The gallery was dimly lit, the warm glow of chandeliers casting flickering reflections on the polished marble floor. Isabella Carter stood in the farthest corner, nervously clutching a glass of cheap champagne. Tonight was supposed to be her big break. Her paintings, displayed alongside other up-and-coming artists, were meant to attract the right kind of attention—buyers, critics, and maybe, just maybe, someone who believed in her work enough to invest in her future.

But so far, the only people who had approached her were either asking for directions to the bar or mistaking her for an event staff member.

Sighing, she took a sip of the overly sweet champagne and glanced around. The room was filled with socialites—men in tailored suits, women in designer gowns, each more extravagant than the last. These people didn’t understand the struggle of choosing between rent and art supplies.

And then she saw him.

He was standing near the centerpiece of the exhibit, a towering abstract sculpture, effortlessly commanding attention without saying a word. Tall, with dark hair neatly swept back and sharp, chiseled features, he looked like he belonged in one of the paintings rather than among the buyers. His crisp navy suit screamed money, but there was something about him—something restrained, like he didn’t care about the glitz surrounding him.

Their eyes met.

Isabella quickly looked away, pretending to be fascinated by a nearby painting. The last thing she needed was some rich playboy pretending to appreciate art just to impress women.

But before she could slip away, a deep voice stopped her.

“Your work is… interesting.”

She turned slowly, only to find him standing just a few feet away, studying her paintings.

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

A hint of a smile played on his lips. “A compliment. It’s raw. Honest.” He looked at her, eyes dark and intense. “I like that.”

Isabella folded her arms. “Most people here don’t care about honesty. They care about trends, prestige. Money.”

“And you don’t?”

“I care about survival,” she admitted. “But I won’t change my art to fit their expectations.”

He studied her for a moment before extending a hand. “Alexander Drake.”

Her fingers hesitated before meeting his in a firm shake. His grip was warm, steady.

“Isabella Carter.”

The way his lips curved slightly at her name sent an unexplainable shiver down her spine.

“Tell me, Isabella…” he gestured to one of her paintings—a stormy seascape, dark blues and grays swirling together. “What were you feeling when you painted this?”

She blinked, caught off guard. No one had ever asked her that before. People usually just nodded, murmured something vague, then walked away.

“I was…” she hesitated, then decided to be honest. “Drowning. Not literally, obviously. But I felt like I was sinking, like no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t reach the surface.”

Alexander’s gaze didn’t waver. “And did painting it help?”

She let out a small laugh. “Not really. But it gave me something to hold onto.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick with something neither of them could name.

Then, just as quickly, it was broken by the shrill laughter of a passing socialite, and the spell was gone.

Alexander glanced at his watch. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Isabella Carter.”

She nodded, unsure of what else to say.

As he walked away, disappearing into the sea of wealthy elites, Isabella told herself that was the last she’d see of him.

She had no idea how wrong she was.

A week had passed since the gallery event, and Isabella had nearly convinced herself that Alexander Drake was just another fleeting moment in her life—until she saw him again.

She was at the café where she worked part-time, scrubbing a coffee-stained table, lost in her thoughts. The rhythmic motion of the cloth against the wood was almost soothing, a mindless task that allowed her to push away the nagging thoughts of missed opportunities and unspoken words.

Then, the soft chime of the doorbell rang.

She glanced up instinctively, her breath hitching the moment her eyes landed on the man who had been haunting her thoughts.

Alexander.

The sight of him standing in the doorway sent an unsteady tremor through her. He looked just as effortlessly polished as before, dressed in a charcoal gray suit that seemed almost out of place in the cozy café. Yet, somehow, he **belonged**—commanding attention even in a room full of strangers. His presence was magnetic, the kind that made people look twice.

For a fleeting second, Isabella considered pretending she hadn’t seen him. Maybe if she turned away quickly enough, he’d get the hint and leave. But before she could react, their eyes met.

And this time, she didn’t look away.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, keeping her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest.

Alexander smirked, slipping his hands into the pockets of his expensive slacks. "Getting coffee. Isn’t that what people do in cafés?"

She narrowed her eyes, skepticism creeping into her expression. "There are a hundred cafés in this city. You picked this one?"

His smirk deepened, an almost teasing glint in his eyes. "Maybe I was looking for something… raw and honest."

Her heart skipped a beat, and she hated how easily he could throw her off balance. What did that even mean?Was he mocking her? Testing her? She couldn’t tell.

Before she could demand a real answer, the voice of her boss broke through the moment.

"Isabella! We need you at the counter."

She swallowed her frustration, forcing herself to focus. With one last glance at Alexander, she turned away, heading toward the register.

By the time she finished taking a customer’s order and turned back toward the dining area, he was gone.

A strange mix of relief and disappointment settled in her chest. Of course, he wouldn’t wait. Men like Alexander didn’t waste time lingering.

But as she approached the table where he had been standing, something caught her eye.

A single napkin lay folded neatly on the polished surface.

Frowning, she picked it up and unfolded it, revealing a simple yet powerful message written in elegant handwriting:

"Your art deserves more than survival. Let me help. - A.D."

Her fingers tightened around the napkin as she reread the words, her mind racing.

Who did he think he was? What the f*ck does he even know about what she deserves.

Moreover, she didn't need saving.

Did she?

For three days, Isabella ignored the note. She shoved it into the back pocket of her sketchbook, determined to forget about it. But forgetting proved impossible.

Alexander’s words had lodged themselves deep in her mind, resurfacing at the most inconvenient moments—when she was sketching late at night, when she was sipping her morning coffee, when she passed by galleries filled with artists she admired.

Your art deserves more than survival.

Did he really believe that? Or was this just another one of his calculated moves, a game of power and influence he played so effortlessly?

She wanted to dismiss it, to convince herself that Alexander Drake didn’t care about her or her work. But then, on the fourth day, everything changed.

An email popped into her inbox from Eleanor Whitmore, one of the most prestigious art curators in the city.

Isabella almost dropped her phone.

She had spent months trying to get Eleanor to notice her—sending emails, submitting portfolios, even attending events in the hopes of catching her attention. But her work had been overlooked time and time again.

Until now.

The email was brief but direct:

"Ms. Hart, I recently came across your work and find it intriguing. I would love to discuss the possibility of featuring you in an upcoming exhibit. Let’s arrange a meeting at your earliest convenience."

Excitement flared in her chest—but it was quickly drowned by suspicion.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

There was only one person with the power to make something like this happen.

Her hands clenched into fists. Alexander.

Anger bubbled up inside her as she grabbed her coat and marched out the door. Within an hour, she found herself standing in front of a gleaming high-rise office building, the very one listed in Eleanor’s email signature.

She didn’t bother announcing herself. The moment she stepped into the lobby, the sharp-eyed receptionist behind the front desk immediately looked up.

"Do you have an appointment?" the woman asked in a clipped tone.

"No," Isabella said, striding past without another word.

She ignored the calls of protest as she pushed through the sleek glass doors leading to **his** office.

Alexander was seated behind a massive mahogany desk, his expression calm as he looked up from his computer screen. He didn’t seem surprised to see her.

"You had no right," Isabella snapped before he could even greet her.

He leaned back slightly, fingers tapping against the desk. "I assume you’re talking about the curator?"

Her eyes burned with frustration. "Don’t play dumb. You pulled strings to get Eleanor Whitmore to notice me."

His expression remained infuriatingly composed. "I did no such thing."

"You expect me to believe that she just happened to discover my work out of nowhere?" She crossed her arms. "I don’t need charity, Alexander."

He sighed, studying her intently. "It’s not charity. It’s RECOGNITION. Which you deserve."

She wanted to argue. She wanted to throw his help back in his face. But a small part of her—a desperate, struggling part—wanted to believe him.

She had worked tirelessly, poured her soul into her paintings, endured rejection after rejection. And now, when an opportunity finally arrived… was she really going to push it away?

Her voice dropped. "What do you want in return?"

Alexander’s expression turned unreadable. For the first time since she had stormed in, something flickered in his gaze—something she couldn’t quite name.

"Nothing," he said simply.

She didn’t believe that for a second.