CHAPTER ONE
1454 Words
Manhattan, New York – October 6th, 7:42 PM
Elena Moore always believed that there was something poetic about Manhattan in the fall.
how the wind felt like a lover’s kiss and a slap in the face, all at once.
It matched her life perfectly.
Chaotic, confusing, and uncomfortably beautiful.
She stood in the service hallway of the Van Allen Grand Ballroom, clutching a silver tray with three champagne flutes, rehearsing her best fake smile in the reflection of a fire extinguisher glass.
“This is not your life,” she whispered to herself.
She wasn’t supposed to be in a polyester vest and patent leather flats serving drinks to billionaires and their plastic guests.
She was supposed to be painting, preparing for her first gallery showcase this winter
a dream now buried under rent, her mother’s medical bills, and the harsh reminder that talent didn’t pay bills unless someone rich deemed it worthy.
“Elena!”
barked her shift supervisor, Maria.
“That tray isn’t going to carry itself.”
Elena nodded, forcing a smile, and walked out into the gala.
Glittering chandeliers shimmered like artificial stars overhead.
The room echoed with polite laughter and polished lies.
Waiters floated like ghosts among the crowd, their white gloves barely brushing against the conversations they served.
Elena walking quietly through the ballroom, her eyes searching for empty glasses, not faces. She didn’t want to see anyone, not really.
But then—
He caught her eye.
A man stood near the east balcony, alone among a crowd.
Towering, nicely dressed in a tailored black tuxedo that fit like silk armor.
His jawline could’ve been sculpted by Michelangelo.
But it wasn’t just his looks,it was his stillness.
Everyone else fluttered around like moths to crystal; he was the candle, motionless and glowing in the dark.
She didn’t recognize him.
But everyone else did.
Their eyes flicked toward him nervously, lips twitching in polite acknowledgment.
“Elena, you’re staring,” hissed another server, elbowing her.
She turned quickly. Too quickly.
The tray wobbled. A glass tipped.
She reached, but the stem slipped through her fingers—then smashed to the floor in a sharp, humiliating shhhk-c***k!
The golden champagne splashed… right across the polished shoes and pant leg of the still, glowing man.
Oh no.
“Oh God,” she whispered.
Her heart dropped somewhere near her knees.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, grabbing a piece of cloth from her pocket and crouching instinctively, already blotting at his trousers.
A deep voice—measured, slow—cut through her panic.
“I wouldn’t recommend touching a stranger’s thigh in public, Miss.”
She looked up. He was staring down at her—not with anger, but with something worse: amusement.
“I—I didn’t mean—” she stammered,
rising to her feet, mortified.
He took the napkin gently from her hand. “Relax. Accidents happen.”
His eyes were a steel-gray, clear and cold. But there was a flicker—just a flicker—of something beneath the ice. Curiosity?
She stepped back.
“I really am sorry, sir.”
He arched an eyebrow.
“Do you know who I am?”
Elena blinked. “Should I?”
He smiled—
but it wasn’t warm. “Refreshing.”
And just like that, he turned around and walked away.
—
In the back hallway, Elena panting so hard, trying to catch her breath.
“Are you trying to get fired?”
Maria hissed at her.
“You spilled champagne on Damian Snow.”
Elena’s face went blank.
“Who?” Maria gaped.
“Damian Snow.
Founder of WYLD Tech. Youngest billionaire in New York.
Owns three skyscrapers, a private island in Greece, and probably your future if he wanted to.”
“Oh.” “Oh?!”
Elena pressed her fingers together
“Look, I didn’t mean to”
“Just go take your break. And pray he doesn’t file a complaint.”
—
Later that night…
Elena took the subway home with aching feet and a racing mind.
She looked him up.
Damian Snow, 34, orphaned at seventeen, coded his first software by nineteen, turned WYLD into a global powerhouse by twenty-seven.
Forbes called him “The Silent Shark.”
No social media. No interviews. No scandals.
He didn’t do messes like her.
So why had his eyes lingered?
—
Next Morning
She was late for her shift at the café.
The art gallery had closed last month, her backup gig.
Now, she worked mornings for minimum wage, pulling espresso shots and swallowing pride.
She barely noticed the man who walked in around 10:15.
But she noticed when the café owner, Rafael, pulled her aside minutes later.
“There’s someone asking for you.”
Elena wiped her hands on her apron.
“Who?”
“Didn’t give a name.
Just said he’s not leaving until you speak with him.”
She stepped out and stopped cold.
It was him.
Damian Snow sat at a corner table in jeans and a charcoal coat, sipping from his cup, a black coffee.
His eyes met her’s over the rim.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, approaching cautiously.
He stood, slow and deliberate.
“I came to ask you a question,” he said.
Elena folded her arms. “You tracked me down?”
“You’re not easy to find. You don’t use your full name on social. No public art profile. You don’t leave a trail.”
She felt a flicker of panic. “Why are you looking for me?”
He bent his head slightly. “Because I saw your sketch.”
Her breath caught. “What?”
“The one you were doodling on the napkin in the kitchen. You dropped it.”
She remembered. She’d sketched while on break—
a quick line drawing of the gala crowd, anonymous silhouettes with hollow eyes.
It wasn’t even finished.
Damian pulled it from his coat pocket, unfolded it.
“I’d like to commission you.”
Elena blinked.
“Commission?”
“A portrait.”
She stared at him.
“It’s a joke right.”
“Does it look like I’m kidding?”
She crossed her arms tighter. “Why me?”
He stepped closer. Not threatening—just intense.
“Because you’re the first person I’ve met in years who looked at me like I was just a man.
Not a dollar sign. Not a headline.”
Elena searched his face for sarcasm. There was none.
“You don’t even know me,” she said quietly.
“Not yet.”
There was a pause between them—long and brittle.
Damian waited. Calm, unreadable.
Like a man used to getting things done his way, but still oddly willing to hear “no.”
Elena breathing out slowly, her heart thudding in her chest.
“You want me to paint your portrait,”
she said again, half-laughing.
He nodded once.
“I’ll pay ten thousand up front.
More upon completion.
Full creative freedom.”
Her stomach twisted.
That money could cover five months’ rent. Her mother’s hospital bills.
A new set of paints that weren’t crusted and expired.
But still.
“I don’t work for people like you,”
she said before she could stop herself.
His lips quirked. “People like me?”
“Rich. Powerful. Used to controlling everything
—including the people they pay.”
“I didn’t ask you to work for me,” he said softly.
“I asked you to create something about me. There’s a difference.”
Elena narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even know if I’m good.”
“I know enough.”
She stared at him for quite sometime.
“Why now? Why a portrait?”
Damian looked away for the first time.
His voice was quieter.
“Legacy.
People see numbers when they think of me. Buildings. Shares. Power.
I want something… human.
Before it all stops mattering.”
Something about the way he said that last part made her still.
It wasn’t just a billionaire’s whim.
There was something buried in that request—something personal, and maybe a little desperate.
“I still don’t trust you,” she said finally.
“I’m not asking for trust,” he replied.
“Just your time.
Four sessions.
At my penthouse.
Three hours each.
No assistants.
No press.
You paint, I sit.
That’s all.”
Elena hesitated.
Then she said the thing that surprised even her: “Fine.”
He nodded like he expected that.
“I’ll send a car,” he said.
“Tomorrow. 3 p.m.”
She stared at him.
“Of course you will.”
- Writer
