Trapped in His Love

The gallery was drowning in champagne and lies. Sarah stood before her latest painting — a sprawling canvas of deep blues and violent reds, titled Hunger and watched the wealthy guests pretend to understand it. She had learned to smile at their empty compliments three years ago, right after art school, when rent became more urgent than vision. Tonight, her agent had insisted she wear emerald silk instead of her usual paint - stained sweater. Tonight, she was supposed to network. Instead, she was counting the minutes until she could go home and wash the gallery off her skin. She turned away from Hunger and reached for a glass of water then froze. Someone was watching her. Not the usual passing glance or polite nod. This was a stare that pressed against her like a palm on her chest. She lifted her eyes and found him standing twenty feet away, alone, a glass of whiskey hanging loosely from his fingers. She knew his face. Everyone did. Kaelan Vance. Thirty years old. Net worth north of forty billion. His company, VanceCorp, supplied surveillance technology to governments and private security to people who feared the dark. The business magazines called him a ghost because he rarely appeared in public, never gave interviews, and had the unsettling habit of knowing things before he should. He was also, Sarah realized with a small jolt, the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Sharp cheekbones. Dark hair swept back from a widow's peak. A mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile. But it was his eyes that held her deep gray, almost silver and fixed on her with an intensity that made her forget to breathe. He moved first. Not toward her, exactly. Toward her painting. He stopped in front of Hunger and studied it for a long, silent minute. When he finally turned to her, his voice was low and smooth, like stones rolling underwater. "You painted this," he said. Not a question. "I did." "It's not for sale." He tilted his head. "The gallery tag says it is." "The gallery is wrong." Sarah didn't know why she was being difficult. Her agent would kill her. But something about his stare made her want to push back. "Some things aren't meant to be bought." Kaelan's mouth curved — not quite a smile, but close. "And some things," he said, stepping closer, "are priceless because no price could ever be enough." He was near enough now that she could smell cedar and something darker, like rain on asphalt. His gaze dropped to her collarbone, then back to her eyes, and she felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with her dress. "You're Sarah ," he continued. "Twenty two years old. Graduated top of your class at the Academy of Fine Arts. Your mother is a judge. Your father is a surgeon. You haven't spoken to either of them in fourteen months." Her heart stuttered. "Have you been following me?" "No." He took a slow sip of his whiskey. "I've been preparing for you." Before she could ask what that meant, a man appeared at her elbow — Derek Su, a cheerful IT specialist from the commercial design firm where she worked part time. Derek had no idea she was here tonight. He also had no idea he was about to become a target. "Sarah ! I didn't know you had gallery pieces." Derek grinned, oblivious. "This is gorgeous. We should celebrate after —grab a drink, just the two of us?" She opened her mouth to decline. Kaelan moved like a blade. One moment he was standing a respectful distance away. The next, his hand was on her lower back —proprietary, burning, claiming territory that had never been marked before. His silver eyes didn't leave Derek's face, but his voice was for her alone. "You haven't introduced me to your friend, darling." The word darling dripped with something that was not affection. It was a warning. A leash. A key turning in a lock. Derek blinked, suddenly aware of the temperature drop. "I — sorry, I didn't realize you were here with someone." "We're not" Sarah started. "We are," Kaelan interrupted smoothly. His fingers pressed harder into her spine. "Everywhere. Always." Derek retreated with a nervous laugh and a hasty goodbye. The moment he was gone, Kaelan's hand dropped. He stepped back, and the mask of calm slid over his face again. "You didn't have to do that," Sarah said, her pulse racing. "No," he agreed. "But I wanted to." She should have been offended. Instead, she felt a thrill she had never experienced before — the electric recognition of a predator who had just found its match. She looked up at him and made a decision she would never fully understand. "Walk me to my car," she said. His eyes darkened. "That's dangerous, Sarah." "I know." They walked in silence through the gallery's back hallway, past storage rooms and emergency exits, until they reached the underground parking garage. Her car was a modest sedan parked near the elevator. His was nowhere in sight —because Kaelan Vance, she realized, had not driven himself tonight. He had come here for her. "Thank you for the escort," she said, turning to face him. The garage lights hummed overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow. "Goodnight, Mr. Vance." "Kaelan." "Kaelan." She tested the name on her tongue. It felt like swallowing smoke. He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stood there, silver eyes burning into hers, and said nothing at all. The silence stretched until Sarah felt it pressing against her ribs. "Are you going to let me leave?" she whispered. His jaw tightened. For one terrible, thrilling second, she thought he might grab her. Kiss her. Throw her against the concrete wall and show her exactly what he had been hiding behind those expensive suits. Instead, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear — his fingers brushing her cheek, lingering a moment too long. "Go," he said softly. "But dream of me." She got into her car. Started the engine. Pulled out of the parking space and drove toward the exit ramp. In her rearview mirror, Kaelan Vance stood exactly where she had left him, his hands in his pockets, his eyes following her like a compass follows north. And when she reached the street and glanced back one last time He was gone. But her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. "You forgot your scarf. I'll keep it safe. Along with everything else." Attached was a photo. Not of a scarf. Of her apartment door, taken from the hallway outside, timestamped two minutes ago. End Of Chapter 1 • To be Continued