The gallery buzzed with elegant murmurs and the clink of champagne glasses. Clean, minimalist interiors served as the backdrop for bold abstract paintings, illuminated by soft, ambient lighting. Every movement, every whisper, seemed rehearsed in this space where money and art danced a delicate waltz.
Rayden stood near the far wall, dressed in a deep charcoal suit, hands folded loosely in front of him. Beside him, Rio sipped his drink with a relaxed posture, eyes roaming the gallery walls with a thoughtful gleam.
"Marcus really outdid himself this time," he murmured, nodding toward one of the bolder pieces. "Though some of these buyers wouldn't know brushwork from bird poop."
Rayden didn't respond, his attention focused across the room. "He's here."
Rio followed his gaze. There, near a vivid blue canvas, stood Mr. Jun—an older man in his sixties, impeccably dressed, exuding quiet authority. His face was unreadable as he conversed with the host of the event.
Rayden adjusted his cuffs. "Let's not make it look like we came for him."
"That's funny," Rio said dryly. "Considering we did."
Still, they waited—circling the gallery slowly until the moment was right.
It was Mr. Jun who noticed them first.
"Mr. Lancaster," he greeted, tone polite but distant. "I wasn't expecting you."
Rayden offered a respectful nod. "Nor were we expecting to run into you. But it's a pleasant surprise."
Mr. Jun's eyes twinkled faintly, though there was no warmth behind them. "Cut the pleasantries, son. I know why you're here."
Rayden's expression didn't waver. "Then I'll be direct. We'd like to revisit the proposal. We've made adjustments. The figures are more favorable, and we're prepared to meet your terms."
"You were always prepared to meet the numbers," Mr. Jun said. "But numbers weren't the problem."
Rio stepped forward. "We understand that last year's really messed up—"
"I don't care about last year," Mr. Jun interrupted sharply. His eyes bore into Rayden. "You're competent, I'll give you that. But I won't work with your company while it's still under the shadow of Eleanor Lancaster and her husband. I've dealt with people like them before—entitled, arrogant, no regard for the world outside their own. Last year, at one of your mother's charity galas, they mocked my wife for not dressing 'up to standard.' She smiled through it, but I saw the look in her eyes. That's not something I can forget."
Rayden's jaw tensed. He exchanged a brief glance with Rio.
"I run a business, Mr. Jun. I don't condone their behavior," Rayden said quietly.
"But you work with them. And you carry their name," Mr. Jun replied, stepping back. "That's enough for me."
They left the gallery thirty minutes later—no longer interested in the overpriced art or the shallow chatter.
On the flight back to Veldarra that night, Rio broke the silence. "They're ruining everything."
Rayden said nothing. He stared out the window as city lights blurred beneath them, his mind drifting not to business, but to a quiet penthouse, and a girl who had begun to take up more space in his thoughts than he liked to admit.
⸻
The front door clicked softly as Rayden returned home.
He loosened his tie, tossed his blazer on the nearest chair, and walked into the living room—then stopped.
Anne was there, curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over her legs. A book rested in her hands, her hair slightly tousled, a cup of untouched tea beside her.
She looked… peaceful. Calm. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of the page as her eyes scanned each line.
Beautiful, he thought, then immediately cursed himself for it.
She looked up and startled slightly. "You're back already?"
"Flight landed early," he replied, voice low.
She closed the book gently. "Everything okay?"
Rayden didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied her face—how soft her features looked under the warm light. How genuine the concern in her voice was. How the smell of lavender from her blanket made his chest tighten again.
"I'm fine," he said at last, brushing past her toward the kitchen.
Anne stood and followed. "You don't look fine."
Rayden sighed and poured himself a glass of water. "It's just work. Complications."
"Anything I can help with?"
He glanced at her, the words almost slipping out. You already do, just by being here.
Instead, he said, "No. It's something I have to deal with myself."
She nodded slowly. "Alright. Well… I was thinking, maybe this Saturday we could look for the rings?"
Rayden paused. "Rings?"
"For the wedding," Anne said, her tone gentle. "It might help if the press sees us doing things a real couple would do. You know, building the illusion."
He set down his glass. "Fine. Saturday."
Then, without another word, he turned and walked to his room, leaving Anne alone in the warm kitchen light.
⸻
The next day, Anne woke to find the penthouse unusually silent.
After an aimless morning, she finally texted Hana.
Anne: [Are you free to hang out today?]
Hana: [Busy, babe. Come to the clinic if you want, we can talk while I finish rounds.]
Anne arrived an hour later, dressed in jeans and sneakers, her hair tied back. The clinic smelled of antiseptic and cat food. Hana handed her a clipboard and a smile.
"You're on towel duty," she said.
Anne laughed. "You trust me with towels?"
"Barely."
They moved around the clinic, feeding animals, checking charts, gossiping in hushed tones between tasks.
"So," Hana said as they wiped down counters. "How was the infamous Lancaster dinner?"
Anne made a face. "Worse than I imagined. Frederick basically interrogated me. And Eleanor didn't say a single word the entire meal."
Hana whistled. "You survived, though. That's progress."
"Barely," Anne muttered.
____
By late afternoon, the clinic closed, and they strolled through the nearby park with ice creams in hand. The sky was soft gray, the kind that whispered of rain but never delivered.
Anne's phone buzzed. She glanced at it and sighed. "I'll take this—be right back."
"Go," Hana waved her off.
Left alone, Hana wandered to a nearby bench. That's when she noticed it—a small ginger cat limping near the edge of the path. She knelt instinctively, voice soft.
"Hey there, little guy… what happened to you?"
The cat meowed pitifully.
"I think your leg's hurt," she whispered, reaching into her bag for treats.
"You're right," a voice said behind her. "Looks like it's fractured."
Startled, Hana yelped and fell backward.
A man crouched beside her, grinning apologetically. His hair was tied in a loose manbun, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."
Hana narrowed her eyes. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."
"I was just observing. Promise I wasn't stalking."
They both looked down at the cat, who now seemed very interested in the attention.
"You're not bad with animals," Hana remarked.
"I like them more than people, most days."
She smiled, then frowned. "Wait—you said its leg was fractured?"
The man raised an eyebrow. "Yeah."
"It's not fractured. It's a soft tissue strain. The way it puts weight on it tells me enough."
He blinked. "You a vet or something?"
Hana smirked. "Exactly that."
His mouth fell open slightly, then curled into a sheepish grin. "Well damn. I just got schooled."
They both laughed.
Anne returned moments later and stopped in her tracks. "Rio?"
Rio turned, eyebrows raised. "Anne?"
Hana blinked. "You two know each other?"
Anne approached. "He's Rayden's brother."
Hana's eyes widened. She turned slowly toward the man beside her.
Rio grinned and offered his hand. "Hi. I guess I should've led with that."
⸻
Across the city, in a dimly lit room, Kayla studied a photo with sharp eyes.
It showed Anne and Brian at the boutique—Brian holding up a dress while Anne laughed.
She turned the photo slightly, lips curling.
"This is the girl?" she asked.
The man across from her, face obscured by a hoodie, nodded.
Kayla scoffed. "I'm better than her in every way."
She turned toward the mirror, examining her reflection. Her features were flawless, almost doll-like. But her eyes held something cold.
"Find out who she really is," she said quietly. "And why Rayden would choose her."
The man nodded again. "On it."