The small café was quiet, a haven amidst the bustling city streets outside. Lance sat at a corner table, casually dressed but impossibly composed, his dark eyes scanning the room with precision. Across from him, Jenny sipped her coffee, a mixture of curiosity and caution in her gaze.
"So," Lance began, leaning back slightly, "you spend a lot of time at galleries. Art… it tells stories, doesn't it?"
Jenny raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his calm confidence. "It does. Some people see only colors and shapes. Others… they see intentions, histories, and sometimes, secrets."
He smiled faintly, the corner of his lips curling into something almost predatory. "Secrets are fascinating. They tell more than words ever could."
The tension between them was palpable, a delicate dance of words and glances. Jenny felt an unusual mix of attraction and unease, sensing there was more to this man than met the eye.
Before she could respond, the café door opened, letting in a cold gust of wind—and a familiar presence that made her stiffen.
"Jenny, darling!" The stepmother's voice rang out, sweet and artificial, as she swept toward the table, a forced smile on her lips. "Fancy seeing you here… and meeting someone new, I see."
Jenny swallowed, uncertain, while Lance's eyes narrowed imperceptibly, assessing the woman before him. The stepmother's elegance and calculated charm were apparent, but so were the traces of cruelty, entitlement, and arrogance—the same traits that had once driven him and Maria out.
"Mother," Jenny said carefully, her voice polite but guarded.
The stepmother turned her gaze to Lance, offering a measured smile. "And you must be…?"
Lance's smile was calm, effortless, but there was a steel edge beneath it. "Lance," he replied smoothly. "Pleased to meet you."
The stepmother studied him, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. "You have… a certain presence. I like that." She leaned slightly closer, her tone honeyed but sharp. "Jenny, who is this young man?"
Jenny opened her mouth to answer, but Lance intervened with quiet confidence. "We met at the gallery recently. We were discussing art… and perhaps philosophy," he said, his gaze briefly meeting Jenny's, sending a subtle signal of control and intrigue.
The stepmother smiled, seemingly satisfied, but Lance detected the faint twitch of irritation beneath her composed exterior. She was used to commanding attention, yet here was a man who neither flinched nor bowed to her presence.
As the conversation continued, Lance subtly took mental notes—the stepmother's mannerisms, her carefully curated charm, and the faint hints of weakness she tried to conceal. Every word, every gesture would be stored, remembered, and used when the time came.
Jenny watched the exchange, a strange mix of fascination and confusion swirling in her chest. There was something unsettling about Lance—magnetic, dangerous, and utterly unreadable. And yet, she felt drawn to him in a way she couldn't explain.
When the stepmother finally left, gliding out with practiced elegance, Jenny exhaled softly. "He's… different," she said, almost to herself.
Lance leaned back, his dark eyes thoughtful. "Different can be powerful. And sometimes… the past has a way of catching up to the present."
Jenny frowned slightly, unsure if it was a warning or a mystery. Lance's words lingered in the air, unspoken yet heavy with meaning. And somewhere deep inside, he smiled to himself—his game had begun, and the pieces were already moving exactly as he intended.