The meeting

The gallery was dimly lit, the warm glow of chandeliers casting flickering reflections on the polished marble floor. Isabella Carter stood in the farthest corner, nervously clutching a glass of cheap champagne. Tonight was supposed to be her big break. Her paintings, displayed alongside other up-and-coming artists, were meant to attract the right kind of attention—buyers, critics, and maybe, just maybe, someone who believed in her work enough to invest in her future.

But so far, the only people who had approached her were either asking for directions to the bar or mistaking her for an event staff member.

Sighing, she took a sip of the overly sweet champagne and glanced around. The room was filled with socialites—men in tailored suits, women in designer gowns, each more extravagant than the last. These people didn’t understand the struggle of choosing between rent and art supplies.

And then she saw him.

He was standing near the centerpiece of the exhibit, a towering abstract sculpture, effortlessly commanding attention without saying a word. Tall, with dark hair neatly swept back and sharp, chiseled features, he looked like he belonged in one of the paintings rather than among the buyers. His crisp navy suit screamed money, but there was something about him—something restrained, like he didn’t care about the glitz surrounding him.

Their eyes met.

Isabella quickly looked away, pretending to be fascinated by a nearby painting. The last thing she needed was some rich playboy pretending to appreciate art just to impress women.

But before she could slip away, a deep voice stopped her.

“Your work is… interesting.”

She turned slowly, only to find him standing just a few feet away, studying her paintings.

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

A hint of a smile played on his lips. “A compliment. It’s raw. Honest.” He looked at her, eyes dark and intense. “I like that.”

Isabella folded her arms. “Most people here don’t care about honesty. They care about trends, prestige. Money.”

“And you don’t?”

“I care about survival,” she admitted. “But I won’t change my art to fit their expectations.”

He studied her for a moment before extending a hand. “Alexander Drake.”

Her fingers hesitated before meeting his in a firm shake. His grip was warm, steady.

“Isabella Carter.”

The way his lips curved slightly at her name sent an unexplainable shiver down her spine.

“Tell me, Isabella…” he gestured to one of her paintings—a stormy seascape, dark blues and grays swirling together. “What were you feeling when you painted this?”

She blinked, caught off guard. No one had ever asked her that before. People usually just nodded, murmured something vague, then walked away.

“I was…” she hesitated, then decided to be honest. “Drowning. Not literally, obviously. But I felt like I was sinking, like no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t reach the surface.”

Alexander’s gaze didn’t waver. “And did painting it help?”

She let out a small laugh. “Not really. But it gave me something to hold onto.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick with something neither of them could name.

Then, just as quickly, it was broken by the shrill laughter of a passing socialite, and the spell was gone.

Alexander glanced at his watch. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Isabella Carter.”

She nodded, unsure of what else to say.

As he walked away, disappearing into the sea of wealthy elites, Isabella told herself that was the last she’d see of him.

She had no idea how wrong she was.

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