Angel's legs couldn't stop shaking. He was going to see Zoé again, tonight. This fact alone made everything else blurry and plain. No one and nothing could compare to the black-hair girl with stars for eyes and a cotton candy smile.

Her presence was a source of both energy and calmness to him. She beckoned him at every seconds of the day. Her throw-head-back laughter, her bewitching accent, her glowing skin. They were all glued to his mind.

"Are you listening to me?" Mr. Res, his tutor, asked as he observed the timid grin that kept reappearing on his face.

Angel shook the stubborn images out and tried to focus on the mathematic equation that was facing him.

Zoé.

That was all he saw. The numbers, letters, symbols. They were only different ways to write Zoé.

"Angel, I'm serious." Mr. Res wasn't one for nonsense. If he was, he probably would not have obtained his doctorate in mathematics by age 25.

And why would a top rated doctor in mathematics be doing teaching a freshmen student, you might ask? Simple, Mr. Ferrymore. The man knew no boundaries when it dealt with his one and only son's future. He wanted the world for him. Too bad the little man didn't want the world. He only wanted the girl in the painting.

"Can we do this later?" Angel closed his books.

Mr. Res straightened up with his eyebrows furrowed together. "Angel, I have other things to do. More important things to do. I'm only here because I'm a good friend of your father."

Angel glanced at his watch. 8 PM. The museum had just closed but he wanted to be there early so he could have as much time as possible with Zoé. He loved to hear her musical voice narrating her family's stories to him. They were always enchanting and exhilarating.

"Is there somewhere else you have to be?" Mr. Res asked.

He scratched the back of his head. "Yes."

"Somewhere more important than a tutoring that will benefit your future?" Mr. Res continued.

His grave voice alerted Angel of his bad choices but dentistry had nothing on the love of a charming lady. Calculus was not as intriguing as Zoé's beauty.

"Can we do this tomorrow?" Angel hurriedly threw the books inside his backpack. He was losing precious time with Zoé.

"This is the fifth time you've asked to reschedule," Mr. Res grumbled on. "I'm worried that..."

Angel was already out of the door before he could finish the sentence. With his heart overflowing with love and his head filled with pictures of adventures, he left the library. As he crossed Bryant Park, he was predicting which stories he would get to hear, tonight.

Perhaps he could ask her to tell him about her hometown again. He loved to close his eyes and walk the pavements her feet used to walk on, touch the walls she used to touch, and smell the air she used to smell.

So wrapped up in his own head, Angel did not notice the absence of both guards and dogs. The museum was only protected by an unlocked door.

Angel walked inside and immediately went to the corner. The so familiar corner that retained his life thread.

It was empty. Angel stopped and wiped his eyes. He closed and reopened them but it was still empty. In fact, every wall, every corner, was empty.

At that moment, the earth did a little jolt then stood still. The birds ceased to sing, the colors reversed to black and white, the flowers lost their beauty and perfume. Life died along with every newly formed passion inside Angel.

She was gone.

He dropped on the cold floor, crossed his legs, and stayed there till sunlight rose. Seeing the pain that was covering every rock and tree, it went back into hiding. Rain and darkness came instead. They always came when heartbreak was present.

***

Angel woke up to a familiar voice. He jumped up, his heart peeking up but it ran back when it saw Mr. Fisher.

The man was shaking his head in a manner that seemed to say "the poor boy has gone lost his mind." His glasses stayed on the end of his pinched nose while his eyes looked at him in pity. That was what happened when they came straight out of high school and lost themselves in the overwhelming college atmosphere.

"Would you like me to call your father to come get you, Mr. Ferrymore?" He simply asked with his hands holding on to a clipboard.

"Uh?" Still confused and hurt, Angel stared at the man. He had no idea what to answer nor what he was supposed to be doing.

"I'll go call you a cab," he turned to the door. "A few days off will do you some good, Mr. Ferrymore, trust me on that. I know the feeling."

"Wait," Angel cried before he could reach the door. "Wh-where is she?"

"Where his who?" Mr. Fisher watched him over his glasses.

"Zoé," he clarified. "Where is Zoé? She wasn't here when I came here, last night."

"You've been here since last night? Mr. Ferrymore, breaking in a museum in the middle of the night is a very serious offense. I'm afraid I..."

"She's always here," he insisted.

Mr. Fisher shook his head again. "You know what? I think have some Aleve in my office. Let me get them for you."

"No," he shouted. "I don't need pills. I need to find Zoé. She couldn't exactly walk..."

Then, he remembered. He was the only one who knew about Zoé's identity. No wonder Mr. Fisher couldn't tell him anything. He didn't know who he was talking about.

"Where's the painting?" He said.

Mr. Fisher seemed to be taken aback. "Which one?"

"The girl, the one you showed me last time."

"Oh, that one," he checked the clipboard. "It was one of the first items to be sold."

"By who?" He pressured. He needed to find Zoé. He wasn't going to settle down knowing she was probably with some creep.

"I'm afraid that's classified, Mr. Ferrymore."

"It's for research?" Angel watched Mr. Fisher's eyes squint in distrust.

"It was sold to a Mr. Durrell Fountaine," Mr. Fisher said, looking down at the clipboard. "Now, that you know, let me get you in that cab safely."

"I'll be fine," he bolted out the door before Mr. Fisher could stop him.

He crossed the wet streets, the park, his RA, and locked his dorm's door.

It was time for him to find Zoé.

***

It wasn't easy finding Mr. Durrell Fountaine but Angel did it.

Mr. Durrell Fountaine was a wealthy French businessman with no family. There was nothing from his personal life on the web. It was as if he was just a businessman but never a man. There was no mother, no father, no child. Nothing. His background was strictly, Monsieur Durrell Fountaine, the owner of an international French cuisine chain.

It was almost too professional, as if there was a secret behind the curtains that no one could see. Angel could have stayed and tried to uncover it but the more time he spent in his dorm, the less time he spent with Zoé.

He scribbled the man's closest office address which was in Manhattan then rushed away. He almost knocked his roommate down as he left the room. Angel merely mumbled an apology and continued on his way.

He wasn't seeing anything apart from the red line that directed him to Zoé. The ten minutes' bus ride was more than he could bare.

There was an old woman who tried to talk to him. "How you doing, today?" She smiled at him.

When he didn't answer, she went on a narrative about her grandchildren and was about to pull out the photos when Angel saw his stop.

"That's my stop," he said as he grabbed backpack and scrambled out of the suffocating vehicle.

His nostrils flared as they welcome back fresh air. A chilly breeze made him tightened his arms closer to his body. Another look at the map on his phone, a couple of lost glances at all the buildings, and he was finally there.

There was a sense of lost and depression smothering the air inside Monsieur Fontaine's office. The decorations brought on a taste of clinical professionalism – a couple of chairs in the waiting room, a table with a vase of white roses and culinary magazines, and a young man behind the counter staring at a computer. There were no paintings, no photos on the walls, just a cream wallpaper.

"Can I help you?" The young man behind the counter said. He wasn't offering a smile like most receptionists, only a scowl of annoyance and an erect posture.

"Y-yeah," Angel's adrenaline was slowing down, taking with it his confidence. "I-I, um, I need to speak to Mr. Fontaine."

"Do you have an appointment?" The man already knew the answer to that question, he knew his employer's schedule like the back of his hand.

"N-no, I just..."

"I'm sorry," he interrupted him, "Monsieur Fontaine only has time for people he has an appointment with. If you like, I can try to make one for you but I'm afraid that the nearest time would be next year. Monsieur Fontaine already has the rest of the year booked."

"But we're only in October," Angel said.

"I know," the man's lips curled into an unconvincing smile. "Monsieur Fontaine is a really busy man."

"I need to talk to him," Angel insisted. "It's really important."

"I'm sure it is," the man went back to typing in the computer.

"Raymond," a man appeared out of the office. "Would you call Miss Broward and tell her I'll be running a bit late?"

Angel was instantly brought back to the museum. The accent, the jet-black hair, they were all her.

Monsieur Fontaine's unsmiling brown eyes skimmed over him and went back to his receptionist.

"Mr. Fontaine, I need to talk to you," Angel rushed after him.

"I don't have the time, right now," he answered without looking back at him.

Angel sidestepped him and blocked his way. "It's really important."

"So is the meeting I have to be attend in less than half an hour. Unless you have a million-dollar contract to offer me, I suggest you get out of my way."

"You bought a painting, yesterday," Angel stepped in front of the door the chauffeur had opened. "I want to buy it back. My dad has money. He can give you anything you want."

"How did you know I bought a painting, yesterday?" Monsieur Fontaine looked at the gold watch on his wrist. "I'm late. Sorry young man, the painting is not for sale."

"Please," Angel begged as the man got in his car. "I need her."

The door reopened. Monsieur Fontaine watched him carefully, his piercing brown eyes mirrored the same pain Angel was holding at bay.

"Her?" He asked.

Angel realized his mistake. "I mean it, I need it."

"No, you didn't." Monsieur Fontaine got out of the car. "Follow me."

The receptionist looked up as he walked pass him. His eyes widen in surprise and awe. Nothing had ever interested Monsieur Fontaine enough for him to miss out on a business meeting. The man was always about food and money. Nothing else.

"How do you know about her?" Monsieur Fontaine asked as soon as the door closed.

"You know too?" Angel was surprise. It wasn't fair. Zoé was his secret. She was supposed to be the only thing that the world would never be able to take away from him. The only thing that no one else would ever share with him.

"Of course I know," his voice cracked. "She's...she's my daughter."