Rain slid down the windows like melting silver as Emilia Romano adjusted the cuff of her worn blazer. The gallery opening buzzed with low conversation and the occasional clink of champagne flutes, but she felt like a ghost wandering through it - present, but never truly seen. She wasn't here to mingle. She was here to survive. Art was supposed to be her escape. But now, it was just another battlefield. One where funding was scarce, patrons were fickle, and survival meant swallowing pride with every forced smile.
As she navigated the crowded room, Emilia's eyes scanned the space, taking in the familiar faces of art critics, collectors, and fellow artists. She knew most of them, but none of them truly knew her. She was a face in the crowd, a name on a catalog, a piece of art to be bought and sold. Not a person with dreams, fears, and desires.
And then - he walked in. Tall. Impossibly tall. Dressed in a black tailored suit that looked like it had been sewn directly onto his body. His presence cut through the room like a blade, silent and sharp, and every head turned - especially hers. Emilia's breath caught as their eyes met across the room.
His gaze swept the space with cool detachment until it landed on her. Dark eyes. Intense. Curious. Dangerous. He walked toward her, every step calculated, like a man who'd never heard the word "no." The room seemed to part for him, people stepping aside as if drawn by an unseen force.
As he approached, Emilia felt her heart rate quicken. She hadn't felt this way in a long time - like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into the unknown. The air between them thickened as he reached her side.
"You're not drinking," he said, voice low and foreign - Italian, maybe. His accent made her skin tingle.
"I prefer to remember my mistakes," Emilia said, arching a brow. "Alcohol tends to blur them."
A slow, amused smile curved his lips. "And do you make many mistakes?"
She didn't answer. She didn't have to. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a small, black card, and held it out to her between two fingers. No name. No title. Just a single number in silver print.
"I'd like to see more of your work," he said, his eyes locked on hers.
"And you are…?" she asked, not reaching for the card.
"Lucien," he said. "That's all you need for now."
Emilia took the card, feeling a spark of electricity as her fingers touched his. It felt warm, as if it had been pressed to his skin for too long. She didn't know what she was doing - only that her heart was thudding and her body was humming with something reckless and unfamiliar.
As she looked at the card, the number seemed to sear itself into her memory. She felt a shiver run down her spine as she realized she was holding her breath.
By the time she looked up again, he was gone. But the scent of him - something like spice and leather and danger - lingered in the air. And the card in her hand felt heavier than it should have.
Something told her this was the beginning of a story that wouldn't end clean. A story that would unravel in unexpected ways, with twists and turns that would leave her breathless.
As she stood there, frozen in uncertainty, Emilia felt the room come alive around her. The music swirled, the laughter and conversation swelled, and the rain continued to slide down the windows like melting silver. But she was trapped in a different world, one where the only reality was the man who had just walked away, leaving her with more questions than answers.