**Emilio's Penthouse — 11:57 PM**
The elevator doors opened to silence and low amber lighting. No staff. No guards. Just a long corridor of abstract canvases and the scent of aged wine.
Emerie stepped out.
Her heels echoed on marble floors like countdown ticks.
Emilio stood at the far end, champagne in hand, framed by a floor-to-ceiling window.
“You came," he said, smiling. “I almost lost the bet."
“With whom?"
“Myself."
She scanned the space. “No guests?"
He shrugged. “This is a preview, not a party."
“You could've just called it what it is: a trap."
He laughed. “You wound me. Come, let me show you what I've created."
He led her down a curved hallway lined with canvases—chaotic brushstrokes, dismembered faces, gold leaf smeared across screaming mouths.
Each painting felt like
