The Blood That Sings

Chapter 2 - An Imposter in Red

The Marnach Gallery is gilded dusk come to life—a vault of velvet shadow and flickering gold, where history crowds every wall. We step through the glass doors, and the hush hits me first, as if the air itself is holding its breath for the right sort of buyer. The ceilings soar, ribbed in pale limestone and shadow, the echo of some old cathedral haunting the bones of the place. Overhead, crystal chandeliers scatter fractured light across silk-draped walls, bathing the crowd in a gentle luminescence that flatters even the most villainous of cheekbones. It's a contrast to everything modern that screams New York; the gallery somewhat still screams the Gilded Age era.

Aurora's hand slips through my arm as we walk through the main exhibit area. Her perfume, a lemony zing in the dusty hush, complements my rose and jasmine perfume most authentically. "Welcome to the lost vault, darling," she murmurs, nodding at the marble plaque: Marnach: The Hidden Masters—A Private Retrospective. The title itself smells of secrets.

The main gallery is all Renaissance drama and oil-soaked grandeur. The air is thick with beeswax and the sharp tang of varnish. A quartet somewhere plays Mozart so softly it's more suggestion than sound.

Aurora's eyes dart from painting to painting, but I feel them—the stares. Cool, assessing glances drifting over us like a chilly tide. It is pretty clear that I don't belong here. Old money in pearls, bored men with pocket squares, women whispering behind manicured hands. I feel it in every glance: the question of what I'm doing here, in a place built for those who still belong.

Aurora, oblivious or defiant, pulls me to a very old painting of an unnamed lady, her blue gown deep as a midnight lake. Aurora's gaze drifts up, caught by a sweep of color—an enormous Renaissance canvas glowing in the gallery's golden light. "Would you look at that? The folds in her dress, the light on her cheek... it's like she's about to breathe."

I stand beside her, and for a moment, I forget the crowd. The woman in the painting—skin luminous, eyes haunting—could be anyone. It could be me if I'd been born in another century. "It's magical, isn't it?" I murmur. "No phone, no spotlight—just oil and brush and a skill that creates perfection. Creating an art that could last centuries."

Aurora nods, her eyes reflecting the soft blue shadows. "Sometimes I wonder what it must be like to make something that lasts this long. To know you're not just passing through."

"How much do you think?" she whispers.

I glance at the elegant plaque—Inquire for value. I stifle a snort. "I guess the price would be enough to buy back my mother's Villa , and then some more orange boxes."

Aurora grins. "Come on. Let's look at the other pieces."

I manage a weak smile. "Yeah, you're right. Let's look for some unique art."

We move, hushed, into a room where Art Deco abstracts crackle with gilded angles and light. Aurora pauses in front of one painting—a combination of abstract color in the most unusual pattern—sleek silver, obsidian, and midnight green—her smile genuine. "I know it's strange, but I love this. It looks like the city at night from a cab window. A little chaotic, a little endless."

I grin. "It's beautiful in a wild way. Like if you turned music into shapes."

We both fall quiet, taking it in. I feel the warmth of the room pressing close—the shimmer of champagne, the low hum of conversation—and for a heartbeat, I almost belong.

Further on, the gallery grows darker, the cases of antique jewelry casting fractured stars on the floor. I stop in front of a tiara—diamonds and sapphires set so delicately they look like dewdrops suspended in air. The label is a mystery, its history erased.

Aurora leans in, almost whispering. "Who do you think wore this? A queen? A runaway bride?"

"Maybe someone with a story," I say softly, trying to look for names or stories of the jewelry or past owners, but only the name "Marnach Foundations" was labeled on the plaque. "Maybe someone who once mattered but then was forgotten. Someone never meant to be remembered, but only relics of her presence remain."

We linger, not needing to say much more, with Aurora beside me, seeing what I see. Aurora must sense it, because she bumps my shoulder, her voice low and kind. "You look like you're about to float away, Licy."

I laugh, a little shy. "I just—these jewelry pieces, their story feels like my own. Once a part of something, now forgotten." I try to lighten up the mood with a bright smile, but the smile was nowhere near sincere, and I think Aurora notices that. "Sometimes I feel like an impostor being here."

She hooks her pinky through mine. "Hey! Don't you dare say something like that! You belong anywhere you let yourself stand still. Promise me you'll remember that."

I nod, letting the art and the night soak into my skin, grateful for a friend who sees me, not just the ghost of who I was.

We linger near the tiaras, letting the shimmer of old stones and lost stories pool around us. The gallery is swelling now, the hum of conversation rising, gilded laughter colliding with the clink of glass and the soft tap of polished shoes on marble. Perfume drifts—something floral, something musky and rare—mingling with the faint, metallic scent of antique silver and fresh varnish.

"I think I'll go to the powder room and get a drink," I say to Aurora. "Do you want anything?"

"I'm good, thanks. Maybe I'll grab something later," Aurora replies. "Go! I'll stand by the portrait and give my client a call; I think she might want this and that ruby necklace."

"Okay." I slip away from Aurora with a promise to return soon. The laughter and the hum of old names trail behind me as I move through the gallery's corridor. I don't really need a drink, but I need to get away from everyone for a second to clear my emotions. My heels click softly against the marble, but the sound feels distant—like I'm walking through a dream I don't quite belong in.

As I pass a velvet-curtained archway, something in the air changes.

The shift is almost imperceptible at first—an exhale from the walls, the slightest drop in temperature, as if the room itself has gone still to make space for something—or someone. The light hits differently. Brighter, then dimmer. My steps slow without permission.

And then I see him.

Across the gallery, where the spotlight falls soft and golden on curated chaos, stands a man I've never seen before but feel I should have. Tall. Still. Dark-haired, dressed in a suit so perfectly cut it feels sculpted. His presence is quiet, even when he is across the room; I can feel his presence like the first tremor before thunder.

He isn't looking at me. But I can't stop looking at him.

His face is painfully handsome, not in that polished, cosmetic way of too-rich men, but carved—like something that's lasted centuries. A strong, patrician jaw, high cheekbones, a mouth that looks like it's forgotten how to smile. And his eyes—his eyes stop time.

Deep burgundy. Not brown. Not amber. But wine-dark, like stained glass held up to a dying sun. The color is strange under the gallery lights, unnatural in a way that makes my breath catch. He blinks, and the motion is so deliberate, so slow, it feels like gravity shifting.

People part around him without knowing why.

They move instinctively, a subtle reconfiguration of bodies not because he commands it, but because his existence rearranges the room around him. He's not walking. He's standing still. But stillness, I realize, can be more powerful than movement.

My steps falter. I keep walking, but it's like dragging myself through water. My eyes snagged on him. I don't even realize I've been holding my breath until I reach the mirrored door of the powder room and exhale in one shaky rush.

Get a grip, Alicia.

Inside, I press cold water to my wrists, grounding myself in the chill. The mirror shows me flushed cheeks, too-wide eyes, lips slightly parted like I've just stepped out of a storm. I fix my lipstick with trembling fingers, painting red over red, as if that might return me to myself.

But the weight of that gaze lingers. I feel it in my skin.

I return to the main room and veer toward the bar, needing something cool to hold. A glass of champagne is placed in my hand before I ask for it. I nod a thank you, trying to steady my pulse.

And then I see him again.

Across the room, through the glint of chandeliers and laughter, he's moved—but only slightly. The shift is enough to catch the light differently on the sharp cut of his cheek, the glossy black of his hair. His eyes sweep across the gallery, unhurried, unreadable. He isn't smiling. He doesn't need to.

I don't know his name.

I don't know his story.

But something inside me knows he is not ordinary. Not just a man. Not just a stranger.

A part of me, something small and reckless, aches to walk toward him.

Instead, I take a long sip of champagne and turn away, the warmth fizzing down my throat doing nothing to dull the way he's already burned into me.