Left Unread

For a second, there was nothing else in the room. Just her.
Sam stood in front of him, her dark curls catching the gallery lights, that soft, uncertain smile curving her lips. And Liam couldn’t help smiling back, like instinct, like gravity. She looked at him like she still couldn’t quite believe she was here. Maybe he looked the same way. Because he hadn’t stopped thinking about her—since the kiss, since her laugh over coffee, since the way she asked questions that made him want to answer honestly.
Just minutes before she arrived, Liam had ducked into the back hallway of the gallery to avoid a cluster of paparazzi and reporters gathered near the front. Ever since his auction piece sold for $200 million, the media hadn’t stopped circling. They all wanted to know: what had inspired the three-part series? Who was his muse? And more than that—why had William Baxton, heir to the Baxton real estate empire, walked away from billions to chase paint and canvas instead?
He hadn’t wanted to answer any of it.
So when he saw Sam—quiet, real, not asking for anything, it was like the noise faded out.
When he didn’t get a text from her, he thought she wasn’t coming. Maybe he’d been too forward with the kiss. But she had leaned in, so he thought she’d wanted it.
It felt good to see her. Right, even.
“Hey,” he’d said. Just that. And when she said she almost didn’t come, something in his chest squeezed.
And then, she was standing beside him, gazing up at his painting. Listening. Really listening, the way she always did. And he’d told her the truth.
That it started with her. That something in him had cracked open that day they met in the bookstore. Not in a loud, messy way. Just a quiet shift like turning a page you didn’t know you needed to read.
Her eyes were still on the canvas when the voice cut through.
“Babe.”
A single word. Like a stone tossed into calm water.
Liam’s smile faltered. Slowly, he turned—and there she was. Anisha.
Tall, poised, unmistakable in that deep red dress that clung to her like she’d walked straight out of a high-end magazine. Her perfect hair framed her face, her eyes already sweeping over him like they were alone in the room.
“I knew I’d find you here,” Anisha said, her tone breezy, familiar. She glanced at the painting like she was flipping through a catalogue. “Always hiding your best work in the corners, for the best eyes.”
Before he could say a word, she slipped her arm through his.
His body tensed. Not because of her touch, but because of the timing. Because of Sam—who stood still beside him, her expression unreadable now. Something in her had gone quiet, and Liam could feel it.
“Anisha,” he finally said, clearing his throat, trying to step back from her. But her grip tightened slightly, a subtle message under her perfectly polished smile.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, more forcefully this time.
She turned to him, unfazed. “I came to see your work. I was invited. Weren’t you checking your emails?” Her voice stayed light, but there was a gleam behind her eyes, like she was daring him to challenge her presence.
He hadn’t invited her. He knew that for a fact. 
But someone from the gallery must have. She was still technically on the list, still known as the woman who used to “inspire” his earlier collections. The collectors loved that story. The drama. The broken-artist-and-his-muse trope.
He hated it.
She looked up at him with a practiced smile. “What? You weren’t going to introduce me?”
He let out a breath. “This is Sam,” he said, turning slightly toward her. “Sam, this is—”
“I’m William’s girlfriend,” Anisha cut in, too fast, too loud.
Sam blinked.
Liam’s jaw clenched. “What?”
“Oh, come on, Liam,” Anisha said, her laugh light but strained around the edges. “We’re not seriously doing this here, are we?”
Her grip on his arm tightened, just enough to make it hard to pull away.
Liam looked at Sam again—still frozen in place, no longer smiling. He hated how fast the light had vanished from her face.
Her gaze flicked between them, and he could see the wall going up behind her eyes.
“Right,” she said after a beat. Her voice was quiet, polite. Too polite. “I should, um…..I should let you two—”
“No, Sam, wait—” He reached out, but she stepped back.
“It’s fine,” she said, nodding, not looking him in the eye now. “Really.”
And just like that, she turned and started walking away.
Liam made to follow, but Anisha stepped in front of him.
“Liam.”
He tried to move past her, but she grabbed his wrist, holding it tighter than necessary. “Are you serious right now?”
He stared at her. “Let go.”
“Not until you tell me what the hell is going on.”
His voice was low. “You said something that wasn’t true. You saw what that did.”
“Oh my god, Liam. You can’t just cut me off and pretend like I never existed,” she snapped. “You didn’t answer a single one of my texts! Or calls! I know you blocked me.”
“I didn’t block you.”
She blinked, thrown. “What?”
“I didn’t block you,” he said again, his voice tired now. “I just… stopped responding.”
“So you ghosted me,” she said, her tone sharpening. “Wow. Real mature.”
“You sent thirty messages in two days, Anisha,” he said, voice rising just slightly. “And a voicemail telling me to call you when I came back to my senses. What did you think that would do?”
She rolled her eyes like he was the one being irrational. “I was trying to fix things.”
“You buried everything else,” he muttered, more to himself now, his eyes narrowing. “That’s why I didn’t see her text.”
“What?”
He stepped back again, running a hand through his hair.
“I thought you’d realize how ridiculous this all is!” she fired back. “Ending everything over a painting?”
“It wasn’t about the painting!” His voice cracked out, sharper than he intended. A few people nearby turned. He barely noticed. “It was about everything else. It was about you not seeing me anymore. Only what you wanted from me.”
She laughed again, dry and disbelieving. “So now I’m the villain because I told you to get your s**t together?”
“No,” Liam said. “You’re the villain because you showed up here and lied about being my girlfriend, knowing damn well you’re not anymore.”
Anisha looked like she might argue again, but Liam didn’t wait.
He stepped past her, heart in his throat, eyes scanning the gallery.
But Sam was gone.
Not just out of sight. Gone.
He rushed toward the front entrance, but he wasn’t fast enough. A group of reporters spotted him near the hallway and pounced. Cameras flashed, voices rose—shouting his name, asking about the auction, asking why William Baxton hadn’t followed in his father’s footsteps. One even asked if the girl in the gallery was his new muse.
He tried to push past them, eyes darting toward the street. He managed to get outside, but they followed him—cameras flashing, voices shouting his name.
In the blur, he caught a glimpse—maybe—a hand reaching for a cab door. Dark curls vanishing behind glass. A cab pulling away before he could reach it.
His hands shook as he pulled out his phone. He opened his messages and scrolled—past Anisha’s endless flood of texts, past the ones he hadn’t even read. And there, almost buried in the chaos, was one line from Sam.
“Excited to see your work. Hope the prep’s going well”. Sent two nights ago.
He hadn’t seen it.
He’d been so overwhelmed by Anisha’s texts, so frustrated he stopped looking altogether. Sam probably thought he’d ignored her.
Liam cursed under his breath and stared at the street, the red taillights already disappearing into the night.
He had let her walk away.
And he didn’t know if she’d ever come back.