CHAPTER 2

The gallery breathed with quiet reverence that evening the following day. Soft light fell from discreet spot lamps onto canvases and sculptures, while the hum of cultured voices drifted through the air like background music. Rachael moved briskly between guests, clipboard in hand, her curls escaping their pinned bun in the way they always did when she was trying to look professional. The faint smell of champagne mingled with the oil-and-wood scent of the gallery. 

She moved from piece to piece, checking lighting, straightening labels, chatting with guests. Her laughter carried across the room, bright and unrestrained, catching the attention of several patrons. Her colleagues sometimes teased her for being too loud, too informal for the refined art scene, but Rachael never cared. She believed art was for everyone, not just for the silent elite sipping champagne in hushed tones.

It was the kind of evening Rachael loved and hated in equal measure: loved for the art, hated for the pretension.

She had just finished explaining a mixed-media installation to a group of students when the room shifted. Not literally, but perceptibly, like air pressure dropping before a storm. Heads turned near the entrance. The soft buzz of chatter dimmed into a low murmur.

Rachael followed the ripple of attention—then immediately regretted it.

Two men in dark suits entered first, discreet but unmistakable. Bodyguards. They scanned the room with a practiced sweep, then stepped aside as their principal followed.

Adrien Moreau.

Even before Daphney, her colleague, elbowed her, Rachael knew. You could just tell when someone believed the world belonged to them. His stride was measured, precise. His suit was the kind that whispered wealth instead of shouting it—charcoal wool, tailored within an inch of perfection. His presence sucked the air out of the gallery, commanding without effort.

And Rachael’s first thought was: Seriously? Who brings bodyguards to an art exhibit?

She rolled her eyes so hard they nearly stuck. Leaning toward Marianne, she muttered, “Look at that. Overcompensation, party of one.”

Daphney’s gasp was audible. “Do you even know who that is?”

“Arrogant suit with security issues?” Rachael guessed.

“That,” Daphney whispered reverently, “is Adrien Moreau. The Adrien Moreau. Oil and gas tycoon. Billionaire. Every business magazine in Europe has drooled over him.”

Rachael snorted. “And apparently every tailor, too.” She eyed the bodyguards. “Still. Men who travel with human furniture like that? Compensating.”

Daphney smirked. “Careful. You’ll eat those words when he looks at you.”

“As if,” Rachael scoffed.

But then he did look—just briefly. A glance that cut through the crowd and landed on her, cool and assessing. Her chest tightened involuntarily, and she hated herself for it.

Before she could recover, the gallery’s director nearly tripped over himself rushing forward. Monsieur Laurent was usually the picture of aloof composure, but now he beamed like a servant greeting royalty.

“Monsieur Moreau!” Laurent effused. “An honor, truly. Allow me to assign one of our senior curators to guide you through tonight’s exhibition.” He snapped his fingers toward Philippe, a senior colleague whose grin widened with pride.

Adrien didn’t so much as blink. His voice, low and even, cut through the gallery’s hush.

“No.”

Philippe froze mid-step, crestfallen.

Adrien’s eyes moved again—this time deliberate, steady. They settled on Rachael. 

“Who is that?” He asked.

“Rachael,” Laurent said, almost reluctantly. “Rachael Beaumont.”

“Rachael Beaumont,” he repeated as if feeling the taste of her name on his lips.

He had never seen her in person, and she didn’t look like what he thought she would. He never expected to see a lady with braids, white coloured perfectly manicured fingers in a dress too short for work. She didn’t look like someone that was struggling.

Unpredictable. Just the way he liked it.

He didn’t smile, but something in his gaze felt like possession, like a decision already made.

“I’d prefer…” He paused. “…her.” He gestured toward Rachael.

The gallery seemed to still further away. Rachael’s clipboard nearly slipped from her hands.

Laurent’s face flickered with panic before smoothing into an obsequious grin. “Of course,” he said too quickly. He turned to Rachael, his eyes sharpening in warning. “Mademoiselle Beaumont, you will personally escort Monsieur Moreau. Please ensure he enjoys the full depth of our collection.”

The look he gave her translated perfectly: Don’t screw this up.

Rachael forced a tight smile. “Naturally.”

Adrien inclined his head slightly, a gesture of cool acknowledgment, and waited.

Suppressing the urge to groan, Rachael walked forward, her heels clicking on the polished floor. “This way, Monsieur Moreau.”

He smiled briefly at Laurent before following her.

They moved together through the gallery, her pace brisk, his measured. The bodyguards remained at a discreet distance, but their presence grated on her nerves.

“So,” Rachael began, her tone a shade too sharp. “Do your bodyguards also critique brushstrokes, or is that left entirely to you?”

Adrien’s gaze slid to her, coolly amused. “I don’t need protection from brushstrokes. Only from people who underestimate them.”

Rachael arched a brow. “Right. Because a painting is so dangerous.”

He leaned slightly closer, voice lowered, carrying that quiet intensity she couldn’t quite place. “The wrong painting can destroy dynasties. Trust me.”

Something in his tone made her pause—an edge, almost personal. But she brushed it off with a scoff. “Well, fortunately, we’re not in the business of destroying dynasties tonight. Just inspiring them.”

For the first time, his mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close.

They stopped before a bold abstract canvas of jagged crimson lines slashing across black. Rachael gestured. “This piece is called Fracture. It’s about chaos and rebirth. The artist—”

“—believes destruction is the first step toward creation,” Adrien finished smoothly. His voice carried the weight of lived conviction. “Sometimes, you have to burn the old to make way for the inevitable.”

Rachael tilted her head, surprised. “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that.”

His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable. “Experience.”

For a beat too long, their gazes held. Something shifted—irritation giving way to curiosity, even attraction, though she fought it. She cleared her throat and moved them along.

As they continued, she noticed his observations were sharp, insightful. He knew composition, color theory, and symbolism. Not just parroting facts—he understood.

Against her will, Rachael found herself grudgingly impressed.

“You don’t smile much, do you?” she blurted at one point.

He regarded her, steady. “I smile when there’s something worth smiling at.” His eyes lingered briefly, deliberately, on her before sliding back to the painting.

Her cheeks warmed. She hated that too.

The tour ended near a striking sculpture—twisted steel and glass shards reaching upward like rebirth from wreckage. Adrien studied it with unnerving focus.

“Destruction paving the way for empires,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Rachael rolled her eyes. “You’re very melodramatic for a shipping mogul.”

He finally gave her the faintest, most deliberate smile. “You’d be surprised.”

When he turned back to Laurent, his politeness was impeccable, but deliberate. “Thank you. Mademoiselle Beaumont was… enlightening.”

Laurent looked relieved, even smug, as though her performance reflected his genius leadership.

Adrien inclined his head slightly toward Rachael. “Until next time.”

And then he was gone, the bodyguards flanking him like shadows.

Daphney rushed to her side the moment he left. “You just spent an hour with Adrien Moreau. Do you know how many women would kill for that?”

“They can have him,” Rachael muttered, shoving her clipboard under her arm. “Arrogant. Insufferable. But God…” Her voice trailed off reluctantly. “…what taste.”

Outside, Adrien slid into the backseat of a waiting black car. Etienne, his confidant, closed the door behind him.

“Well?” Etienne asked.

Adrien’s gaze lingered on the glowing windows of the gallery. His expression remained cool, but his voice carried a quiet satisfaction.

“She’s exactly as unpredictable as I hoped.”

The game had begun.