“Most people think art is supposed to make them comfortable. Give them something pretty to hang above their sofa.” His eyes meet mine. “You’re not interested in comfort.”
“No,” I admit. “I’m not.”
We drift back toward the main installation, and I’m hyper-aware of him beside me—the careful attention he pays not just to my paintings but to the space around us. He notices when the elderly couple needs refills on their wine before the server does. Spots Maya looking overwhelmed and subtly redirects a chatty patron away from her.
“The depth of flavor in these is extraordinary,” Gabe says later, accepting a chocolate truffle from Adrian’s tray. We’ve somehow ended up standing together again, pulled by some gravitational force. “Amelia, you must try one.”
I take the truffle he offers—dark chocolate with gold leaf, one of thenormalpieces according to Maya’s complex system. It melts on my tongue, rich and complex, but I’m more focused on the way Gabe is looking at me. Like I’m a piece of art he’s trying to decode.
“Speaking of flavors,” his eyes hold mine, and there’s something in them that makes my stomach flip. “I’d love to show you my wine cellar at The Blue Room. Private tasting. Just the four of us.” He glances at Maya and Adrian. “We could pair some vintages with Adrian’s chocolates, maybe I could play something. Show you how the acoustics work in that space.”
My professional facade—already cracked—shatters completely. This is dangerous territory. I know it’s dangerous. Maya’s been trying to warn me in her careful, don’t-spook-Amelia way. But I’m tired of being careful. Tired of painting darkness from a safe distance.
I glance at Maya, checking whether she’s okay with this, if it is safe, and if I’m reading the situation correctly. She gives me the smallest nod, though her expression is complicated.
“That sounds... intriguing.”
“Tomorrow night? After closing. Around eleven?” Gabe suggests.
I nod, feeling heat creep up my cheeks. “I’d like that.”
Adrian appears behind Maya, and I notice the way his hand settles on her lower back. “Perfect. A proper double date.”
The worddatehangs in the air, and my brain immediately spirals.
Date. This is a date. With a man I just met. Who’s friends with Adrian. Who makes chocolates that taste like fear. And who kidnapped my best friend. She should be calling the cops, not dating him. This is wild. You’re being insane. But also, his eyes are really—no, stop, focus?—
“I should get back to working the room,” I manage, even though what I really want is to keep talking to Gabe.
“Of course.” But before I turn away, he adds quietly, “I meant what I said. About your work. You see things most people miss.”
After he leaves and takes my number—promising to text details for tomorrow—I spend the rest of the evening in a daze. I smile at collectors, discuss pricing with Beatrice Ellington, and accept congratulations on the red dots marking sold pieces. But my brain is spinning in a loop over Gabe Dawson.
The gray of his eyes shifted with the light. The timbre of his voice when he talked about jazz, it dropped lower and more intimate. I’d felt the calluses on his fingers during our handshake. The way hesawmy work.
Tomorrow night. Wine cellar. Private tasting. With Maya and Adrian, who are definitely more than professionally acquainted now. And Gabe, who sees my art the way I see it. Who understands the darkness I’m painting.
I catch my reflection in the gallerywindow as I’m helping pack up at the end of the night—paint still smudged on my wrist despite three washes, hair completely escaped its attempted style, eyes bright with something between excitement and terror.
“What are you doing, Stone?” I whisper to myself.
But I already know the answer. I'm walking toward something that might devour me whole.
And the part of me that painted those predator’s eyes hidden in the centerpiece—the part that stays up until 4 AM chasing visions I can barely articulate—that part can’t wait.
9
AMELIA
The next evening, I changed my outfit four times before settling on the vintage burgundy dress and my practical boots. My studio is littered with discarded options—too formal, too casual, trying too hard, not trying hard enough. My brain refuses to shut up.
It’s just wine. And jazz. And Maya will be there.
Except Maya is sleeping with a man who puts something unusual in his chocolates, and you’re going to his friend’s private wine cellar, which sounds like the opening of a horror movie when you say it out loud?—
“Stop,” I tell my reflection firmly. “You’re going. You’re interested. It’s fine.”
I spend the entire Uber ride bouncing my knee and counting streetlights—one, two, three, four, five. Pattern of five. Like Cassiopeia. Like the painting that Gabe understood. By the time we pull up to The Blue Room, my hands are shaking.
