chapter 2

Elara's POV:

My hand froze halfway to his jacket, where I'd been about to attempt the futile task of wiping away the paint.

The dismissal in his tone made something hot and defensive flare in my chest. I'd apologized, hadn't I? I'd tried to help. What more did he want?

I straightened, meeting his gaze with more confidence than I felt. "Then don't stand in the middle of the entrance."

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment I thought he might actually respond.

But then an older man in a dark suit appeared at his elbow—security, I assumed, or perhaps a handler of some kind—and the moment passed.

The older man was fighting a smile, I noticed, his weathered face creasing with barely suppressed amusement as he bent to help gather my scattered supplies.

"Miss," he said quietly, handing me a charcoal pencil, "you might want to apologize properly."

I took the pencil, my cheeks still burning, and looked back at the man I'd collided with. He was watching me now with an expression I couldn't quite read, his gaze dropping to the sketchbook that lay open at his feet.

I followed his line of sight and felt my stomach drop.

The page showed a child's face, rendered in quick, sure strokes—a boy with dark curls and eyes that held a gentleness I'd imagined a thousand times.

It was a sketch I'd done in a moment of weakness, letting myself picture what my child might have looked like at three or four, if he'd lived. A face I'd conjured from grief and longing, translated onto paper before I could stop myself.

The man's entire body seemed to go rigid.

When he looked back at me, something had changed in his expression—the cold fury replaced by something sharper, more focused.

He stared at me for a long moment, and I had the unsettling sensation of being catalogued, filed away in some mental database for future reference.

Then he turned without a word and walked away, leaving me kneeling on the floor surrounded by my scattered art supplies and the wreckage of our collision.

The older man—Marcus, I heard someone call him—pressed the last of my pencils into my hand.

"Watch where you're going next time," he said, but his tone was almost gentle.

I gathered the rest of my things with shaking hands, shoving them back into my bag without any attempt at organization.

Around me, the crowd was already moving on, the brief drama forgotten in favor of champagne and networking. I stood, slinging the bag over my shoulder, and caught a glimpse of the man's back as he disappeared into the gallery proper.

There was something about the way people moved out of his path, the subtle deference in their postures, that made my stomach sink.

I found a gallery assistant hovering nearby, a young woman with an iPad and an expression of barely concealed horror.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice pitched low. "That was... I mean, do you need anything?"

"I'm fine." I tried for a smile, but my face felt stiff. "Just mortified. Who was that, anyway?"

The woman's eyes went wide. "You don't know? That was Dominic Hale."

The name meant nothing to me, and my confusion must have shown on my face, because her expression shifted from shock to something close to pity.

"He basically owns London's art market. If he likes your work, you're set for life. If he doesn't..." She trailed off, the implication hanging heavy in the air.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Of course. Of course the one person I'd managed to assault with art supplies would be someone important, someone who could destroy my career with a single word.

I thought of Vivienne, waiting somewhere in this gallery, expecting to introduce her talented granddaughter to influential people.

I thought of the red paint staining that expensive suit, of my own defensive words—don't stand in the middle of the entrance—and wanted to sink through the floor.

"I need some air," I managed, and fled before the assistant could respond.

The second floor of the gallery was quieter, populated by serious collectors examining the pieces with the kind of intense focus that suggested they were calculating investment returns rather than aesthetic value.

I found a corner near a massive Rothko color field painting and leaned against the wall, trying to steady my breathing.

The painting was beautiful—layers of orange and red that seemed to pulse with inner light—but I couldn't focus on it.

All I could see was Dominic Hale's face, the cold assessment in his eyes as he looked at me, the way his expression had changed when he saw the sketch of the child.

I pulled out my phone, thinking I should text Vivienne, make some excuse and leave. But before I could type anything, a familiar voice cut through my spiraling thoughts.

"Elara, darling, there you are."

I looked up to find Vivienne standing at the top of the stairs, elegant in a navy Chanel suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

And beside her, looking as composed as if he hadn't just been assaulted by a clumsy artist, was Dominic Hale.

The paint stain on his jacket had been covered by his hand, I noticed, but I could still see the edge of it peeking out from beneath his palm.

There was no escape. I pushed away from the wall, forcing my legs to carry me forward, and tried to arrange my face into something resembling professional courtesy.

Vivienne's smile was warm but knowing—she'd clearly heard about the incident, probably from three different sources already—and there was a warning in her eyes that I read clearly: be polite, be professional, do not make this worse.

"Dominic," Vivienne said, her voice carrying the easy confidence of someone who'd been moving in these circles for seventy years, "this is my granddaughter, Elara Ashford. Elara, this is Dominic Hale."

His gaze locked onto mine, and the corner of his mouth lifted in something that wasn't quite a smile. "We've met."

The words hung in the air, loaded with subtext that I couldn't quite parse.

Was he amused? Angry? Merely acknowledging the obvious?