(Evelyn's POV)
The Rothwell gallery was alive with soft murmurs and the faint clinking of glasses. Golden light from the chandeliers spilled across polished marble floors, casting abstract shadows that danced alongside the carefully curated sculptures and paintings. The scent of fresh paint mingled with perfume—subtle, expensive, and intoxicating.
I adjusted the hem of my sapphire-blue dress, smoothing it over my hips. It was elegant but understated, perfect for blending in with the crowd while still feeling confident. My hair was pinned into a loose chignon, wisps falling around my face in a deliberate dishevel that softened my expression.
And yet, no matter how composed I tried to appear, my mind refused to stay disciplined. Adrian Vale. His presence lingered in my thoughts like a persistent shadow. The memory of last night—his smirk, the heat of his lips against mine, the way I had fled his penthouse—refused to fade.
I inhaled sharply, attempting to ground myself. This is a charity event. Nothing more. Just… art.
But the moment I stepped through the gallery doors, I felt him.
Adrian Vale. Across the room, leaning casually against a pillar, he surveyed the guests with effortless control. Dark suit fitted like armor, posture flawless, and eyes that seemed to see through the chaos of the room—and through me.
I tried to focus on the sculpture before me, abstract curves of steel that twisted impossibly into themselves. But I could feel him still, just a few meters away, observing. His presence tugged at my chest, a magnetic force I was powerless to resist.
Clara appeared at my side, her dark green gown flowing like liquid elegance, hair perfectly pinned. She smiled faintly, polite, yet the tension in her posture betrayed her curiosity. "Eve, darling, you're here," she said, tone soft but calculating. Her eyes flicked toward the pillar where Adrian Vale lingered, lingering on him far longer than necessary.
"You look… fine," she added, the edge of jealousy in her voice.
I forced a composed smile. "I'm fine. You look… stunning, as always."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she let her gaze drift across the room, but I could see it in her eyes: suspicion, concern, and jealousy wrapped into one. Clara liked him. That much was obvious. And her restrained envy only heightened my own tangled thoughts.
I let my attention shift back to the artwork. He had moved slightly, closer now, weaving through the crowd with the fluid ease of someone who controlled every moment around him. I could feel him observing me, watching every subtle flicker of expression, every movement, every hesitation.
Clara leaned closer, voice quiet but sharp. "Evelyn… do you know him well?"
I froze for a heartbeat. Her gaze was searching, insistent. "Know him?" I repeated carefully.
"Yes. Adrian Vale," she said, eyes narrowing slightly. "He seems… more than just someone you met at a gala. You're… different around him."
I swallowed, the weight of my thoughts pressing down. I couldn't tell her the truth—not about Damien Kane, not about Adrian Vale. "We met recently," I said lightly, forcing casualness. "At the gala last night. That's all."
Clara's expression flickered, a brief shadow of doubt crossing her perfectly maintained mask. "Just a gala?" she asked. Her voice softened, almost like a whisper, but I sensed the jealousy beneath it. "You seem… affected."
I inhaled slowly, heart beginning to race. "I'm fine," I said, forcing a laugh that sounded more genuine than it felt. "Really. That's all."
She lingered a moment, her gaze sharp, then nodded, though the caution in her posture remained. I knew she would continue to watch, to analyze, to pry in subtle ways—but I had no choice but to maintain my composure.
Across the room, Adrian Vale shifted closer to a sculpture I had been observing. Every move was deliberate, calculated. He spoke to a small group of guests, nodding here, smiling there, yet every so often, his eyes flicked to me. My pulse accelerated. I could not seem to escape him, even when I tried.
I forced my attention to the room again, scanning the crowd for distractions. The Rothwell estate had invited only private donors tonight, people who moved in polite whispers and hidden agendas. I could feel the subtle competition in the air—the silent games, the unspoken social battles. And in the midst of all of it, Adrian Vale stood as a singular presence, untouchable, magnetic, and infuriatingly aware of every detail.
Clara's voice interrupted my thoughts again. "Eve… tell me honestly. What happened last night?"
I stiffened slightly. "Last night?"
"Yes. At Adrian Vale's place."
My stomach lurched. She didn't know he was Damien, which meant my mask was still intact—but it also meant I had to be careful. "We just… spoke," I said lightly. "He helped me with something. Nothing more."
Clara's eyes narrowed, studying me with the precision of someone who noticed every microexpression. "Helped you?" she murmured. Her gaze flicked toward Adrian Vale again. "You seem… affected."
I felt the flush rise to my cheeks, despite my attempts at calm. "I'm fine," I said firmly, though my heart pounded.
Her subtle frown deepened. "I see. Just… be careful." The words were soft, but her tone carried unspoken layers of warning and possessiveness. I knew she liked him, and that jealousy made the air between us tense, charged, almost dangerous.
I turned back to the sculptures, letting my gaze drift, and then I noticed him—Adrian Vale—approaching. Calm, deliberate, confident. His dark eyes met mine for a brief moment, and I felt the weight of his presence, the magnetic pull I couldn't resist.
"Miss Rothwell," he said, voice low and measured, as if the sound itself was a command. "I see you found the sculpture. It suits you."
I blinked, startled by the nearness of him. "It's… interesting," I said lightly, forcing composure.
He tilted his head, studying me as if peeling back layers. "Interesting?" he repeated, teasing. "I think there's more to your interest than you admit."
I felt my chest tighten. I stepped back, giving myself a moment to breathe. "Perhaps," I said lightly, masking the heat rising in my cheeks.
He smirked faintly, the kind of smirk that made your pulse quicken. "Perhaps," he echoed. "I like when someone keeps me guessing."
I tried to laugh, scanning the crowd to give myself space. But his presence lingered like a shadow, impossible to ignore. Every movement, every glance, felt deliberate, measured. He was testing me, observing me, drawing me in without touching me.
Clara's voice cut through the tension again. "Eve… are you okay?"
I glanced at her, sensing the mixture of concern and jealousy. "I'm fine," I said firmly, though my pulse still raced.
Her eyes flicked to Adrian Vale again. "I see. Just… be careful," she murmured, warning wrapped in the softness of her voice.
I swallowed, heart hammering. Careful. That was the only word that mattered. Careful around Adrian Vale. Careful around Damien Kane. Careful around the dangerous storm in his eyes and the pull I could not resist.
I let my attention drift back to Adrian Vale. He moved like a shadow, fluid and precise, every glance calculated to unsettle, to intrigue. I could feel the tension building between us, and I knew he was aware of every flicker of emotion in my gaze, every subtle shift in my posture.
I inhaled, steadying myself. This evening was only the beginning. Every glance, every word, every moment of proximity carried stakes I could not yet measure. I had no idea how deep I was stepping into a world where desire, danger, and secrets intertwined, where Julian Kane plotted unseen, and where Adrian Vale—Damien Kane—controlled every detail of my exposure to him.
And yet, despite the danger, despite the uncertainty, I could not look away.