The night was heavy with wine and stars. Above the mortal world, where clouds shimmered like spilled silk, Cupid slouched on the edge of his marble throne with a bow in one hand and a half-empty goblet in the other. His golden curls were tousled, his cheeks flushed with drink, and his aim—usually flawless—was far from steady.
"Another toast," he muttered to himself, raising the cup before taking a reckless swallow. "To love, to longing… and to my eternally perfect aim."
Except tonight, his hands shook. His arrow quivered on the string, glowing faintly with enchantment. Through the veil that separated immortals from mortals, he peered down at the world of men and women, his eyes fixed on a glittering gallery opening in the city below.
She was there—Elena Winters. Human, yes, but extraordinary. The sort of woman who walked into a room and made the air hold its breath. Her black dress clung to her in a way that demanded attention without begging for it. Her laughter was low, rich, the sound of someone who believed she owed the world nothing but honesty. She did not believe in fairy tales, did not chase love, did not look for salvation in a pair of arms. Cupid had watched her for months, amused by her disbelief in everything he embodied.
Beside her, his intended mark: the charming, glossy-haired art collector Damian Hale, heir to a fortune and breaker of hearts. A perfect match, or so Cupid thought. His arrow was meant to bind them, ignite that first spark.
But wine dulled precision, and arrogance blurred judgment. When Cupid drew his bowstring back, his vision swam. The arrow released with a hiss of magic, streaking through the veil of worlds.
It missed Damian entirely.
The arrow plunged instead into the heart of a man standing across the gallery, half-hidden in shadows—Adrian Cole.
Adrian was not a man who lingered at parties for pleasure. He stood apart, near the paintings, his broad shoulders cutting a solitary figure. His dark suit was worn like armor, his gaze sharp, calculating, unreadable. He had come only because his firm was sponsoring part of the exhibit. He did not believe in romance, did not indulge in flirtations, and had no patience for frivolity.
Yet when the arrow struck him, his chest seized. He looked up, locking eyes with Elena across the gallery.
For the briefest second, the world shifted.
Adrian's breath stilled, his pulse thundered, and he felt—without reason or warning—that he would never be free of her again.
Elena felt it too, though she didn't understand why. She caught him staring, a stranger with eyes too intense, and for a flicker of a moment her heart stumbled. It annoyed her. She turned away, brushing it off, but the sensation clung stubbornly, like a whisper in her blood.
From the skies, Cupid blinked in horror.
"Oh no," he whispered, staring at the mortal below. "Oh, no, no, no. That wasn't supposed to happen."
But it was too late.
The arrow was lodged, the bond sealed. And somewhere in the shadows of the gallery, unseen by all, another pair of eyes watched Elena with interest—eyes that glowed faintly, not with love, but with possession.