The painting shouldn't have existed.
The brushstrokes were too accurate.
Nathan Voss stood still, swallowed by the sterile hush of the art gallery, surrounded by champagne flutes and soft jazz. But all he saw was that canvas.
A forest. Trees burning. Metal twisted and bleeding fire. Smoke curling like fingers over a child's silhouette—half-hidden in ash.
He couldn't breathe.
He could smell it again. Gasoline. Blood. His mother's perfume as it burned off her skin. He could hear his father's voice—hoarse, cut short. The scream. His own, muffled by glass and flame.
And the hand.
That hand. Reaching through the smoke. Pulling him out. The single, searing moment that split his life in two.
How the hell did this stranger paint it?
His eyes narrowed.
"Sir?" came a voice beside him.
Nathan didn't turn.
Amara Lane, his longtime executive assistant, followed his gaze with practiced calm. "You recognize it."
He gave a slow nod. "That's not imagination. That's a memory."
"Yours?"
"Yes."
Amara didn't question further. She didn't need to. "I'll find the artist."
Nathan's gaze dropped to the small metal tag beneath the canvas.
"Forest Fire Memory" – Stephanie Quinn
STEPHANIE's HEELS HURT.
She'd been standing for almost three hours, smiling at strangers who smelled like money and quoted artists they didn't understand. She hated this part. The pretending.
But she needed the sales. Desperately.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She glanced down: Leo (2 missed calls)
Her chest tightened.
Before she could sneak away to call him back, a woman in a black power suit approached.
"Stephanie Quinn?"
"Yeah?"
"You're wanted." The woman stepped aside.
Behind her stood a man.
Not just any man.
Nathan Voss.
The name rang in her head like a warning bell. Tech billionaire. CEO of Vosstech. Ice-cold prodigy. She'd seen him in headlines. Never expected to see him in front of her.
His eyes locked onto her with unnerving precision.
"Your painting," he said without greeting. "Where did it come from?"
Stephanie arched a brow. "Which one?"
"The one of the fire. The boy. The forest."
She stiffened. "Why?"
"Because you painted something that belongs to me."
Stephanie stared. "Excuse me?"
His jaw tensed. "That scene. It happened. Exactly as you painted it."
She blinked, genuinely confused now. "I… I don't understand. That was inspired by a dream my dad had years ago. He used to tell us stories—most of them real-life rescues. He was a firefighter."
Nathan's lips parted for a fraction of a second. Then snapped shut.
Of course he was.
He took a breath. Swallowed something bitter.
"I want to hire you," he said suddenly.
She blinked. "Wait—what?"
"A contract. Short-term. You'll work on a new company project." His words were clipped. Cold. "We're developing a memory therapy device. High-level innovation. Your job would be to paint environments that reflect human emotional memory. Visual maps. Scenes. Moments."
Stephanie frowned. "You want me to paint emotions?"
"Interpret experiences. Frame them visually. Like you did with the fire."
She crossed her arms. "And you think I'll just say yes because you showed up in a suit and said please?"
"I didn't say please."
"No, you didn't," she muttered.
"I'll pay you one hundred and eighty thousand dollars."
Stephanie's mouth went dry.
Nathan tilted his head, voice lowering into something just slightly smug. "You look like someone who needs it."
Her face went rigid. "You don't know me."
"I know desperation when I see it."
Stephanie stepped back, fury flashing in her eyes. "You arrogant bastard—"
"Your brother," Nathan said coolly. "Leo, isn't it?"
Stephanie froze.
He had checked her. Researched her.
The move was calculated—and he knew it had landed.
Nathan's voice dropped an octave. "I'm offering you six weeks of work. Studio provided. Discretion mandatory. No questions. Take it or leave it."
Her heart thundered. Leo. His treatments. The overdue bills.
Still—her pride flared. "You're unbelievable."
"That's irrelevant."
And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away. No further explanation. No goodbye.
Stephanie stood frozen in place, her wine glass trembling slightly.
People kept mingling. Someone laughed in the distance. But everything inside her felt like it had snapped.
Outside, she found a quiet bench behind the gallery, away from the crowd. Her phone was already ringing.
"Leo," she whispered.
His voice came through, weak but warm. "Hey, you at that show?"
She stared at the sidewalk. "Yeah. Sold some stuff."
"That's good. We're gonna make it, Steph."
She forced a smile. "Yeah."
"Did you see the bill they posted today?" he asked gently. "Another five grand on top of what we already owe. I hate this. I hate you having to deal with it."
Stephanie's eyes stung. "Don't apologize."
There was a pause.
"You okay?" he asked.
She thought about that man. That offer. That cold voice. You look like someone who needs it.
"No," she whispered. "But I might be."
Back inside the gallery, Stephanie looked at her own painting. The forest. The flame. The hand.
And the boy.
Her heart was pounding,and she didn't know why.