(Damien's POV)
The Rothwell gallery didn't announce itself. It didn't need to.
From the street, its façade was all glass and shadow, the interior glowing like a lantern in the winter dusk. A minimalist design—three levels of open space stacked above one another, a chandelier of handblown crystal suspended in the atrium, refracting light in fragments across the marble floor. No banners. No signs. The kind of place where exclusivity was a given.
Damien's car eased to the curb. A valet in black approached before the engine had even cooled, and within seconds Damien was stepping onto the cleared walkway, the cold air biting against his jaw. He paused at the entrance—not because he hesitated, but because timing mattered. Guests noticed arrivals in the spaces between conversations, when a new presence altered the air. He wanted to be seen entering, but only once the right eyes could catch it.
Inside, warmth enveloped him along with the faint scent of polished wood and expensive perfume. A string quartet played on the mezzanine, the sound drifting down in soft waves. Clusters of guests moved slowly between the displays, champagne in hand, murmuring in the low, deliberate voices of people who liked to be overheard but not misunderstood.
His first sweep of the room wasn't for the art. He scanned faces—donors, board members, familiar figures from corporate functions—and found Clara Rothwell within seconds.
She stood beneath one of the larger pieces, a sweeping oil painting in violent reds and golds, her gown the color of champagne. Clara was practiced in the art of polite attention, her smile warm enough to flatter without committing. When she noticed him, her eyes brightened in open pleasure, exactly as expected.
"Mr. Vale," she said when he reached her, extending a gloved hand. "What an unexpected delight."
"Ms. Rothwell," he returned smoothly, taking her hand briefly. "Your event is remarkable."
Her smile widened just enough. "All credit goes to my family's curators. I'm merely a patron."
They spoke for several minutes—Clara guiding him toward other guests, introducing him to a pair of trustees, her hand occasionally brushing his arm in subtle, deliberate contact. She was aware of her presence, aware of his. But his attention, while outwardly fixed on her, remained peripheral.
Because she was here.
Evelyn.
He spotted her near the far corner of the gallery, standing before a large abstract piece in black and silver. The lighting threw a faint halo across her hair, which was swept back in a loose knot. Unlike Clara, she wore no gown that demanded notice—her dress was understated, deep charcoal, the fabric catching only occasional light when she moved.
She wasn't moving now.
Instead, she was studying the painting with an intensity that made her seem apart from the gathering around her. Other guests drifted past, their attention fleeting, but she didn't glance away.
And she hadn't once looked toward him.
Damien knew enough about watching to recognize the difference between true absorption and the performance of it. Evelyn's stillness wasn't about the painting—it was about control. A way of not looking at something by focusing entirely on something else.
He let Clara lead him in a slow orbit of the room, adjusting his pace so that, eventually, the orbit would bring him near Evelyn without any visible intent.
The painting was a fractured landscape—shards of dark shapes cutting through a silver sky. Up close, the brushstrokes were deliberate, almost surgical, but from a distance they blurred into something almost violent.
Evelyn's eyes flickered toward him as he approached. Not the full acknowledgment of a greeting, but a quick calibration, as though measuring proximity.
"Interesting choice," Damien said, stopping a pace away.
Her gaze returned to the canvas. "It's not a choice," she said softly. "It's a statement."
He considered the piece again. "And what's it saying?"
"That depends," she said, "on whether you think the silver is sky or smoke."
He looked at her fully then, catching the faintest curve of her mouth—a smile that wasn't for amusement but for testing.
"And you?" he asked. "What do you think it is?"
She tilted her head, as though weighing whether to answer. "I think it's both. Which makes it honest. Things are rarely just one thing, no matter how much people want them to be."
The comment landed heavier than the subject matter warranted.
They stood there for a moment in the quiet between guests passing by, the low music threading through the air. He could feel the edges of her restraint—polite, contained, but edged with something unsaid.
"You don't seem interested in the rest of the collection," he said.
"I've already seen it," she replied.
"A private viewing?"
Her eyes flickered toward him again, sharper this time. "Something like that."
There it was—the faintest pulse of awareness, too controlled to be accidental. She knew more than she should.
Clara's voice interrupted, warm and bright as she approached. "Mr. Vale, I see you've met my sister."
Evelyn's expression shifted, smoothing into something neutral. "Briefly."
Clara slipped easily into his space, drawing his attention back toward a sculpture in the center of the room. Evelyn stepped back, letting the conversation flow past her without resistance, her hands folding loosely in front of her.
But before she turned fully away, her eyes met his one last time. Not long enough to be obvious. Just long enough to tell him she'd chosen not to say something.
Later, when he stepped back into the winter night, the air sharp in his lungs, Damien replayed that look.
She was hiding something.
The only question was whether she meant to protect him… or herself.