The gallery opening at the Blake Hotel was the kind of evening Elena usually adored. The soft murmur of cultured voices, the warm glow of golden lamps against priceless canvases, the air charged with awe rather than gossip. It was her world, her sanctuary.
But tonight, none of it soothed her.
Because he was here.
Adrian stood at the far end of the room, a figure of quiet command among patrons in designer gowns and tailored suits. Though people swirled around him—eager guests, business associates, curious admirers—his presence was unshakable, as though the entire evening bent around him.
And, as if by instinct, his gaze sought hers.
It shouldn't have meant anything. It shouldn't have made her heartbeat stumble, or her fingers tighten around the folder she carried. But it did. That single look unraveled her, even in a room filled with art that had survived centuries.
"Elena."
She blinked and turned sharply, grateful for the interruption. Sophia had appeared, glass of wine in hand, her expression alight with both excitement and mischief.
"You're glaring at that man like he personally offended you," Sophia teased.
Elena forced a composed smile. "I wasn't glaring. I was—"
"Staring," Sophia cut in, grinning. "The whole room sees it. And more importantly, he sees it."
Heat pricked Elena's neck. "It's not like that. This is work. I'm here to make sure the display is flawless."
Sophia sipped her wine with exaggerated patience. "Darling, half the guests here are looking at the art. But Adrian Blake is only looking at you."
Elena turned away, flustered. "Please, drop it."
Sophia only smirked knowingly.
The evening blurred into a rhythm of greetings, explanations, and careful guidance as Elena walked guests through the collection. She spoke with ease about brushwork and color palettes, about the stories woven into paint and canvas. But beneath her professionalism, she felt it—his gaze, steady and unyielding, as though he were learning her the way others studied art.
When she finally retreated to the balcony for air, the night welcomed her like an old friend. The city below glimmered with lights, and the sea's distant murmur reached her ears. She leaned on the railing, trying to slow her racing thoughts.
"Escaping?"
Her pulse leapt. She didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"I needed a moment," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
Adrian stepped into the moonlight beside her, his presence dark and magnetic. He leaned casually against the railing, but there was nothing casual in the way his eyes searched hers.
"You belong out here," he murmured. "Not inside with the noise."
She gave a soft laugh. "You don't know where I belong."
His gaze deepened. "Don't I?"
The question lingered, heavy and intimate. She looked away, focusing on the city's lights. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because words like that… they complicate things."
"And what if I want complication?"
She turned sharply to face him, frustration sparking with desire. "Adrian, I don't play these games. I've made mistakes before, and I won't repeat them. I don't want to be a distraction in your life, and I won't let you become one in mine."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, the sea wind carrying only the distant hum of the gala. Then, slowly, Adrian stepped closer. His nearness was a storm, pulling at her defenses, daring her to resist.
"Elena," he said softly, his voice a low promise, "you're not a distraction. You're the only thing that's made me forget everything else."
Her breath caught. His words slid beneath her skin, igniting a flame she had tried to smother. She hated how much she wanted to believe him, how much she wanted to close the distance.
But before she could respond, music from inside drifted out—a slow, haunting waltz. Guests had begun to dance, their movements elegant and practiced.
Adrian extended his hand toward her. "Dance with me."
Elena stared at it, her heart pounding. Logic screamed at her to refuse. But something deeper whispered yes.
She placed her hand in his.
He pulled her into the glow of the ballroom, guiding her onto the polished floor. The crowd seemed to fade as his arm slid around her waist, and her fingers rested lightly against his shoulder.
The world shrank to the rhythm of the music and the quiet fire in his eyes. Their steps were effortless, as if they had been dancing together for years. Every turn brought her closer, every brush of his hand against her back left her trembling.
"Elena," he whispered, his lips near her ear, "tell me to stop, and I will. Just say it."
But she couldn't. Her lips parted, yet no words came.
So they kept moving, the dance both a denial and a confession, their bodies speaking what their mouths refused to.
And as the final notes faded, Adrian didn't release her. He held her gaze, searching, daring, waiting.
Her heart thundered. She wanted to run. She wanted to stay.
Instead, she whispered the only truth she could bear:
"This is dangerous."
His lips curved, almost a smile, but his voice was raw when he answered.
"Yes. And I don't care."