The rain was warm that night—thick, humid, and careless as it smeared across the windshield of Elara Vale's cab. The city shimmered beneath it, golden streetlights bleeding into slick pavement, neon signs bending in puddles like restless ghosts. Elara pressed her forehead to the glass, watching the world blur around her. She felt out of place in her secondhand heels and thrifted dress, her sketchpad cradled protectively in her arms like a shield against the world.
The gallery event had been a disaster. Not a single piece sold, and her attempt to pitch her work to one of the curators had been met with a polite smile and a disinterested nod. She had returned home countless nights like this before—empty-pocketed, heart heavy, telling herself that starving was part of the art. But tonight, the weight felt different. Heavier. Like something had already begun unraveling, quietly, behind her back.
She paid the driver with crumpled bills and stepped out into the wet night. The street near her apartment was unusually quiet, save for the low hum of a distant engine. She tugged her jacket tighter, adjusting the strap of her bag as her heels clicked cautiously against the pavement.
That's when she felt it—the shift. The sudden stillness. The chill that raised goosebumps along her arms.
Then a voice, low and sharp.
"Miss Vale?"
She turned just in time to see the outline of a man step from the alleyway. Well-dressed. Unsmiling.
"Do I know you?" she asked, instinctively stepping back.
The man didn't answer. Instead, he raised his hand—and then came the sharp sting of pressure behind her, as another figure grabbed her from behind, a cloth pressed tightly to her mouth.
Panic exploded.
She fought. Kicked. Bit down on the fabric. But the smell—sweet and chemical—invaded her nose, her lungs, her skull. The world tilted, and her limbs betrayed her. Colors smeared, voices warped.
Her last coherent thought was a question screaming through the fog of her mind:
Why me?
She awoke to silence.
No sirens. No city hum. Just the low tick of an antique clock and the soft hiss of fabric brushing against stone.
Elara blinked against the dim light. Her head throbbed. The air was perfumed with something rich and smoky—cologne, leather, and aged wood. She was lying on a velvet chaise, her dress rumpled, shoes gone. Her sketchpad was nowhere in sight.
The room around her looked like something out of a gothic dream: high ceilings, black marble floors, bookcases that climbed the walls like ladders to heaven. Heavy velvet curtains muffled the windows, and a fireplace glowed in the corner, though it gave no warmth.
Then he stepped into view.
Tall. Immaculately dressed in a tailored black suit, cufflinks gleaming like silver eyes. His face was as cold as the room—sharply elegant, sculpted like a statue carved from dark stone. His eyes, however, were fire: gray, smoldering, and unblinking.
"Elara Vale," he said, his voice smooth as silk over a blade. "You're awake."
She sat up too quickly. "Where am I? Who are you? What the hell is going on—"
"I'll ask the questions," he interrupted coolly, taking a step closer. "You were not meant to be harmed. That was a misstep. But now that you're here... we have an opportunity."
She stood, trembling with fury. "You drugged me. You kidnapped me. I don't care what opportunity you think this is—you have no right—"
"I have every right," he said softly. "You're in my world now."
Something in her snapped.
"I'm nobody," she said. "I'm just a girl who paints on commission to pay rent. You've got the wrong person."
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with interest, as if studying her.
"No," he murmured. "I don't believe I do."
She tried to bolt. Of course she did. She raced for the door, yanked at the handle—locked. She turned back, her chest rising and falling like crashing waves, and glared at him through strands of damp hair.
"You can't keep me here," she whispered.
"I can. And I will," he said.
His calmness frightened her more than a threat ever could.
Later that night, after hours of silence, a tray of food was delivered. She didn't touch it. Instead, she curled into a corner of the velvet chaise, arms wrapped around her knees, heart aching with confusion and terror.
She didn't even know his name.
But then—just before the grandfather clock struck midnight—he returned.
She didn't look at him.
"My name is Lucien Moretti," he said quietly. "Does that mean anything to you?"
The air in the room seemed to thicken. She turned her head slowly.
Her father's voice echoed in her memory—"If you ever hear the name Moretti, you run, Elara. You don't look back. You don't ask questions. Just run."
Her blood ran cold.
Lucien watched her with that same unreadable expression.
"I see it does," he said.
Elara's voice was barely audible. "This was a mistake. Wasn't it?"
He gave a thin smile—one that never reached his eyes.
"Was it?"
And then he left.