Chapter 2

The heavy velvet curtains of the ballroom had finally closed, muting the swell of jazz and the murmur of a hundred conversations into a distant, rhythmic hum. The air in the private artist’s studio still held the crisp, metallic scent of turpentine and the earthy aroma of drying linseed oil. It was a sanctuary within the sanctuary, a space where the chaos of the gallery opening could be left at the threshold. I had slipped away from the cluster of critics and socialites, my heels clicking softly against the concrete floor, drawn to the quiet corner where a half-finished landscape loomed against the far wall. He was there, leaning against a ladder, a glass of amber whiskey in one hand, watching me with that intensity that made my skin prickle. He had been watching me all evening, a steady, heavy gaze that I had felt more than seen, tracking my movements as I navigated the crowd. Now, in the dim light filtered through the high industrial windows, the distance between us felt charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks. "You’ve been hiding," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in my chest. He pushed