The gallery pulsed with soft music, champagne, and curated glances. Abstracts and portraits lined the white walls, but none demanded attention like the painting at the far end of the room—a raw, fiery piece that stopped people mid-step. It didn't scream for praise. It bled truth.
Stephanie Quinn stood near it, arms crossed, her lips pressed into a thoughtful line. She wore a deep emerald green dress that hugged her figure without begging for attention. Her hair was pinned in a loose updo, a few strands curling around her cheeks. Her presence wasn't loud, but it was undeniable.
The painting was hers. Titled After the Flame, it was her truth disguised in smoke and oil. A steel car wrecked in a storm of orange and red. A small hand reaching out of fire. No one knew the boy in the painting had lived. That he'd been saved. That she had seen it, felt it, like a haunting stitched into her bones.
No one but her.
Her fingers curled slightly at her side. The gallery owner had begged her to put her name on it, but she refused. Some things weren't for fame. Some things were warnings.
Then she felt him.
A shift in the room. A presence like cold wind slithering beneath the collar.
He stood a few feet from her, staring at the painting in perfect silence. Tall, dressed in sharp black from collar to cuff, with a lean build and unbothered posture. His hair was raven-dark, brushed back, and his face—angular, clean-shaven, cold—looked carved from some distant, disciplined past. His eyes were a storm. Icy. Unreadable. Eyes that had seen things he didn't talk about.
He looked haunted.
And utterly, breathtakingly dangerous.
Stephanie turned her head toward him, curious. "You're not saying anything."
He didn't glance at her. "Most people talk too much."
Her brows lifted. "And you don't?"
He finally looked at her. His gaze dropped to her for the briefest moment—sharp cheekbones, full lips, eyes like warm earth—and he hesitated.
Something flickered behind his eyes. Confusion? No. Discomfort. Recognition? Not quite.
"I know what it means," she said, nodding toward the painting.
His voice dropped to a colder tone. "Do you now?"
"I painted it."
That made him pause.
Stephanie didn't wait for approval. "It's based on a vision. My father had dreams for years about a boy in a car crash. Said he could still hear the screams. He never knew his name. Just that he saved him. Pulled him from fire before it exploded. My mother was with him."
Nathan's jaw clenched, but he didn't look at her.
"I was there too," she added. "Not that I understood it at the time. But later, I saw it in my sleep. I drew it again and again. The heat, the sound, the smoke… it doesn't leave."
His fingers twitched once, then stilled. She didn't notice.
Or maybe she did, and chose not to press.
"I never thought I'd show it," she said softly. "But I guess some truths want to be seen."
He turned to face her fully now. "And what do you expect someone to feel when they look at this?" His tone had sharpened, but it didn't rise. It cut.
Stephanie didn't flinch. "That depends. Did you live through it?"
Their eyes locked.
For a breathless second, the noise of the gallery dropped away. It was just the two of them. Her honesty. His secrets. Her warmth. His walls.
"I'm Stephanie," she said at last, not waiting for approval.
He said nothing. Gave no name.
Just stared.
Then, like a man brushing against a memory too dangerous to touch, he stepped back and turned, melting into the crowd.
Stephanie watched him disappear.
She didn't know who he was.
But somehow, she had the feeling she'd just stared into the eyes of the very boy she painted.