The scent of turpentine and lavender hung in the air, curling with the soft instrumental music floating from Aria Henfer's phone speaker.
Her studio was small—okay, tiny—but it was hers. A haven tucked above an old bookstore, its crooked floors and peeling windows filled with plants, canvases, fairy lights, and just enough chaos to feel like home.
She was barefoot, perched on a paint-stained stool, dabbing the finishing touches onto her newest canvas. Soft pinks melted into golden hues. A girl standing in the rain, smiling like she had no idea storms ever ended.
Aria sighed, staring at it. "That's me," she whispered, "before rent's due."
Just as she set her brush down, something flickered.
A quick, strange popping sound behind her.
She turned.
Smoke.
Thin at first—curling from the corner outlet where her space heater was plugged in. And then—
CRACK!
Sparks flew.
The heater burst into a small flame that licked up the wall like it had been waiting all week to cause trouble.
Aria screamed, stumbling back, her foot kicking over a jar of brushes. Water spilled. Her mind blanked.
She grabbed her phone.
Shaking. Calling 911.
Then grabbing what she could—sketchbooks, a canvas, her box of paints, and her laptop—before the smoke thickened and coughing made it impossible to see.
"Come on, come on—"
She yanked open the door to the stairs and sprinted out, the cold air outside slamming into her lungs like a punch.
People gathered. Sirens wailed.
And just like that—her world burned.
Her safe place. Her color-soaked hideaway.
Gone.
---
Later That Night…
She sat on the curb, wrapped in a blanket, hair frizzed out in wild, damp waves. Ash smudged one cheek. Her sketchbooks lay in a plastic bag beside her. Her only salvage.
Her phone buzzed.
Ms. Penelope: Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. I just heard. Come to my place, I'll make you tea.
Aria's eyes welled up, throat tight. Ms. Penelope had been like an aunt to her since she was a teenager—her mother's best friend. Kind, elegant, and terrifyingly good at solving problems.
She replied with a shaking thumb.
Aria: I'm okay. Just don't know where to go.
Ten minutes later, another text came through.
Ms. Penelope: I have a place for you. It's temporary, but safe. I'll send the driver.
Aria: Where?
Ms. Penelope: Don't worry about that part. Just get in the car. Oh—and please don't throw paint on this one, darling. He's fussy about dry cleaning.
Aria blinked.
What?
But the car pulled up soon after. Sleek. Black. Definitely did not belong in her part of the neighborhood.
She gathered her things and slid into the backseat, too exhausted to question anything.
---
An Hour Later…
She stepped into the quiet marble lobby of a high-rise building that looked like it housed billionaires and Bond villains.
She blinked up at the gold lettering.
AINSWORTH RESIDENCES.
Her heart stopped.
There was no way.
There was no way.
The elevator dinged open.
She stepped in.
And ascended toward destiny, disaster, and a penthouse that smelled like expensive cologne and impending doom.
It was the kind of rain that could ruin lives—or at least really good hair days.
Aria Henfer balanced on a milk crate in the middle of the sidewalk, soaked from head to toe, wielding a paintbrush like a sword and mumbling to herself. Her oversized hoodie was drenched, her curls were frizzing at a pace that defied physics, and her mural—the massive, sunshine-and-flowers masterpiece she'd been working on for three weeks—was one splash of gold away from perfection.
Until chaos struck.
A gust of wind, suspiciously timed like it had a personal vendetta against her, knocked over the ladder she'd leaned a paint bucket on. She turned just in time to see it tip.
And pour.
Directly.
Onto the back of a tall, very expensive-looking man in a grey suit.
SPLAT.
Silence.
Except for the rain.
And then—
"What the actual—" The man slowly turned, red paint dripping down his shoulder like blood in a crime scene. His face was carved from stone. British. Brooding. Wet. And currently coated in cherry-red acrylic.
Aria's jaw dropped. "Oh my God. You moved into my paint trajectory!"
"I—what?"
"You walked straight into it! That was like... that was paint manslaughter!"
His expression didn't change. "You just assaulted a Tom Ford jacket. That's fashion homicide."
"I'm an artist!" she declared, flailing her arms as her brush flung dots of turquoise in all directions. "Art is messy!"
He looked down at the crime scene that was his suit. "So is murder."
She blinked. "Okay, dramatic much? It's paint, not lava."
He wiped a red glob from his lapel and held it up like it personally offended him. "This cost more than your entire outfit."
Aria gasped. "You don't know my outfit's life! This hoodie has emotional value!"
"Does emotional value remove acrylic?"
She squinted. "Are you always this charming, or is it just a rainy day special?"
He opened his mouth, paused, then arched a brow. "Are you Aria Henfer?"
Her stomach sank. "...Who's asking?"
"Your landlord," he said coolly. "Ashraf Ainsworth. Ring a bell?"
Oh no.
Oh God.
She'd heard the name. Seen it on the lease. But never imagined it belonged to this man—a walking attitude with cheekbones and an accent that could turn milk into whipped cream.
"You own this building?" she asked, mortified.
"I own the block," he replied, brushing red paint from his shoulder like it was lint. "And now, apparently, I also own a custom jacket in tomato red."
Aria looked up at him, dripping and defiant.
"Well, lucky you. Now you match my mural."
He glanced at the wall—a swirl of wildflowers, flying children, and pink clouds—and visibly winced. "It looks like a unicorn threw up."
She gasped. "You take that back, Wall Ruiner!"
"Paint Assassin."
"Suit Snob!"
"I'll have my lawyer send the cleaning bill," he said, already walking away.
"And I'll send you a personality in return!" she shouted after him. "Free of charge!"
He didn't turn around.
Aria stood there, fuming, soaked, and still holding her dripping brush like a dagger.
There was no way she'd ever see that man again.
…Except life was a chaotic gremlin with a dark sense of humor.