HOW IT ALL STARTED
SOLINE'S POV
The email came at 3:14 a.m. It had no greeting, or brief, just an urgent request for a full-color portrait commission with a five-figure advance and a non-disclosure agreement.
I read it twice, convinced it wasn't meant for me, that they sent the email to the wrong address. But my rent was overdue, my utilities were flickering warnings, and my fridge held nothing but expired almond milk and a jar of pickles.
So I clicked to accept, but my heart was beating louder than it should've.
By noon the next day, I stood in front of Drayce Tower, that infamous monolith of mirrored glass and impossible wealth, jutting out of Manhattan like it owned the skyline. And maybe it did. The guard scanned me like I might explode. I half-expected him to laugh at my name, but he only nodded and led me to a private elevator.
The ride was very quiet and fast. At the top, the doors opened to a space so pristine, it didn't feel lived in. White walls, black floors and chrome details. Even the air felt curated. And then he stepped in.
Zayven Drayce. The man they called "The Phantom Billionaire." He looked like money. He was tall, cold, and polished. His storm-gray eyes settled on me like I was already a mistake.
"You're… not who I expected," he said.
"I get that a lot," I replied before I could stop myself.
His lip twitched, whether from annoyance or amusement. I couldn't tell. He said nothing else, just gestured toward a long, sun-drenched wall where a massive canvas waited. Supplies had been neatly arranged in anticipation, which struck me as odd. A man like him didn't seem the type to care about acrylic mediums or brush sizing.
He didn't explain the job. He only showed me a single photograph. A grainy, black-and-white photo which was slightly torn. "Paint this," he said.
The man in the photo had softer features than Zayven, but the same bone structure, the same storm-cloud eyes. I didn't ask who it was. I never do it because people commission portraits for all sorts of reasons. Either grief, guilt or obsession. And sometimes it was all three.
The first brushstroke felt heavier than usual. I worked in silence while Zayven sat across the room, barely moving. A predator on pause. But as hours passed, it somehow changed. He didn't speak much, but he didn't leave either. He watched me like I was unraveling a puzzle he didn't know he owned.
By sunset, the portrait was nearly done. The man on the canvas stared back with haunted eyes. The moment I stopped painting, the environment changed. He stood up stiffly and looked tense. He gave me a nod that felt like a dismissal, but I didn't take it.
I should've left but I didn't. As curiosity led me further down the hall, past a slightly open door. Maybe I was looking for a restroom, which I knew was a fat lie. Maybe I just wanted to see what a man like him hid behind his walls.
What I found was a bedroom. It was minimal but lived-in. The only sign of humanity was a cluttered nightstand and a single picture frame that was face-down.
I picked it up before I could stop myself. The man in the frame was the one I had just painted.
But he wasn't alone. Zayven stood next to him, his arms slung around his shoulders, both of them laughing. They looked like twins. Or at least, they were. The weight in Zayven's eyes made sense now. This wasn't just a commission, It was a ghost. So the commission portrait was of grief I guess.
"You weren't invited in here," came his sharp voice.
I turned too fast and nearly dropped the frame. He was in the doorway now, his chest was rising and falling a little too fast.
"I… sorry. I didn't mean.."
"You painted him. And then you come in here, into my space, and touch what's left of him?"
"I didn't know," I whispered, let me just leave.
He stepped in. "Don't leave."
Something about his voice made my chest ache. I wanted to apologize again, but I couldn't find the words. The silence between us grew heavier.
He moved closer but I took a step back. My heel caught on the edge of the rug. I stumbled and turned, bolting for the nearest exit, which happened to be a set of glass doors leading to the balcony.
The city stretched below like a galaxy of glass and light wind hit my face. I leaned on the rail, trying to catch my breath, trying to make sense of what I'd done, but the door opened behind me.
"Soline, right?"
I turned, then murmured yes in a low voice. It happened like a flash. The next minute, his hands pulled me closer to him. Then his hands found my waist. My fingers were now tangled in his shirt.
More like a dream, our mouths collided like we were trying to erase everything: his grief, my guilt, the thousand things we hadn't said. Dear Lord, we just met. Why's everything happening so fast?
The wind howled around us. I didn't really understand what was happening, but I didn't care. His mouth moved down my neck. My dress strap slid off my shoulder. My back hit the balcony rail as his hands went under my dress, mine in his hair. Every inch of space between us disappeared. His name left my lips in a broken gasp.
Then an urgent knock came, followed by the creak of the balcony door.
"Sir," a voice interrupted. "You need to see this."
Zayven stopped immediately, as if he had just remembered that this was a sacrilege.
He turned his head slightly. "What?"
"There are reporters outside," some guy in his thirties with a Bluetooth in one ear, muttered. "They saw her come to the balcony, which wasn't usual. So I think they sent drones. And they have captured... A moment between you both, it's already on the web."
I pulled away fast, my face flushed with more than heat.
Zayven's jaw was locked. "Get them out of the building. Now."
The man nodded and left. Zayven turned back to me. "You should go."
My heart still hadn't slowed down. "Right."
I quickly gathered my stuff and left. I rode down the elevator in silence.
I didn't know if I hated myself more for allowing a guy I just met to touch me or for craving his touch again.
Immediately after I got home, a headline had already hit a different gossip site.
MYSTERY WOMAN SPOTTED AT DRAYCE TOWER. WHICH IS PROHIBITED FOR NONE WORKERS OR IS SHE LOVER?