I tell myself I’m just being aware. Just taking in the room.
But deep down, I know the truth.
I’m looking for him, even though I don’t really know who he is.
I spend the night doing what I do best. Socializing. Listening. Observing. I meet new artists eager to be remembered, catch up with old ones already canonized, and exchange pleasantries with collectors who are looking for their next big purchase. I nod as people sing my praises, accept compliments with practiced ease, and deflect flattery without offense.
The room sparkles. Laughter swells and recedes. Glasses clink. Music hums low and indulgent beneath conversation.
Time slips.
Sometime close to midnight, the energy shifts.
It’s subtle at first. A pause. A collective inhale. Conversations falter, then hush altogether, like a tide pulling back from shore. Heads turn toward the entrance. Whispers ripple through the room.
I follow their gaze.
And then I see him.
He’s young—obviously—but he commands the room in a way age has nothing to do with. He’s tall, easily over six-three, but that’s not what does it. It’s his aura. His presence. The way the space seems to bend slightly as he walks through it.
And then there’s his face.
Ridiculously handsome. Unfairly so.
Black hair, shaggy and deliberate, falling just enough to look careless without being messy. Gunmetal eyes—cold, sharp, penetrating. The kind that don’t glance. They assess.
As soon as he steps inside, everyone stares.
He stares back.
His gaze moves slowly, unhurried, skimming the room until it finds me.
And stays.
My breath catches. Completely. Like my body forgets how to perform a basic function.
He starts walking toward me.
I’m not prone to fear. I don’t get nervous around powerful men, beautiful men, or men who think they’re both. But something about him makes my instincts flare—sharp, urgent.
I want to run.
Not because he looks dangerous. Not because he’s threatening.
Because…I don’t know why.
Who is he?
An artist? A collector? A patron? A sponsor with too much money and not enough restraint? I’ve never seen him before. I’d remember a man like this.
He keeps walking. Unstoppable. Intent.
The crowd seems to fall away as he stops only a foot away from me, close enough that I can feel his heat, the quiet authority radiating from his skin. He holds out his hand—steady, unhurried, like he knows I’ll take it.
“Hello, Miss Roth,” he says.
His voice is low. Cultured. Controlled.
