to his grandparents, looking somber, regal, and devastatingly gorgeous in a classic black tux with bow tie. His gaze was alight as it pinned her . . . soulful. Only Francesca, who had grown to know him so well, saw the shadow of anxiety ghosting features that would have looked cold and impassive to other eyes.

She thought she’d had a heart attack. She clasped her chest.

“Why’s he done this?” she asked Davie under her breath.

“I think it’s his way of saying he’s sorry. Some men send flowers, Ian—”

“Sends the world,” Francesca whispered through numb lips. Ian started toward her, and she followed in kind in his direction, moving like a sleepwalker toward the man she couldn’t take her eyes off of, and whom she craved more than anything she had in her life.