Prologue
Calum–past
My love for dark and beautiful things will be the death of me, I think, as I watch her from across the room. The gallery lights hum softly above me, a buzz just beneath hearing, but enough to set my teeth on edge. The champagne flutes in everyone's hands catch the light and throw it around the room, fractured and glinting off the polished floors. They crowd my paintings like supplicants at a shrine. Critics, collectors, voyeurs, all swarming around the canvases as though they might wring some secret from the brushstrokes.
But my gaze isn’t on them. It’s on her.
Annabel glides through the crowd like she’s part of the art—no, like she’s above it. A living masterpiece. The hem of her dress swishes against her calves, black silk that clings to her like the shadows of a fire-lit room. Her inky-black hair shimmers under the light, like a raven's wing caught mid-flight. The strands fall in a cascade of iridescent sheen down her back, as if they absorb the light, a veil of night itself. A few stray strands fall loose around her face, like she’s spent the night in the arms of a lover. My lover. My muse.
My Annabel.
She stops in front ofFalling Sky,the painting I nearly ruined with rage the night we fought over Jonathan. I remember her tears, how they left glistening trails down her cheeks as she begged me not to leave her. “Calum,” she had said, voice trembling, “Please I don’t want to live without you.”
Now she tilts her head at the painting, a coy smile playing on her lips, as if she’s daring it to look back. Someone beside her—a man, young, eager, and oblivious—leans in too close, pointing at the piece like he understands it. Her laugh cuts through the din, high and sharp, like glass splintering underfoot. She leans closer to the man, whispering something that makes him flush red to the tips of his ears. My hand tightens around my champagne glass.
“Quite the toast you gave,” Jonathan’s voice slides in from behind me, oily and low. “Your muse and future, huh? Bold words for someone who can’t keep her attention for five minutes.”
I turn to face him, and there he is, leaning against the bar like a smirking devil. His tie is loosened, his jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. The glass in his hand is amber with whiskey, and his eyes are sharper than I remember, cutting into me like he’s peeling back my skin to see what’s beneath.
“She’s happy tonight,” I say, keeping my tone even, though the air between us could spark if it weren’t already so heavy with tension. “Something I’m sure you wouldn’t recognize.”
Jonathan’s grin widens, predatory and slick. “Oh, I recognize it all right. She’s got that shine in her eye she gets when she’s playing a game. Tell me, Calum, do you even know the rules she’s playing by? Or are you just another pawn?”
The glass in my hand trembles, but I steady it. “Annabel and I understand each other. That’s more than you can say.”
His laughter is low, a sound that curls in the space between us like smoke. “If that’s what you want to believe, go ahead. But we both know she’s never belonged to anyone, not really. Not me. Not you.”
“She belongs to herself,” I snap, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “That’s what makes her?—”
“Untouchable?” Jonathan cuts in, and there’s something dangerous in his expression now, the smirk dropping into a snarl. “Or just unreachable? Don’t fool yourself, Calum. You can paint her face a thousand times, but you’ll never own her.”
My fist tightens, but Annabel’s laugh rings out again, pulling both our gazes. She’s moved now, weaving her way toward me, a drink in her hand and that familiar glint in her eye. When she reaches me, she hooks her arm through mine, a casual gesture that sends a shockwave through my entire body.
“There you are,” she says, tilting her head up to me like I’m the only one in the room. “What are you two boys whispering about over here? Plotting my demise?”
“Just admiring your handiwork,” Jonathan drawls, his voice slick again, like he’s slipped on a mask. “Calum here was telling me all about how you’ve inspired him.”
Her lips curve into a slow smile, but her eyes stay on me. “Is that so? You’ve been singing my praises again, darling?”
“Always,” I say, and it’s the truth. No matter how much she torments me, twists me into knots with her games, she’s the only muse I’ll ever need.
Her gaze flicks to Jonathan, and something passes between them, quick and sharp as a knife. Then she tugs me closer, her body warm against mine.
“Come on,” she murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. “Let’s dance.”
I don’t argue. I can’t. She pulls me away from Jonathan, away from the crowd, toward the open floor where the bandplays a slow, sultry tune. The lights are dimmer here, casting shadows that dance across her face as she looks up at me.
“You’re tense,” she says, her voice lilting. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s just jealous.”
“Of what?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Of this,” she says, sliding her hand up my chest. “Of us. Of everything we have.”
I study her face, searching for something real beneath the layers of artifice. But Annabel is a mirror, reflecting back whatever you want to see. Tonight, she’s mine. Tomorrow—who knows?
“You don’t mean that,” I say, my voice low.
Her smile sharpens, and for a moment, I think she might agree. But instead, she leans in, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispers, “Don’t I?”
