My name is Isabella Delacour.
I stand in a contemporary art gallery and breathe slowly, the way they teach you before a dive: inhale—pause—exhale. There is too much glass here, too much light, too much silence. This kind of silence always lies. It isn't about calm—it's about anticipation.
At the center of the hall stands a sculpture.
The Tenderness of a Fracture.
Elias Morven.
I know it by heart. I studied it the way one learns a role before opening night. And still, every time I look at it, I feel a faint sting somewhere beneath my ribs—as if it isn't marble that cracked, but me.
Two human torsos reach for each other. Not fully—only by suggestion. Black marble, smooth, almost warm to the eye. It catches the light and answers with a soft sheen, like skin after touch.
And between them—a fracture. Deep. Uneven. Unpolished.
Inside the crack run thin strips of polished steel—cold, mirror-bright. They reflect not the figures, but us. The viewers. The witnesses to the impossible.
Tenderness that never happened.
A touch that was forbidden.
This is exactly where he is supposed to be.
I feel him before I see him.
That happens with people who are used to the world tilting ever so slightly in their favor.
Kaiden Starkwell.
Fifty-eight years old.
Major shareholder of Hyperion Trust.
His money isn't loud—it's heavy. Not flashy—decisive.
He approaches the sculpture slowly, as if afraid to scare it away. Tall, well-groomed, without ostentatious luxury. His gray suit fits perfectly—not for show, but for certainty. A man who stopped proving he's a man a long time ago.
I turn my head carefully.
Our eyes meet.
I smile. Not too wide. Not too modest.
He returns it—softly, with interest. Not predatory. That matters.
He looks at the sculpture. Then at me.
"What do you feel when you look at this piece?" he asks.
His voice is calm. Low. Curious, not interrogating.
Good sign, I note automatically.
I pause. Exactly one second longer than necessary. Let him think I'm searching for words, not retrieving them from memory.
"Passion," I begin, "expressed through tension of form and dangerous proximity."
I look at the sculpture, but I feel his gaze on me.
"Pain—in the sharp fracture that can't be closed, no matter how much one wants to."
I turn to him.
"And disappointment… in the cold metallic shine of the steel. It reflects the viewer, not the emotion. As if it's saying: look—you are the one who doesn't belong here."
I let a faint smile touch my lips.
"The sculpture feels as if the moment of touch were eternal…"
I pause.
"And at the same time—forever impossible."
He says nothing.
It's a good silence.
No awkwardness—just thought.
Kaiden allows himself a slight smirk. Not mocking. More like… pleasantly surprised.
He looks at the sculpture again. Then at me.
"Kaiden Starkwell," he says, as if I don't already know everything there is to know before a first meeting.
"Isabella Delacour," I reply.
Our names hang between us like the first step onto thin ice.
"Would you keep me company?" he asks.
There it is.
The first hook.
"I'd be delighted," I say lightly.
We walk along the exhibition. I guide him—not ahead of me, but beside me. I speak about artists, meanings, what hides between forms. My voice is calm, sometimes ironic, sometimes just a touch quieter than necessary—so he has to lean closer.
I prepared for this.
Very well prepared.
He listens. Doesn't interrupt. Asks questions. Sometimes he looks not at the exhibits, but at me—and pretends it's accidental.
By the final painting, he stops.
I sense it before he does it.
He looks at me as if I, too, am part of the exhibition.
An exhibit.
Rare.
Not for everyone.
"I was planning to have lunch after the exhibition," he says. "Would you join me?"
I smile wider. Warmer. A little closer than required.
"I'd love to," I answer, and lightly brush my shoulder against his, closing the distance as if it happened on its own.
He touches my hand.
Gently. Almost carefully.
A romantic, I note to myself.
Dangerous. Pleasant. Effective.
I feel the trap beginning to close.
And I know—
he's almost caught.
**
I step into the restaurant—and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
"Éclipse Douze."
A Michelin legend. Twelve courses. Twelve acts of gastronomic seduction.
The dim light here doesn't conceal—it accentuates. Walls of warm graphite, soft illumination, as if evening itself is frozen at its most flattering moment. The tables are spaced far apart, and it isn't about snobbery—it's about secrets. About making sure no one hears you sigh.
The waiters move in sync, like a ballet. White gloves. Calm faces. Not a single unnecessary gesture. Everything looks as though dinner is a ritual, and Kaiden and I are its chosen sacrifices.
The first course arrives.
Something airy. Cold. Salty with a citrus edge.
I taste it—and my eyes widen despite myself.
God…
The second is warmer. The third, richer.
Textures shift like moods.
Flavors flare, fade, return.
Each new course doesn't satisfy—it sharpens the appetite.
I've never eaten like this before. Not just eating—experiencing.
I catch Kaiden's gaze.
He isn't looking at his plate.
He's looking at me.
At the way I'm surprised. The way I smile. The way I forget to keep my mask of perfect composure in place.
Let him look.
Let him remember.
Let him imagine that I'll react the same way—with that same sincere admiration—to him.
To his touch.
To his power.
To his certainty.
The thought warms my cheeks slightly. Or is it the wine? Probably… everything at once.
"Are you seeing anyone right now?" he asks between courses, as if casually.
The question is gentle. But I hear the interest beneath it. Not idle. Personal.
I pause just long enough for his attention to lean toward me.
"Yes," I answer softly. "I'm not in a relationship."
I lace my voice with a hint of sadness. Just a hint.
Like salt—without it, there's no flavor.
"I was in love…" I continue. "With a younger man."
I lift my eyes to him.
"But his parents want him to marry someone else. And he… can't stand up to them."
I shrug lightly. As if it isn't pain—just an irritating scratch.
"So we ended things."
Kaiden looks at me longer than necessary.
I can see something settling inside him. A decision taking shape.
"I make my own decisions," he says at last. "So you don't have to worry about my parents."
Caught, I note inwardly, smiling with just the corners of my lips.
I look at him with a faint squint. Not provocatively. No.
With interest.
With promise.
And then we step out of the restaurant.
The night air is colder than inside. The limousine is already waiting—black, silent, patient. The door opens on its own, as if the world is being unusually accommodating tonight.
I slip inside.
Kaiden pours champagne from the built-in bar.
The bubbles rise like my thoughts—quickly, and not always decently.
We clink glasses.
A thin chime—almost intimate.
I take a small sip.
And then I lean into him, allowing myself to fall into his arms just a little more than balance requires.
Our lips meet.
The kiss is unhurried. Not greedy.
A test.
And yet everything inside me tightens into a single point.
Like this, I think. Perfect.
I already know where I'll wake up.
In his penthouse.
In a skyscraper.
Above the city.
And pressing a little closer than one should on a first night, I think:
Poor Kaiden.
You have no idea what I've prepared for you.
And the limousine pulls away—
as if this is only the beginning.