The morning light poured through ValeTech's glass façade like liquid gold, reflecting off the marble floors and silver accents. Everything about the building screamed precision — symmetry, control, and cold perfection.
Ava Monroe stood in the middle of it all, clutching her sketchbook, feeling wildly out of place.
The main lobby was a canvas waiting to be claimed — thirty feet of untouched wall, pale and flawless. She could already see it in her mind: color bleeding into light, motion, chaos, life. Everything this building lacked.
"Miss Monroe."
That voice again — deep, smooth, commanding.
She turned.
Sebastian Vale stood at the top of the staircase, immaculate as ever in a charcoal suit that fit like sin. He descended with the same quiet authority that made people part for him without a word.
"You're early," he said.
She smiled faintly. "I don't like wasting daylight."
He stopped a few steps away from her, eyes flicking over the paint-stained cuffs of her white shirt, the smudge of charcoal on her wrist. A faint hint of amusement curved his lips.
"An artist through and through," he murmured. "Even your hands tell stories."
Her pulse jumped. She wasn't used to being observed this closely.
"Do you make a habit of studying your employees, Mr. Vale?"
His gaze lingered a moment longer before he replied, voice low. "Only the ones I find… intriguing."
She tried to hold her ground, but his presence was magnetic — like standing too close to a flame.
He gestured toward the wall. "This is where your work will live. I want something that reflects the heart of ValeTech — innovation, vision, ambition. But it should feel human. Real."
Ava tilted her head, studying him instead of the wall. "You say that as if you've forgotten what real feels like."
For a heartbeat, something flickered in his expression — surprise, then something darker.
"Careful, Miss Monroe," he said softly. "You might start sounding like a woman trying to understand me."
"Maybe I already do."
Silence. Heavy. Electric.
He took a step closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne — crisp, clean, laced with danger. "Then I suppose we'll see how well you paint what you see."
Before she could answer, he turned and walked away, leaving her breathless and a little shaken.
She looked back at the empty wall, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened her sketchbook.
Lines began to form — bold, alive, unrestrained.
And somewhere deep inside, she already knew this mural wasn't just about art anymore.
It was about him.
And that realization terrified her more than she cared to admit.
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