London rain wasn't the kind that begged for shelter. It kissed the skin softly, almost sweetly, whispering promises of something romantic—until it soaked you to your bones. On this grey April morning, Olivia Hart didn't carry an umbrella. She liked how the water clung to her lashes. It made her feel alive—raw, unprotected, like a page in a diary that no one would ever read.
She was late. The Piccadilly Line had stalled again, her oat latte had spilled down her cream blouse, and her phone battery had died somewhere between Earl's Court and South Kensington. Typical. But none of it mattered today. Because today, she was going to meet the man who would change everything.
Or so she believed.
The gallery where she worked, The Hollow Room, stood on a quiet street tucked behind a bustling high street. It wasn't grand or modern. It had chipped wooden doors, rose ivy crawling across its walls, and a bronze doorbell that rarely worked. But it had charm—much like Olivia.
She pushed through the heavy door, cheeks flushed from the chill. "You're late," snapped Marcus, her boss and occasional nightmare. He was French, fashionably bitter, and believed punctuality was the highest form of morality.
"I know," she said, brushing droplets from her fringe. "But I'm here now."
Marcus muttered something about British girls and clocks before disappearing into the back. Olivia dropped her soaked coat on the hanger and moved toward the main gallery. That's when she saw him.
Tall. Dark. Confident. He stood with his back to her, dressed in a black wool coat that fit like it had been tailored by angels. He studied one of the newer pieces—a swirling canvas of red and silver, titled Torn Velvet. Her favourite.
She didn't speak. Not immediately. She watched him from the entrance like one does a fire—half afraid, half drawn in.
Then he turned.
Their eyes met.
And the moment stood still.
He had the kind of face that made you forget your own name. His features were sharp—aristocratic, even—but softened by warm brown eyes. His jawline could've sliced her heart if she let it. And maybe she would. Maybe she already had.
"You work here?" he asked, voice smooth like velvet soaked in whisky.
Olivia nodded, suddenly aware of the water dripping from her hair.
"I'm Aiden."
Of course he was. A name that sounded like danger whispered in a lover's ear.
"Olivia."
He smiled. "This one's brilliant. Violent, but soft. Like heartbreak painted."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's exactly how I described it to the curator."
"I am the curator," he replied, eyes gleaming.
Her heart did something foolish then. It tumbled.
They talked for twenty minutes—maybe more. He asked her about art, life, the way the sky looked over Waterloo Bridge at dusk. And she, like a girl who hadn't been ruined before, answered him with open honesty. It was only after he left, after the door shut behind his cologne and charisma, that she realised she was still shivering.
"Who was that?" Marcus asked, peering from the corridor.
"No one," she lied. "Just someone who understands heartbreak."
**
That night, Olivia sat in her tiny flat in Brixton with a mug of tea and no desire to sleep. She stared at the sketchpad on her lap, drawing lines that made no sense. All she could think about was him.
She didn't even know his last name.
But she knew the ache he'd left behind.
She opened Instagram, typed Aiden Hollow Room into the search bar—and found nothing.
Strange.
No online presence. No LinkedIn. No Facebook.
She sipped her tea. "A ghost in a tailored coat."
As if summoned, her phone buzzed. An unknown number. Her heart skipped.
Unknown Number: You have rain in your eyes. I want to learn the storms behind them. — A
She stared at the message, blood rushing to her ears. No one had ever said something like that to her. Not even Aaron, her ex, who once told her he loved her mouth but hated the things it said.
Olivia typed back slowly, every word laced with curiosity.
Olivia: And if I tell you?
A: Then I'll know how to drown beautifully.
She shut her eyes.
This wasn't love.
Not yet.
But it was something.
And maybe that was worse.
**
Down the street, rain clattered against the windows of a hotel suite.
Aiden watched the city blur through the glass. He hadn't lied—he did love Torn Velvet. It reminded him of his past, his damage, the women he had loved and left like pages torn from novels no one finishes.
But Olivia—Olivia was different.
She looked like heartbreak dressed in hope.
And he would ruin her.
Eventually.
But not yet.
First, he wanted to see what kind of fire she carried under that soft voice.
First, he wanted to fall in love with her.
Just enough to hurt.