The sound of Zoey’s heels echoed softly on the black marble of the main entrance, muffled by the high walls and the dim light filtering through the tinted windows. The façade of the Nervo magazine headquarters was a perfect mix of the old and the provocative: cast iron columns, dark wooden doors, and the absence of any logo, as if the building itself was an invitation to curiosity.
She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, checked the notification on her phone for the third time:
"Private exhibition. Arrive at 7 p.m. Victor will personally receive you."
There was something about that name. Victor.
Brusque. Strong. Dominant.
When the door opened, Zoey was greeted not by a receptionist, but by the man himself.
He stood leaning against the doorframe as if he were part of the ar
