Chapter 3

The silence of my apartment was a stark contrast to the echoing vastness of Damien’s penthouse. I leaned back against the front door, the cool wood a grounding pressure against my spine. I could still feel the phantom weight of his gaze, the intensity of those gray eyes dissecting my every word, my every gesture.

A calculated beauty. That’s what he’d said he wanted. The phrase echoed in my mind. It was the perfect description of the woman I had become. Aria Vance was a piece of human art, meticulously crafted for a single purpose: to captivate him. The irony was a bitter pill.

My phone buzzed. Elena.

“Well? Don’t leave me hanging. Did he throw you out of the penthouse? Are you currently in a dumpster?”

I pushed off from the door, my legs feeling unsteady. “No dumpster. He gave me the job. The entire penthouse.”

A sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Holy hell. You’re in.”

“I’m in,” I confirmed, the words feeling both triumphant and terrifying. I walked to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water with a hand that only trembled slightly. “His head of security, Marcus Thorne, called to set it up. He was... scrutinizing.”

“Thorne is a legend. And not the good kind. He’s the reason Sterling’s private life is a black hole. If he’s on you already, you need to be perfect.”

“I know.” I took a long sip of water. “I saw the penthouse. It’s... cold. Empty. It’s like he bought the most expensive box in the world and has no idea what to put in it. He said he wants a story of ‘control’ and ‘discernment’.”

“Sounds like a cheery guy,” Lena deadpanned.

“He asked me about the champagne.” I set the glass down, the clink loud in the quiet room. “As I was leaving. He asked if it was really an accident.”

“Shit. What did you say?”

“I didn’t answer. I turned it back on him. Asked him what he thought.”

Lena was silent for a moment. “Bold. Risky. He’ll either love that or see it as a declaration of war.”

“It’s a calculated risk,” I said, echoing his words. “He’s surrounded by people who give him answers. I need to be the one who gives him questions.”

I spent the next three days buried in my role. I became Aria Vance, art consultant, with a ferocious single- mindedness. I compiled a digital portfolio of pieces I knew would appeal to his stated aesthetic— bold, minimalist sculptures, stark black-and-white photography, hyper-realistic paintings that showcased technical mastery over emotional expression. Everything was sharp, clean, and controlled.

But I also slipped in two other pieces. One, a small, haunting

painting of a lone figure on a vast, empty shore. The other, a sculpture that from one angle was a perfect sphere, but from another, revealed a complex, fractured interior. They were pieces with a hidden vulnerability, a secret soul. I was testing the waters. I was seeing if the man who lived in that sterile penthouse had any cracks at all.

I sent the proposal on Friday morning. The response from Marcus Thorne was immediate and characteristically brief. Mr. Sterling would like to discuss your proposal. 8 PM. The penthouse.

Eight p.m. A Friday night. The specificity of the time felt significant. It was no longer a business-hours meeting. It was an intrusion into personal time, his and mine.

At 7:55 p.m., I stood outside the penthouse door, a tablet containing my portfolio under my arm. I wore a simple, elegant black dress, a uniform of professional sophistication. I rang the bell.

He opened the door himself. He was dressed down, for him—dark, tailored trousers and a simple black sweater that made his broad shoulders look even more imposing. He held a lowball glass with an inch of amber liquid in it.

“Ms. Vance. Punctual.” He stepped back to let me in.

The penthouse was unchanged, still a vast, empty shell. But he had brought in a single, long sofa and a low marble table, an island of furniture in a sea of polished concrete. A bottle of whiskey and a second glass sat on the table.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your evening,” I said, my voice carefully neutral.

“You are,” he stated, taking a sip of his drink. His gaze was direct, unnerving. “But it’s an interruption I scheduled. The proposal. Let’s see it.”

It was a command. I nodded, setting

my tablet on the table and pulling up the portfolio. For the next twenty minutes, I walked him through my selections. I was all business, pointing out the technical merits of a photograph, the way a certain sculpture would play with the light from the windows at sunset. He listened, his expression unreadable, occasionally asking a sharp, intelligent question that proved he was actually listening.

When I got to the two “test” pieces —the lonely shoreline and the fractured sphere—he went still.

“These two,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “They don’t fit the initial brief.”

Here it was. The moment of truth. I kept my gaze steady. “No. They don’t. The brief was for a story of control. But the most powerful stories often have a counter- narrative. A hint of something... else. It creates depth. Intrigue. Without it, the space risks feeling like a corporate lobby.”

He was silent for a long time, just looking at the image of the lone figure on the shore. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. I could hear the faint hum of the city below us.

“And what is the ‘something else’ in this piece?” he asked finally, his eyes lifting to mine.

“Solitude,” I answered softly, holding his gaze. “Not loneliness, necessarily. But a recognition of being alone in a vast space. It’s a quiet piece. A thinking piece.”

He picked up his glass and walked to the window, looking out at the glittering tapestry of the city. His back was to me, his posture rigid.

“My father built his first company from a garage,” he said, the words abrupt and entirely unexpected. He didn’t turn around. “He said a space should either shout your success or whisper your secrets. This place... it shouts. It’s all it knows how to do.”

My heart stuttered in my chest. This

was it. A crack. A tiny fissure in the impenetrable facade. This was the moment Sarah would have rushed to fill the silence with sympathy. Aria knew better.

I stayed quiet, letting his words hang in the air between us. I simply watched the tense line of his shoulders against the backdrop of a million lights.

After a moment, he turned. The vulnerability was gone, shuttered away as if it had never existed. His face was a mask of cool composure once more.

“I’ll take them both,” he said, his tone all business again. “The shoreline and the sphere. And the first three photographs you suggested. Coordinate with Marcus for delivery and installation.”

“Of course.” I picked up my tablet, my movements smooth despite the frantic beating of my heart. I had won more than a commission tonight.

He walked me to the door. As I stepped out into the hallway, he spoke again.

“The champagne,” he said. I turned. “Yes?”

“I think,” he said, his gray eyes pinning me in place, “that it was the most interesting thing that has happened to me at one of those functions in years.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. The door closed softly but firmly, leaving me alone in the corridor. I stood there for a full minute, breathing in the sterile, air-conditioned air.

He wasn’t just curious about the art. He was curious about me. And for a man like Damien Sterling, curiosity was the most dangerous emotion of all. The trap was set. And he was walking right into it.