Scarlett Blackthorne adjusted the strap of her sensible black heels and cursed under her breath. Her feet hurt, her dress itched, and the gallery was at max capacity with people who thought "emotion" came with a price tag. She never felt more out of place than when she was surrounded by high society pretending to feel something.

  She didn’t come from this world. Raised by a single mother who worked double shifts at a diner, Scarlett had clawed her way through night classes and two jobs to earn her art history degree. Working at the city’s most respected gallery had been her dream, and now that she was here—curating her first big showcase—she should’ve felt on top of the world.

  Instead, she felt… anxious.

  Not the nervous, hopeful kind. The other kind. The kind that slithered up your spine when something wasn’t quite right.

  She forced a smile and stepped into the crowd, weaving between tall glasses of white wine and overly polished shoes. The hum of cultured conversation filled the space, but it all blurred together as her gaze snagged on a man standing completely still in front of The Crimson Requiem.

  He didn’t belong here.

  Tall. Dark suit. A stillness that felt deliberate. Controlled. Dangerous, even. He wasn't admiring the painting—he was studying it like it might whisper a secret only he could understand.

  Scarlett’s heart skipped.

  Not the romantic kind of skip.

  The what the hell was that kind.

  She blinked and looked away, pretending to be distracted by the floral arrangement. When she glanced back, he was staring directly at her.

  Her stomach tightened.

  “Scarlett Blackthorne,” he said before she even reached him.

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  His voice was deep and smooth, but not soft. It had an edge to it—like a blade wrapped in velvet.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she replied cautiously, trying not to show how unsettled she suddenly felt.

  He extended a hand. “Lucien Draven.”

  Her brows furrowed. That name. She knew that name.

  Wait. The Lucien Draven?

  The one who’d bought out a media empire, a private security firm, and a stretch of land in Romania all in the same year?

  She crossed her arms instead of shaking his hand. “Didn’t think billionaires made time for local gallery openings.”

  His lips curled, amused. “I don’t. But this piece…” He nodded at the painting. “It drew me in.”

  Scarlett turned to the painting, searching for whatever he was seeing that made his voice sound... haunted.

  He spoke again, softer this time. “She looks familiar.”

  “She’s from a forgotten portrait, late 1800s,” Scarlett said. “The artist never named the muse.”

  “She had a name,” he murmured. “I remember her.”

  Scarlett blinked. “You remember her? She’d be long dead by now.”

  His gaze met hers, and for a split second, she felt… off balance. Like the floor wasn’t quite beneath her feet. Her chest tightened, not painfully—but like something unseen had just wrapped around her ribs and whispered pay attention.

  She swallowed hard.

  Something about him felt… unnatural. Not in a horror movie kind of way. In a how do I even describe this kind of way. There was heat, yes—but also cold, and stillness, and movement. Her brain couldn’t make sense of it.

  “You okay?” he asked, voice low.

  Scarlett blinked fast. “Fine. Just tired.”

  Liar.

  “Your exhibit is impressive,” he said, not pressing her. “You have an eye for meaning.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You strike me as someone who sees through things, not into them.”

  He smirked. “Maybe I do both.”

  The lights flickered—just once. Subtle. But enough for a few people to glance up.

  Scarlett’s skin tingled.

  Lucien’s gaze shifted to a shadow in the far hallway.

  “You should be careful, Miss Blackthorne,” he said, his tone shifting to something darker. “There are things lurking tonight.”

  Scarlett’s pulse jumped. “Like what?”

  He stepped closer, just enough to make her breath catch—but not enough to back her down. His cologne was subtle but rich, like cedar and danger.

  “Things that don’t belong here. Things drawn to power.”

  “Are you saying I have power?”

  His smile was all teeth and secrets. “You have something.”

  Before she could respond, a noise behind them snapped her attention—a glass shattering somewhere near the bar.

  When she looked back, Lucien was gone.

  No goodbye. No dramatic exit. Just vanished.

  She stood there, heart still racing, confused, breath shallow.

  She didn’t believe in ghosts.

  But something just touched her soul.