The soft clink of champagne glasses and the murmur of cultured conversations filled the grand hall of the Sterling Art Gallery. The evening shimmered with polished tuxedos, sequined gowns, and million-dollar smiles. In the corner, a string quartet played, their delicate notes floating like silk through the air.
Victor Blake stood near a modern sculpture — all cold steel and abstract edges — though his focus was nowhere near the art.
He scanned the glittering room with effortless confidence, the kind that made strangers glance twice before quickly looking away. Beneath his polished exterior, however, a quiet tension lingered. He wasn't here for brushstrokes or sculptures. Not tonight.
He'd heard whispers. Rumors that she might attend.
It was never certain. Alessia Romano didn't RSVP. She didn't need to. She arrived when she wished — and when she did, the room bent to her presence.
And then, as if gravity shifted, she appeared.
Alessia Romano.
