Era’s fingers trembled as she fastened the last display tag, heat rising along her neck beneath the stark gallery lights. Her pale blue blouse clung to the slim lines of her body—tucked just so, professional, but she felt raw and exposed, the silk damp against her skin. She caught her reflection in the glass, wide green eyes, parted lips, a flicker of nerves that wouldn’t settle. Behind her, footfalls echoed: slow, measured, wary. Veyron stood in the doorway, arms crossed over the rigid lines of his chest beneath a fitted charcoal suit. His jaw tensed, dark eyes tracking her every move. That gaze—hungry, possessive—made her pulse trip.

He said nothing, but she could feel the storm gathering in his silence. She looked away. “Just making sure everything’s perfect for the donors.” Her voice was too soft, almost apologetic.

Veyron’s mouth curved in a near-smirk. “You mean for him.” His gaze flicked beyond her, and Era realized with a sick twist—he knew. Or thought he did. Before she could answer, another voice cut through: casual, edged with derision.

Cael leaned against a nearby pedestal, hands in the pockets of his black jeans, a wry grin flickering at one corner of his lips. His shirt—untucked, sleeves rolled up—hinted at carelessness masking something more fragile. “I thought the only thing we were supposed to worship here was the art, not the donors. Or are you curating broken hearts now, Era?”

She flushed, biting her lip, but there was a warmth in Cael’s teasing that made her want to laugh—if only the air weren’t so taut. Veyron’s eyes narrowed, but Cael held his gaze, unafraid. For a moment, Era felt the low thrum of tension between them, two different storms colliding for her attention.

“I just want tonight to go right,” she said quietly, smoothing her skirt. “No mistakes.”

A shadow slid across the polished floor. Zelle stood beside her, sharply elegant in tailored blue, a golden cuff glinting on his wrist. His smile was sharp as glass, eyes glacial—a predator’s calm. “Mistakes are inevitable, darling. But you’ve always been good at cleaning them up.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, lingering a little too long. She stiffened. Cael’s brows shot up, Veyron’s fists clenched.

Veyron stepped forward, voice low, barely controlled. “You shouldn’t touch staff.”

Zelle’s smile didn’t falter. “Consider it a donor’s privilege.” He glanced at Era, eyes softening almost, as if pleading—some memory passed between them. A history no one else saw.

“I need to prep the restoration lab,” Lirian’s voice interrupted gently, breaking the standoff. He eyed Zelle, cautious, unreadable. His hands—paint-stained even after all these years—hovered near Era’s elbow, subtle but protective. He wore a soft grey sweater, sleeves pushed up to reveal long, elegant fingers. “Era, could you help?”

The relief in her face was unmistakable, but as she followed Lirian, she caught Veyron’s gaze—molten, furious, possessive—and it seared her. She wondered if he’d follow, if she wanted him to.

Inside the restoration studio, the world felt smaller, quieter. Lirian stood close as they bent over a cracked oil painting, their shoulders almost touching. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the thread of shyness in his gentle smile. His eyes—startling blue, so different from Veyron’s night—searched hers, asking for trust. “You okay?” he whispered.

She nodded, voice caught in her throat.

His hand found hers, tentative, calloused thumb stroking her knuckles. “You don’t have to let people treat you like that. Not Zelle. Not anyone.” There was pain in his words, the echo of old scars.

Era’s breath hitched. She met his gaze, seeing the longing, the fear. Lirian’s hand moved to her waist—light, trembling—pulling her gently closer. Her heart pounded. His lips hovered near her ear, breath fanning her skin. “I want to protect you, Era. Even from myself.”

For a moment, the world narrowed to the warmth between them. His lips brushed her temple, then moved down, almost to her mouth. Their breaths mingled, hands gripping the edge of the table as if it might anchor them. Her body leaned in, straining, ached for more.

But Lirian froze—his eyes darkening with some memory, regret flickering across his face. He released her with a shiver, stepping back. “I—I’m sorry. I can’t.” He left, leaving her trembling, reaching for him in the silence.

Behind her, the door clicked. Zelle stepped in, his smile wafer-thin as he closed the space between them. “It’s good to see you haven’t changed, Era,” he murmured, voice so low only she could hear. “But remember what you owe me. And what I can take away.”

She recoiled, tears stinging. Outside, through a sliver in the door, Veyron’s face appeared—eyes wild with jealousy and something darker yet.

To be continued...