The gallery hummed with low conversation and clinking glasses, soft jazz floating on the air like perfume. Walls lined with abstract pieces bled color into the evening, but none of it held Celeste's attention. She stood alone for a moment, gazing at a storm-blue canvas that reminded her of something she couldn't name—until the room changed.
She felt it before she saw it.
A hush rippled through the space—not abrupt, but unmistakable. Like someone had shifted the temperature of the air. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. Even the violinist missed a note before catching herself.
Then came the footsteps. Not rushed. Measured. Crisp. A presence entering with the certainty of someone who'd never once wondered whether he belonged.
He came into view slowly, as if he wanted the attention and yet had no need to ask for it. Tall, elegant. A tailored navy suit hugged his frame, casual in its perfection. His dark blond hair was tousled just enough to suggest recklessness beneath restraint, and a gold pin—a lion, no less—glinted at his collar.
Celeste inhaled sharply.
"Damien," she said. Not loudly, not warmly. Just enough for the name to settle into the air like smoke.
Leon, half-turned toward the gallery's bar, froze with a glass of water in his hand. His gaze flicked to Celeste—then followed hers.
Damien's eyes landed on her like a sunrise—soft, golden, impossible to ignore.
"Celeste." His voice was warm velvet, dipped in memory. "You haven't changed."
"You have," she said.
Something unreadable passed between them. A too-long pause. Something left unsaid.
Leon's jaw tightened, his stillness sharpening. He didn't move closer. Didn't need to. He observed—watching the man who seemed to carry light with him like a cloak. Too charming. Too smooth. Too perfect.
And when Damien finally looked at Leon, it wasn't rushed. It was measured, deliberate—like someone flipping a page in a book they already knew the ending to.
"And you must be Leon," Damien said, his voice dipped in polite curiosity. "I've heard… so much about you."
Leon's silence was not rude. It was surgical.
Damien smiled, a glint of teeth beneath charm. "Strange," he added, eyes narrowing just slightly, "she never mentioned you smiled."
Leon didn't smile now, either.
Celeste cut in quickly. "Damien's here for the Delacroix Commission," she said, tone even, but her hands betrayed her—they folded too tightly in front of her. "He's just arrived from the capital."
"Just arrived?" Leon asked, voice low. "And already at the gallery."
Damien shrugged, that same disarming smile in place. "I make time for beautiful things."
His eyes never left Celeste.
A server passed by. Damien plucked a glass of champagne with practiced ease and handed it to her. "Still prefer dry?" he asked.
She hesitated—but took it.
Leon's fingers curled around his own glass, unspoken tension thickening between them like static before a storm.
Damien didn't press. He simply turned his gaze back to the paintings, admiring them with the air of someone who could buy the entire gallery and barely notice. "Such fascinating brushwork," he murmured. "The artist paints chaos, but hides control underneath. I wonder if he's trying to say something."
Leon said nothing, but his eyes didn't leave Damien.
And Damien—damn him—smiled without looking.
He knew.