The morning smelled like ambition and burnt coffee.
That was the scent of New York in winter—part promise, part punishment. The kind of morning where steam from subway grates curled around your legs like the city was trying to pull you underground, but you kept walking because you had somewhere to be. You always had somewhere to be.
My heels clicked against the pavement with sharp precision. I'd learned to walk in them like they were part of me—never hesitating, never stumbling, because this city could smell hesitation. It would eat you alive for it.
Inside the Metropolitan, the air was warm, quiet, and heavy with the faint smell of varnish and polished marble. The guard at the front desk, Samuel, gave me his usual nod. He had a way of looking at you like he knew the exact number of days you'd been showing up tired but pretending otherwise.
"Morning, Isla," he said.
"Morning." I didn't slow down. If I stopped for small talk, my carefully stacked schedule would topple like a house of cards.
My office was on the third floor, tucked away in the wing reserved for staff and donors. The view overlooked Central Park, the skeletal trees frosted with ice. Most days, the sight gave me a sense of order. Today, it didn't.
Today, my attention went to the thick manila folder sitting in the center of my desk. Across the front, in black marker, one word: HOLT.
I stared at it like it might open on its own.
Adrian Holt.
Ten years ago, he was the name everyone in the art world—and the gossip world—knew. His paintings were dangerous. Not in the political sense, though some critics tried to claim that. No, Adrian's danger was more intimate. He painted like he was peeling you open. Like he'd learned your secrets and decided to hang them on a gallery wall.
And then, at the height of his career, he disappeared. No shows. No interviews. No sightings. The rumor mill said he'd gone mad, or into rehab, or run away to Europe with a married socialite.
Now, apparently, he was back. And I was the one they'd chosen to curate his comeback.
I slid the folder open.
The first photo was almost empty—a sea of white paint so layered it had texture, interrupted only by a single, deliberate slash of crimson across the center. It was the kind of red that stopped you mid-step. Deep, wet-looking, almost alive. I could feel it before I fully registered it.
It unsettled me. And I hated that it unsettled me.
I'd been trained to keep distance between myself and the work. Appreciation, analysis, yes—but not personal reaction. Yet here I was, fingertips brushing over glossy paper like I could feel the paint through it.
The intercom on my desk buzzed, pulling me back.
"Ms. Marquez," my assistant's voice came through, "your ten a.m. is here. Mr. Holt."
I hadn't even had time to prepare. My pulse picked up anyway.
"Send him in," I said, my voice smooth, as if my heartbeat wasn't drumming in my ears.
The door opened.
Adrian Holt stepped in like he'd been here before.
Tall. Broad shoulders under a black wool coat. Boots that looked expensive but worn. His skin was a warm bronze, his hair dark and slightly too long, like he hadn't decided if he cared about keeping it neat. But it was his eyes—steady, unreadable, a shade between amber and brown—that caught me. They didn't flick around the room. They landed on me and stayed there, assessing, cataloguing.
"Isla Marquez," he said, his voice a deep, deliberate thing that seemed to linger in the air. "So you're the one they've sent to handle me."
I stood, my heels making me almost eye-level with him. "I don't handle artists, Mr. Holt. I curate them."
A slow curve touched his mouth—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. "We'll see about that."
He took off his coat but didn't hand it to anyone, draping it over the back of a chair instead. As he moved, I noticed the paint stains on the cuffs of his shirt, tiny flecks of red and gold like he carried his work everywhere he went.
I gestured toward the folder on my desk. "I've seen your latest pieces."
"And?"
"They're… evocative."
His gaze sharpened slightly. "That's the safe answer. The board would like it."
"That's the professional answer."
He stepped closer, slow enough that I felt the space between us shrink in real time. "And what's the personal one?"
I kept my face neutral. "We've just met, Mr. Holt. You'll have to earn that."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The quiet wasn't awkward. It was something else—something heavy, like a canvas waiting for the first stroke of paint.
Finally, he leaned back just enough to break the tension, and the corner of his mouth twitched again. "Then I guess I'd better make this interesting."