The canvas stared back at him like a corpse.
Adrian Vale sat hunched on a stool, brush dangling loosely in his fingers, black paint dripping down the bristles like blood from a blade. The gallery was silent—too silent. He could hear the echo of his own breath bouncing against whitewashed walls, walls lined with canvases that screamed his pain louder than he ever could.
Every piece was a confession: twisted faces, burning buildings, bodies half-shadowed as if clawing their way out of the dark. His art wasn't beautiful—it was brutal. It wasn't meant to soothe; it was meant to cut. And it did.
Too well, apparently. Because no one wanted to buy pain.
Not his pain.
The exhibition had opened at seven. It was nine now, and the last of the curious onlookers had drifted away an hour ago, their polite, nervous smiles still etched into Adrian's mind. They hadn't understood him, not really. They'd sipped wine, whispered behind manicured hands, and left without so much as asking the price of a single piece.
The once-golden boy of the Vale family, reduced to a spectacle of pity.
Adrian's lips twisted bitterly as he set the brush down. His hand trembled from hours of painting, but it wasn't fatigue that shook him—it was humiliation.
The Vale name had once commanded respect across the city. His father's empire—banks, media companies, polished buildings stretching like monuments to power—had made them untouchable. Then the scandal hit. Fraud, betrayal, whispers of deals with the wrong people. Overnight, the empire crumbled, and with it, so did Adrian's life.
He hadn't painted then. He had burned.
"Mr. Vale."
The gallery manager's voice broke through his thoughts. Adrian looked up, teeth clenched. The man was hovering by the door, avoiding eye contact. "We'll be closing up soon. Do you… want us to store the pieces for you?"
Adrian almost laughed. Store them? For what? Another exhibition where vultures came to gawk at the ruins of his soul?
"No," Adrian said flatly. "I'll deal with them."
The man nodded, relieved, and disappeared, leaving Adrian alone again.
His stomach twisted. Rent was due in a week. The last of his inheritance was gone. His sister, Mara, refused to answer his calls. The whispers followed him everywhere—spoiled, fallen, disgrace.
Adrian picked up a half-empty wine glass from the display table, downed it in one gulp, and pressed the rim hard against his lips until it hurt.
Maybe this was his punishment. To create, but never be seen. To drown in color, but never be understood.
The door creaked open.
Adrian sighed. "We're closed."
Footsteps echoed against the marble floor. Slow, deliberate, unhurried. The kind of steps that belonged to someone who had never been denied entry to anything in his life.
A voice, low and smooth, cut through the air. "Then consider this a private viewing."
Adrian froze, brush still in his hand. Something about that voice made his skin prickle. It was calm, but there was weight in it—like the deep note of a cello, resonant and impossible to ignore.
He turned.
The man who stood in the doorway did not belong here. Not among the peeling canvases and dust-stained wine glasses. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black suit that fit him like armor. His dark hair curled faintly at the ends, falling across a face carved in sharp lines. His eyes—God, his eyes—were green laced with steel, pale silver threaded through irises that pinned Adrian in place.
Predatory. Controlled. Dangerous.
Adrian's chest tightened. He knew that type. Old money. Old power. The kind of man his family used to dine with. The kind who had probably laughed when the Vales fell.
"Not much of a crowd," the stranger observed, glancing at the empty gallery. His gaze lingered on the canvases, and for the first time that night, Adrian saw no nervous smiles, no awkward shifting. Just stillness. As if the man wasn't disturbed by the violence on the walls, but intrigued.
Adrian's jaw tightened. "Congratulations. You noticed. Now leave."
The man's lips curved faintly. "Bold. Most people try harder to impress me."
"I'm not most people."
"No," the man agreed, his gaze dragging over Adrian like a hand he couldn't shake off. "You're not."
Adrian forced himself to look away, grabbing his things, pretending the stranger didn't exist. But the man didn't move. He stepped closer, each footfall steady, deliberate. He stopped in front of a canvas—a piece Adrian had painted during a sleepless night, a twisted figure kneeling in chains, screaming into darkness.
The stranger tilted his head. "This one."
Adrian's stomach clenched. He hated that one. It was too raw, too personal.
"How much?"
Adrian blinked. "…What?"
"How much for this painting?" the man repeated, voice calm but edged with something sharp.
Adrian laughed bitterly. "You wouldn't buy it."
"Try me."
"Fifty thousand." Adrian said it recklessly, daring him.
The man reached into his jacket, pulled out a checkbook, and began to write. His hand didn't falter once. When he finished, he tore the check and placed it on the display table.
Adrian's eyes widened. Fifty thousand. Exactly.
The man moved to the next painting. A canvas of a face half-submerged in water, eyes open and lifeless. "And this one?"
Adrian's voice caught. "…Seventy."
Another check. Signed.
And another.
And another.
Until the entire gallery—every canvas, every nightmare Adrian had poured onto fabric—was claimed.
Adrian's throat was dry. "Why?"
The man finally turned to him, closing the distance until Adrian could feel the faint heat radiating off his suit. His eyes were colder up close, glinting silver in the gallery light.
"Because your art is honest," he said softly. "It doesn't beg to be loved. It bleeds. It destroys. And I like things that destroy."
Adrian's breath stilled.
The man reached into his pocket again, pulled out a sleek card, and placed it between Adrian's paint-stained fingers.
"Leonel D'Amato," he introduced, as if the name itself wasn't enough to shake the ground. Adrian knew it. Everyone did. The D'Amatos weren't businessmen—they were predators cloaked in wealth. Mafia royalty. Dangerous beyond comprehension.
Leonel's lips curved faintly as he leaned close, voice brushing against Adrian's ear.
"Call me when you're ready to paint for me."
Then he turned and walked out, leaving the gallery door swinging silently behind him.
Adrian stood frozen, card in hand, heart hammering, as if the room itself had shifted on its axis.
And for the first time that night, staring at his empty gallery, Adrian felt something worse than humiliation.
Temptation.