The city glittered like a lie that tasted sweet. Behind the velvet ropes and glass doors of the Mercer Art Hall, beauty moved like predators—sharp heels, sharp tongues, empty eyes. It was a night of curated chaos: champagne poured, cameras flashed, and billionaires played pretend.
Henry Vane stood beneath a blown-glass chandelier that looked like shattered starlight, untouched in a sea of desire. He wore black on black—no tie, no smile—and watched the room like a hunter. Faces blurred, voices faded. He wasn't looking for them.
He was looking for her.
Hazel Snow hadn't meant to come.
She told herself she was only passing by. That she needed air. That it was coincidence.
But her feet betrayed her. Her hands had picked the dress—simple, black, kissed with lace—and her lips wore the same dark red she used when she wanted to feel dangerous.
The Mercer was a world she didn't belong to, and she knew it. But tonight, she wanted to feel unfamiliar to herself.
She stepped inside, breath catching. Art shimmered from the walls—abstract shapes that looked like bruises and longing. Music curled through the space like perfume. And then—
She saw him.
Standing alone near a steel sculpture that looked like a broken promise, Henry turned as if summoned by her thought.
Their eyes met. The room narrowed.
He walked toward her with the same calm as thunder rolling over distant hills. When he reached her, he didn't speak right away.
"You came," he said finally.
"I didn't mean to," she whispered.
"But you did."
Hazel's pulse betrayed her. She felt it in her wrists, her throat, her knees. He looked at her like he already knew how she tasted. Like he'd dreamed of her skin.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
"You either," she shot back, voice shaking.
His smile was crooked. "That's exactly why we're here."
Later, when she returned to Samuel's apartment, she didn't speak. He slept soundly, trust bundled beneath warm sheets.
She curled beside him but faced the window, her heart still echoing with Henry's voice.
Outside, the rain returned—soft this time, almost forgiving.
But Hazel knew better.
Storms don't disappear. They just change direction.
And this one was heading straight for her.