CHAPTER TWO *ALEXANDER*

CHAPTER TWO

*ALEXANDER*

She haunted me.

Three days after the gala, I still couldn't get her face out of my head. The way she'd looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was boring.

No one had ever looked at me like that.

"You're distracted," Victoria said, sliding into the chair across from my desk. She'd let herself into my office without knocking, as usual. "The Hong Kong deal needs your signature."

I signed without reading it. Victoria would have handled the details already. She always did.

"Who was the woman in red at the gala?" I asked.

Victoria's hand stilled on her tablet. "Which woman?"

"Red dress. Dark hair. Early twenties. She was at the bar."

"Why do you care?"

Good question. I didn't know the answer. "Just curious."

"Her name is Sophia Chen. Catherine Chen's daughter. Political family, old money, nothing special." Victoria's tone was dismissive. "Why?"

Because she'd walked away from me. Because her eyes had held something I couldn't name not attraction, not intimidation, but something colder. Recognition, maybe, though we'd never met.

"No reason," I lied.

That night, I dreamed about her for the first time.

She was thinner in the dream, sadder. Sitting alone in a hospital room, crying silently while machines beeped around her. I tried to reach her, but my hands passed through her like smoke. Then the scene shifted a dinner table, my grandmother's voice sharp and cutting, and the woman flinching at every word. The woman who looked like Sophia but broken.

I woke up drenched in sweat.

"What the hell," I muttered, checking my phone. Three in the morning.

I couldn't fall back asleep.

Over the next two weeks, I saw her everywhere. At a tech summit, chatting with investors about emerging artists. At a museum opening, standing in front of a painting with an intensity that made everyone else fade into background noise. At a restaurant where I'd taken a client, sitting alone with a sketchbook.

I had James, my assistant, look into her. He came back with a thin file.

"Sophia Chen, twenty years old. Runs a gallery under the name Sera Morningstar. Started eighteen months ago, already profitable. Art degree from NYU, graduated early. No social media presence worth mentioning. Lives alone in SoHo. Doesn't date publicly."

"Why the different name?"

James shrugged. "Artists do that sometimes. Separation between personal and professional."

I stared at her photo a candid shot from an art magazine. She was looking at something off-camera, and that same intensity was there. Like she could see through everything.

"Set up a meeting. Tell her Sterling Hotels is interested in commissioning pieces for our new Singapore property."

"Are we?"

"We are now."

The meeting was scheduled for the following Tuesday. I arrived early, unusual for me, and waited in the conference room feeling inexplicably nervous.

She walked in exactly on time, wearing all black, her hair pulled back severely. Professional. Untouchable.

"Mr. Sterling," she said, not offering her hand. "I have thirty minutes."

"I appreciate you making time." I gestured to a chair. She remained standing.

"Your assistant mentioned a commission. I don't typically work with hotels, but I'm listening."

I launched into the pitch I'd had James prepare contemporary pieces for the Singapore lobby, budget flexible, timeline negotiable. She listened without interrupting, her expression unreadable.

When I finished, she was quiet for a long moment.

"No."

I blinked. "I haven't mentioned the budget yet."

"I don't care about the budget. I'm not interested in the project." She picked up her bag. "Was there anything else?"

"Why not?"

"Because your hotels are soulless corporate spaces designed to impress rather than inspire. My work doesn't belong there."

The bluntness should have offended me. Instead, I laughed. "Tell me what you really think."

"I just did. Goodbye, Mr. Sterling."

"Wait." I stood quickly. "Have dinner with me."

"No."

"Why not?"

She finally met my eyes fully, and something in her gaze made my chest tighten. Old pain, maybe. Or anger.

"Because I know exactly who you are, and I'm not interested in anything you're offering."

She left before I could respond.

James poked his head in five minutes later. "How did it go?"

"She turned down the commission and a dinner invitation."

"Oh." James looked genuinely surprised. "That's... unexpected."

Unexpected. That was one word for it.

The dreams got worse. More vivid. More disturbing.

I saw her at a wedding our wedding, though I didn't understand how I knew that. She was smiling, but the smile was wrong. Empty. I saw my grandmother criticizing her dress, her hair, her family. Saw Victoria touching my arm possessively while Sophia watched. Saw Sophia alone in a massive house, staring at her phone like she was waiting for a call that would never come.

Then the hospital dream came back, but this time I heard the doctor's words. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Sterling. There was nothing we could do to save the pregnancy."

I woke up gasping, and the name came out instinctively: "Sophia."

Mrs. Sterling. The pregnancy. None of it made sense. I'd never been married. Never gotten anyone pregnant. Didn't even want kids.

But the grief in that dream felt real. The woman's tears felt real.

I called my doctor the next morning and asked about sleep studies. He recommended a psychiatrist instead when I mentioned the recurring dreams.

Dr. Matthews listened patiently while I described everything, then asked, "Do you know this woman in waking life?"

"Barely. We've met twice."

"And you're attracted to her?"

"I don't know." Honestly, I didn't. She was beautiful, but that wasn't it. The pull I felt was deeper. More unsettling.

"Dreams often process our anxieties and desires. Perhaps this woman represents something you feel you're missing in your life."

I left the session unconvinced.

That Friday, Victoria invited me to an art exhibition. "Networking opportunity," she said. "Some of my investors will be there."

I agreed, distracted.

The gallery was intimate, modern, with stark white walls showcasing bold contemporary pieces. I was reading the program when I saw the name: Sera Morningstar Gallery.

Sophia's gallery.

"You didn't tell me this was her space," I said to Victoria.

"Whose space?"

"Sophia Chen's."

Victoria's expression flickered something too quick to read. "Does it matter?"

Before I could answer, I saw her across the room talking to an elderly couple. She wore dark green tonight, her hair down in waves. Professional but softer.

Then she turned and saw me.

The smile dropped from her face immediately. She excused herself from the couple and walked straight toward me, but there was nothing welcoming in her approach.

"Leave," she said quietly when she reached us.

"I was invited," Victoria interjected.

"I don't care. Both of you. Out of my gallery."

People were starting to notice. Victoria looked scandalized. I felt something click into place a piece of a puzzle I didn't know I was solving.

"You really hate me," I said, more statement than question. "But we've never even had a conversation longer than five minutes. So what did I do?"

Sophia's laugh was bitter. "You haven't done it yet. And you never will."

"What does that mean?"

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me.

"It means I know how this story ends, Alexander Sterling. And this time, I'm writing a different one.”