The Gallery Show.
The smell of fresh paint clung to the walls, but Elisa Casano barely noticed. Her breath was shallow, stomach fluttering with nerves as she smoothed her skirt- black satin, high-waisted, chosen carefully to accentuate the parts of her she didn't usually let the world see.
She adjusted the hem again.
Don't fidget. You're not hiding tonight.
People buzzed through the gallery like bees in a sunlit garden- laughter, clinking glasses, footsteps echoing on polished cement. The walls were dressed in her soul. Canvases of oil and charcoal, rough lines and bold color, vulnerability captured in layered strokes. Every piece bared something private. Too private.
And yet here she was. Public. Visible.
"Elisa." Her best friend Ava approached, holding two glasses of champagne. "You did it. This room is full, and every single person is pretending not to cry in front of that one- " she pointed to a moody red-and-grey abstract titled Body of Silence "- because they're trying to look cultured."
Elisa smiled, soft. "I hate that one."
"Which is why it's brilliant. You always hate the ones that wreck you most." Ava handed her the glass. "Now drink this before you pass out."
She took a sip, heart pounding. "Do I look... okay?"
Ava paused, eyes scanning her. "You look beautiful. And not in the pitying 'you have such a nice face' kind of way. You look like a woman who knows what the hell she's made of."
Elisa looked away, color rising to her cheeks. She didn't feel like that woman. Not yet.
But maybe... tonight was the beginning.
Then she felt it- eyes. Someone watching.
She turned, almost out of instinct, and there he was. Standing near the far corner, dressed in black-on-black, tall and composed, with hands tucked into his trouser pockets and an unreadable expression on his face.
Him.
He wasn't like the others. He wasn't moving. Just... standing still. Staring. At her.
Their eyes met. Her throat tightened.
He didn't look away.
"Elisa," Ava whispered near her ear, leaning in without breaking her smile. "There's a man at three o'clock. Please tell me you see him too."
"I see him."
"Because I think he wants to eat you alive, and I don't know whether to intervene or take photos."
Elisa turned back to her. "I don't know him."
But he knew her work. He was standing in front of her most intimate painting- Soft Fire- a piece she'd almost pulled from the lineup. A woman, nude, unapologetically round and full, painted in warm, smoldering tones. The woman in the painting looked nothing like how Elisa felt. And yet… it was her.
Mateo stepped closer to the painting. She didn't know his name yet- but she would.
Because when he finally walked toward her, slow and deliberate, the crowd seemed to quiet behind him.
He stopped a polite distance away. "You painted that one for yourself," he said, voice deep and velvet-smooth. "But you put it on the wall anyway."
Her breath caught.
He extended a hand. "Mateo Liriano. I don't usually introduce myself at events like this."
"Elisa Casano," she murmured, slipping her hand into his.
His grip was warm. Steady. She wasn't.
"I don't usually speak to people who say things like that," she added, lifting her chin.
That made him smile- barely. A corner of his mouth turned, like a secret.
"Then we're both breaking our own rules," he said.
The camera flash surprised her. Two journalists stood a few feet away, capturing the moment as if they were already lovers.
Mateo's expression didn't change, but his body shifted subtly- closer, not quite touching.
"Smile," he murmured.
She did.
And just like that, the rumor began.