It was winter. The breeze blew cold air, and everyone went about their day in coats to shield themselves from the chill.
Neoma, for the first time, regretted not accepting her father's offer to get her a chauffeur as she struggled through downtown traffic. It had caused a heated argument between them. Her father had been worried about her safety—especially after she decided to live alone. She had told him she wanted to be her own woman, though deep down, she couldn't shake the feeling that he would use the chauffeur to spy on her.
She refused to live in a home where a single canvas wasn't welcome. She would rather make a whole room for painting in her own apartment. In the end, he gave her the apartment—after much argument and pleading from her mother.
Now, as she thought about it, a smile curled on her lips. She doubted there was ever a time she didn't argue with her father. They always had heated conversations—it seemed like their unique way of bonding.
He was still a sweet man who loved her dearly and supported her in every way—except, of course, when it came to painting. She was never treated differently, even after John's death. If anything, they loved her more and protected her however they could. Sometimes, she wondered if her brother's death had triggered her father's obsession with legacy.
She knew deep down that whenever he spoke of legacy, it was his son he thought about. But still, she chose her happiness first—her own life, on her own terms. John would want the same too. She just wished her father would understand... maybe someday.
The car jerked forward with a loud bang, cutting off her thoughts. Thankfully, she had fastened her seatbelt; otherwise, she might have been on her way to the emergency room.
She got out of the car, still in shock. Her heels clicked on the pavement as she held her coat to her chest, the cold breeze slapping her skin and tossing her hair into her face.
"What the heck…" she muttered under her breath.
Her car had been badly dented on the side—a clumsy cab driver had hit her from the rear.
"Hey! You shouldn't sleep at the wheel if you can't drive," the man snapped.
Neoma blinked, stunned. Wasn't he the one who hit her?
"What are you going to do about my damaged car?" she shouted, stepping forward.
Horns blared around them. A driver stuck his head out of his window.
"Get off the road, lady!"
Neoma's jaw clenched. She turned back to the cab driver.
"It's not my fault you drive like a snail," he barked, jabbing a finger in her face.
The chaos was too much. Her nerves were frayed, and her patience had packed up and left. She let out a frustrated sigh, turned on her heel, and got back into her car—dented and humiliated.
Another regret for the day.
She had chosen this particular area to avoid being seen or recognized by her father's associates. She planned to meet the man her father was selling the gallery to.
No, she definitely didn't have a clear plan or know exactly what to say. But she had a goal: save the building.
Now, she wondered if he would even honor the invitation to such a place. Her father moved with high-class people—so it must be one of those rich, arrogant bastards, she thought, cursing silently. She had told Alice, her personal assistant, to find a suitable place in downtown for the meeting—and here she was.
She spotted the Rolls-Royce in the parking lot. She knew it had to be him. The car stood out. He must be extremely rich, she thought. She also noticed two black SUVs nearby—he clearly wasn't alone.
She walked into the restaurant. She had made a reservation for the VIP lounge and was immediately directed to the elevator, which took her to the second floor.
As the elevator doors opened, she saw two hefty men in black suits standing at the entrance. Her heels clicked against the floor as she walked confidently toward them. They opened the door as if they had been expecting her.
He would have done his research, she thought, especially since she had chosen such an informal location.
She walked into the room. It was well-lit, with a professional interior. A table was set for two. The room was empty—no guards inside, which surprised her. She had expected to find more men like the ones outside.
Instead, a man sat relaxed in a chair, head slightly bowed. As she entered, he raised his head.
She swallowed. Her heart skipped.
In front of her sat a god in human form. He looked dangerously handsome in his dark suit, his hair styled over his left eye, making him look both dangerous and calm at the same time. A smirk curled on his lips as he gestured for her to sit. Her belly twitched at his smile.
He had noticed her reaction, and she felt embarrassed. She had expected an older man, someone her father's age. What could he possibly want with the gallery? Perhaps he had an interest in painting—that would be a good start.
Lost in thought, she didn't notice he had stretched out his hand for a handshake until he cleared his throat to catch her attention.
She didn't know why she felt so strange. It wasn't her first time seeing a good-looking man—but none were this good-looking, her inner voice muttered.
"I'm Sebastian Vaelrath," he said.
She placed her hand in his.
The moment their hands touched, a current zipped up her arm. She gasped and yanked her hand back, stunned by the electric pulse between them. She almost thought she was hallucinating... until she saw the shocked look on his face too.