The gallery glittered like a jewel box cracked open for the city's elite. Crystal chandeliers rained light onto marble floors, catching reflections of champagne and silk gowns. Waiters glided past like shadows, trays balanced with liquid gold.
It should have felt triumphant. Her night. Her canvases. Her name whispered on glossy programs.
But triumph, Lila Prescott realized, felt a lot like nausea.
She clutched her purse, her simple black dress clinging to her frame. It was meant to direct eyes to her art. Instead, eyes found her—curious, sharp with jealousy, or soft with speculation.
Focus on the paintings, she told herself. See the work, not the woman.
The centerpiece hung beneath the chandelier: a storm of grays slashed by one violent streak of crimson. Her scream, caught in color. Yet tonight, her scream was only her racing heartbeat.
"She's younger than I expected," a voice whispered behind her."Raw sells," another man chuckled. "They'll pay for tragedy in pigment. Fresh blood."
Lila's spine stiffened. She refused to turn. Critics weren't worth acknowledgment, yet their words still pricked her skin.
She sought relief with her eyes—and froze.
At the far end, leaning against a column, stood a man who seemed to bend the room around him. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. A suit that spoke of command. And eyes—cold, burning, unblinking—fixed on her.
Her breath caught.
Nico Moretti.
The name whispered in every collector's circle. A patron who could ignite or end a career with a single glance. And tonight, he wasn't studying the art. He was studying her.
Her cheeks burned. She looked away—only to glance back.
Empty.
No, not empty. Moving. Slowly. Deliberately. Cutting through the crowd like a predator, dismissing greetings with a flick of his head. His gaze never wavered.
Anchored on her.
A critic tugged at her sleeve. "Your brushwork—it's raw, but perhaps too feminine? Don't you think—"
"Excuse me."
Her heels struck marble as she slipped away. She paused at another painting, pretending to adjust the frame with trembling hands.
Then—presence. Close. Too close.
She turned.
Nico Moretti stood a breath away.
Tall. Sharp. Heat radiating from him. Cedar and smoke in the air. His shadow of a smile was more weapon than charm.
"Miss Prescott."
Her name was silk and steel.
"Mr. Moretti."
"You know me," he said."Everyone knows you.""Not everyone. Only the ones who matter."
The world dimmed around them. The spotlight shifted.
He tilted his head toward her crimson canvas. "Bold. Almost violent. And yet…" His eyes cut back to her. "It feels like restraint. A woman screaming inside the lines."
Her chest tightened. How could he see that?
"That's not—" she began, faltering."You don't like flattery?" His smile curved."I don't like assumptions.""Good."
He stepped closer, heat brushing her skin. "Then tell me, Miss Prescott… why hide behind the canvas when the real art is standing right here?"
The chandelier fractured light above them. For the first time in years, Lila felt as though she wasn't the artist—she was the exhibition.
And the predator had found her.