Elena didn't sleep that night.
She lay in her bed long after midnight, the city murmuring outside her windows, the ghost of Julian's voice echoing in her head. The way he'd said her name—low, intimate—had curled inside her like a secret. Like he already knew the parts of her she'd carefully kept hidden.
And worse, like he wanted them.
By morning, the gallery was quiet again, the faint scent of turpentine and canvas grounding her in reality. She wore her usual armor: fitted slacks, a silk blouse in deep wine, her curls twisted into a loose chignon. But none of it could disguise the way her pulse picked up when she heard the door chime ring.
It was him.
Julian stood in the entrance like he belonged there, dressed in black again, all smooth edges and stillness. He didn't speak at first. Just walked past the landscapes and abstracts until he stood before a painting she hadn't sold—The Fall, one of her personal works. A study in shadow and light. Passion and restraint.
"You painted this," he said quietly.
She nodded, wary. "It's not for sale."
"I didn't ask if it was." His eyes met hers, hungry and unreadable. "It's beautiful. Haunting. Like you."
The words caught her off guard, loosening something in her chest she wasn't ready to name.
"You're very sure of yourself," she murmured, crossing her arms.
"I'm sure of you," he said simply. "More than you are."
Her heart thundered. This man, this stranger, was peeling her apart with nothing but words and presence. She hated how much she wanted to be unraveled.
"What do you want, Julian?" she asked, her voice tighter than intended.
He stepped closer. Close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him. "I want to see how far you'll let me go. How much of yourself you'll show me—before you run."
Elena stared at him, breath caught between fear and fascination. He wasn't playing. Neither was she.
A knock on the gallery door broke the moment—a delivery. A client. A welcome interruption. But the air between them stayed charged, as if the conversation hadn't ended at all.
Later that night, alone with a glass of wine and the hum of city lights beyond her balcony, Elena thought of his touchless closeness. The way his words felt like fingers brushing down her spine.
And she wondered—not for the first time—how dangerous it would be to let herself want him.
How dangerous it would be if she already did