The marble floor of the gallery was cold beneath the hem of my skirt. I stood rigid, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, as if it were trying to escape my chest. My fingers flexed involuntarily at my sides, the tension coiling through me.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded, the surprise in my voice making it waver slightly. "You said you weren't coming no matter what."
He—he—stood before me, a figure of tailored darkness against the bright, ornate wall. His presence filled the space around him, as if the gallery itself had shrunk to accommodate his looming frame. His gaze was sharp, an intense, penetrating blue that made me feel as though he could see straight through the carefully constructed layers of my mind.
"Has a stranger greeted you or struck up a conversation with you here today?" he asked, completely ignoring my question. His words were calm, but they carried an edge that unsettled me.
I frowned, my heartbeat skipping. Recovering my composure, I said cautiously, "No, I only exchanged brief greetings with a few acquaintances." My voice regained its firmness, though a small flicker of unease lingered.
He paused, his eyes sweeping the room with a slow, deliberate precision, taking in the gleam of the polished marble, the intricate frames of the paintings, the soft shimmer of chandeliers. Then, they returned to me, unblinking, calculating. "So Victor didn't come here today?"
Relief surged through me, almost startling in its intensity. "I didn't spot him or anyone working for the Grayan family at the party." I took a small step back, crossing my arms over my chest, a barrier between us. "Now, why did you suddenly show up here?"
He didn't answer immediately. He simply stood there, exuding an undeniable, possessive energy that made the hairs along my spine rise. His silence was deliberate, loaded with a weight I wasn't sure I was ready to bear.
"If you're done viewing the paintings," he finally said, his voice low and measured, "let's go home."
My jaw dropped. "What? No way!" I exclaimed, utterly stunned. My hands flew slightly outward in protest. "I'm not even finished looking at all the art yet!"
The sheer abruptness of his command inflamed me. How dare he assume he could dictate my evening? My chest tightened with indignation.
"Why did you suddenly show up here?" I demanded again, my voice sharper, pressing him for a proper answer. But he only repeated, unwavering:
"If you're done viewing the paintings, let's go home."
A surge of anger mixed with bewilderment coursed through me, sharp and burning. My eyes widened in shock. Is he here to pick a fight? Or was it something worse—an attempt to control me, to bend my will without a single word of explanation?
"Why chase me all the way here just to tell me to leave?" I whispered, feeling a deep sting of hurt. My words trembled on the edge of accusation, barely audible over the quiet hum of conversation in the background.
Then, a sound cut through the tense air: CLACK.
The woman hosting the event—the collector adorned in extravagant jewelry that caught every flicker of light—turned toward us. Her expression was poised, serene, yet her voice carried a subtle authority that made the gallery itself seem to pause.
"Why don't both of you look around a bit more before heading home?" she suggested, the tilt of her head and the slight curve of her lips conveying that this was not a mere polite offer but a gentle insistence.
CLACK.
She took a graceful step closer, her profile flawless and commanding. "As today is a special occasion, I only invited a few VIPs, and all the art displayed in the gallery are from my personal collection…"
The man beside me—my unwelcome, infuriating, yet magnetic companion—finished her thought, his tone cool, smooth as silk.
"…and brought out a few pieces from the gallery vault as well." He turned his gaze back to me, and for a fleeting moment, the steely intensity in his eyes softened just slightly. "No need to leave so quickly. You may not get another chance to see these works."
The realization hit me, sharp and vivid. He wasn't here just to pull me away or provoke me. The allure of the art, the subtle coaxing of the collector, the way he was drawn into her orbit—it was all a calculated dance, an invisible tether pulling us both into staying longer than we'd intended. Pieces displayed today were a lure, carefully chosen, perhaps even for him, perhaps for the rare privilege of access.
He had come for me—but now, he was being persuaded to stay. And I was still furious that he'd tried to pull me away, as though my desire to linger and admire mattered so little to him.
My chest rose and fell unevenly, a mix of indignation and reluctant curiosity stirring within me. I refused to give in, not yet. Yet a tiny, begrudging part of me wondered—what secrets did these paintings hold? And why did they seem to matter to him as much as they did to me?
The collector, Diah, gave a subtle, practiced smile. There was a glint in her eyes that I couldn't quite place—a deep, assessing intelligence that seemed to measure everything, everyone, in an instant. I felt exposed under her scrutiny, though I wasn't sure if it was intended for me or for him.
"Besides," she continued, her voice light yet firm, "I'm here to view the artwork. Let me take my time."
Eiser remained unmoving, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable. The tension between them was palpable, a quiet, dangerous undercurrent that made my stomach knot. Yet Diah's calmness didn't falter; she addressed him with measured politeness, as if daring him to break decorum.
"I won't ask you to stay for the tea party," she added, offering a small, concessionary nod. There was a practiced elegance in her restraint, an unspoken challenge hiding beneath the softness of her words.
Then, in an instant, everything shifted.
Eiser's hand shot out. The speed of it left me breathless. GRAB.
He caught Diah's wrist, his fingers closing tightly around the delicate fabric of her gown near her hand. YANK.
The motion was sharp, almost violent, and completely out of place in the refined atmosphere of the gallery. My eyes widened, my pulse spiking with a mix of shock and disbelief.
What is he doing?
Diah didn't flinch. Her expression remained composed, flawless, the faintest arch of her brow the only betrayal of her inner intensity. Her other hand clenched lightly, a subtle yet unmistakable gesture of resistance. The sparkle of her earrings caught the light as her eyes locked onto his, a challenge burning behind their calm veneer.
"Diah," Eiser growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that made the hairs on my neck rise. The sound wasn't loud, but it carried a weight of authority and threat that silenced the murmurs around us. GLARE.
My heart thundered in my chest, each beat a drum of fear and confusion. The air between them crackled, a battlefield of unspoken dominance and defiance. What power struggle was this? Who was winning?
He turned sharply, dragging my attention away from the furious collector and back to him. TURN.
His grip on Diah's hand didn't loosen, holding her wrist captive while he simultaneously reached for me. He took my hand, lacing his fingers tightly through mine, and pulled me to his side. The motion was commanding, possessive—a deliberate, public declaration.
"We need to talk," he stated, his words clipped and final, leaving no room for argument.
He began to lead me away, his hand firm and unyielding, a silent vow that I would follow, whether I wanted to or not. I stumbled slightly, trying to match his long, determined strides, my own indignation warring with the strange, magnetic pull of his presence.
"Eis—" I began, the sound of his name catching in my throat as I tried to protest, but the words faltered. PAUSE.
I glanced back, unable to resist. Diah watched us leave, her flawless expression now tinged with a dangerous spark of challenge, her gaze sharp as a blade. Heat flushed my cheeks, and I quickly turned my head, my focus returning to the firm, commanding presence at my side. COVER.
The pressure of his hand on mine was unmistakable. It was more than a touch—it was a statement, a warning, a claim. This wasn't an outing for art appreciation anymore. The gallery, the paintings, the polite social niceties—all of it had vanished. What remained was a confrontation, a silent assertion of control, and I was being led out of the battlefield, whether I wanted to admit it or not.
Eiser's hand clasped Dia's wrist tightly, his sudden act of force sending a ripple of astonishment through the polite crowd. The murmurs died as onlookers froze, unsure whether to intervene or merely observe. Ms. Serenity, the collector and hostess, stood rooted in place, her elegant poise a thin veneer over the sharp edge of indignation. She had commanded rooms before, yet even she seemed momentarily unmoored by Eiser's unanticipated aggression.
"We need to talk," Eiser's voice rang out, carrying a weight that brooked no objection. He TURNED, dragging Dia—her gloved hand still entwined in his—away from the stunned spectators.
Dia stumbled, nearly thrown off balance by the force of his stride. Her mind raced, a chaotic jumble of shock, anger, and confusion. She brought her gloved hand instinctively to her mouth, muffling a sharp gasp that would have betrayed her feelings. The simple gesture, COVER, seemed almost futile under the commanding presence of the man beside her.
As they moved, Dia's gaze flicked back one final time toward the hostess. Ms. Serenity stood statuesque, elegant and defiant, her eyes locked on the retreating pair with a quiet, unyielding challenge. The sound of their CLACK, CLACK—Eiser's long, precise steps against the polished marble—echoed through the gallery, a harsh reminder of the abrupt transition from social decorum to confrontation.
But they were not heading outside, not into the open light where witnesses might interfere. Eiser led Dia into a private study, a space dominated by towering bookshelves and heavy, dark wood that exuded authority and wealth. The room smelled faintly of aged paper and polished leather, an atmosphere that spoke of secrecy and weighty matters.
He finally stopped, releasing Dia's hand, though the intensity of his presence remained. His gaze, cold and sharp, shifted to Ms. Serenity, who now leaned casually against a large desk, her posture deceptively relaxed. An open drawer beside her hinted at clandestine activity—documents or objects she had dared to access without permission.
Eiser's voice cut through the tension, low and unyielding: "I told you not to lay a hand on these again."
Dia's eyes widened as she looked from Eiser to Ms. Serenity. Recognition flickered in her mind. The hostess's subtle smile, poised yet knowing, confirmed the truth: she had indeed tried to access something forbidden. The study, the sudden retreat, the dramatic interruption of the gallery—all of it was part of a calculated display of defiance.
Suddenly, a BURST shattered the quiet. A small, ornate music box toppled from the drawer, its contents scattering across the dark wood floor. The noise was jarring, a deliberate disruption that drew Eiser's attention fully to the hostess. Dia realized that Ms. Serenity had engineered this commotion—either to retrieve something important or to force his eyes upon her.
Ms. Serenity leaned closer, the proximity deliberate, charged with a tension that was both intimate and provocatively confrontational. Her gaze drilled into Eiser, sharp as a blade.
"You didn't answer a single one of the letters I sent over the years," she said, her voice low and accusatory, each word weighted with past frustration. "Even when I came in person, begging you to hear me, you refused me outright."
Her eyes flicked toward Dia, who stood silently, suddenly aware of how irrelevant she seemed in this long-standing, bitter conflict. A small, cruel smile curved Ms. Serenity's lips.
"At last, you're finally paying attention to me."
The words hung heavy, their meaning amplified by years of neglect and defiance. Dia's chest tightened as the weight of the revelation settled around her. The party, the art, the sudden force pulling her into a private study—all of it had been orchestrated. This was not about appreciation of paintings or social gatherings; it was a carefully staged confrontation designed to force Eiser to reckon with a history he had long tried to ignore.
Dia realized, with a mixture of awe and trepidation, that she was now a silent witness to something far larger than herself—a reckoning years in the making, a collision of power, pride, and unresolved grievances that had finally reached their breaking point.

Eiser's gaze was lethal, pinning me to the spot as though the very air between us had hardened into something suffocating. His fierce blue eyes offered no pity, no room for excuse—only raw disappointment and the silent accusation of a promise broken. I could feel their weight pressing down on me, a force stronger than any hand could exert.
"I told you not to lay a hand on these again." His voice was measured, low, but it carried the authority of someone who had seen too much and would tolerate nothing less than compliance.
I smoothed the silk of my dress, feeling its soft folds brush against my fingers in a futile attempt to calm myself. The small, ornate music box had fallen with a sudden TUMBLE, its scattered contents lying like silent witnesses on the dark wooden floor. My heart ached with the knowledge that Eiser would see only the action, not the turmoil behind it, and I had to ensure he understood the full picture.
"You didn't answer a single one of the letters I sent to you over the years," I said, my voice trembling despite my effort to remain composed. "And even when I went to see you in person, begging you to listen to what I had to say, you refused me outright. At last, you're finally paying attention to me." Each word carried the weight of long years, of rejection, of desperate appeals ignored. I wanted him to feel it, to know that my pain mirrored the wounds he had inflicted by his silence.
But he ignored my emotional plea entirely, his mind already pivoting to what he considered the real problem.
"Did it start when you got together with Victor?" His eyes narrowed dangerously, and the name struck me like a poisoned arrow.
I flinched, the accusation igniting shame and fury in equal measure. "It's not like that! I began using again about two years ago," I admitted, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. "It's not like I wanted to!" The confession felt like peeling away the last layer of armor I had built around myself, leaving raw vulnerability exposed to someone whose judgment I feared.
Eiser's hand CLENCHED at his side, the subtle movement betraying his disdain. He could not fathom the constant vigilance, the pressure of balancing composure and chaos, of living under the weight of expectations while hiding every slip.
I drew in a steadying breath, forcing myself to reveal the painful details of recent events. "Victor came to see me." The memory rose sharply, unbidden, and I felt my fingers tighten against the silk of my dress. "He left right after he was done with his business… but I needed to calm down, so I could get through the inauguration without any issues."
The recollection of that morning burned hot in my chest. The sight of Victor—the scarred profile, the dark presence—had shattered the careful equilibrium I had built over weeks. His unexpected visit had threatened to unravel everything I had worked to maintain. I had sought solace, the only relief I knew, to steady myself for a public event that demanded absolute composure.
Eiser stared at me, his handsome face contorted with disgust, as though my explanation were a pathetic blemish on the floor of the room. "What a sorry excuse," he sneered, his words slicing through the air. "That's the reason you fell off the wagon? That's it?"
His dismissal cut deeper than any physical reprimand could. He reduced the intricate, harrowing struggle I had faced—facing the darkness brought by Victor, maintaining control for the inauguration, and suppressing the urge to crumble—to a mere question of willpower. In that moment, it was clear: my trauma, my careful navigation of chaos, my very survival in a storm of responsibilities, were invisible to him. All he saw was the principle broken, the promise unkept.
I clenched my hands, feeling the raw ache of injustice. The inauguration had been crucial, a delicate event upon which many depended. Victor's presence had been an undeniable threat to my stability, yet Eiser cared only about the fact that I had strayed from a vow. My pain, my fear, my reasoning—all were irrelevant in the face of his unforgiving judgment.
---
Eiser's dismissiveness cut deeper than any blade could, slicing through the raw vulnerability I tried so desperately to hide. Every measured breath he took, every controlled movement, mocked the chaos that churned inside me. His perfect composure was a mirror that reflected back all my weakness, all my failures, and made them unbearable.
"Then you would have been able to convince me, even a little, that you aren't simply offering an excuse, but telling the truth when you say what you did was for my sake," he said, his blue eyes cold and unforgiving, like shards of ice. "Of course, it won't change anything either way. And… turned my back on you?"
The accusation stung with the force of a whip. He refused to see my relapse as the desperate act it was, born of trauma and survival. To him, it was nothing more than betrayal—betrayal of him, of the promise we had shared.
"How dare you say that, when you're the one who cast me aside first?" I shot back, adrenaline surging through me, my voice sharper than I intended. "You weren't there when I needed you! You left me to face the horrors of my past alone!"
His hand tightened into a fist at his side. I felt the sting of my own determination as I CLENCHED mine, letting the pain anchor me, steady me against the emotional storm.
"Has the drug messed with your memory?" I pressed, my voice trembling with anger and desperation. "You're the one who betrayed me first."
"I never betrayed you," he said, his voice hardening, though for a fraction of a second, doubt flickered across his otherwise immovable expression.
I shook my head, sorrow and fury mingling until they became a bitter, heavy weight. "If I hadn't done what my father demanded back then, I would've died on the spot. You know what my father is like. I needed to beg for my life—right then and there."
I let the memories of those dark years spill out, unflinching. "I was chased out of my home, sent to a foreign country alone, and you turned your back on me too. How could I have survived sober through that? I needed it—everything I had—to make it through each day so that you and I could meet again someday."
His expression remained stoic, yet I saw the faintest tightening at the corner of his jaw. I had poured my struggle, my dependency, my survival into words, laid bare the agonizing truth of why I relapsed now—and he still dismissed it.
"No, Diah," he said, the name sharp, carrying the weight of his ultimate disapproval. "If you truly had my best interests at heart… you wouldn't have broken our promise. You would have kept your word no matter how difficult things got."
I felt the full weight of futility crash down on me. His promise—the one he held sacred—meant nothing in the light of the betrayal I endured at his absence. How could I honor him when he had failed to honor me?
Finally, my composure broke. "I had no idea you were so shameless," I whispered, my voice barely audible, yet heavy with the weight of disillusionment. My heart shattered into pieces too many to count. The man I had fought to survive for, endured exile for, saw my pain as nothing but a shallow, s