Chapter 4: Into the Fire (Leo POV)

I hang up on Max, his warning—"Don't get caught"—ringing in my ears, and slump onto the mattress, the springs creaking under me. Seven days. That party tonight's my shot, my lifeline, and I'm not waiting for him to pull strings.

I grab my sketchbook, flip it open, and scratch out a figure sneaking into shadows, charcoal smearing under my shaking hand. The lines are rough, desperate, like me right now.

Mia's hurt voice echoes in my head, but I shove it aside—tonight's all that matters. I toss the pencil down, grab my jacket, and head out. The apartment's choking me, walls too close, air thick with everything I'm running from.

Night hits fast. I'm outside the event center, blocks from home, my boots smacking wet pavement as I weave through the city's buzz—lights flashing, horns blaring, people shouting over each other.

I've dressed my best—black shirt ironed for once, jeans without holes, my leather jacket beat-up but decent if I play it cool. The building glows ahead, all glass and sharp edges, suits and dresses pouring in like they own the world.

My heart's slamming like a drum, eviction notice crumpled in my pocket, burning a hole. I spot a side door—delivery guys hauling crates, shouting about late shipments.

I duck behind a dumpster, the stink of trash hitting me hard, and wait, breath short and ragged.

A guard's there, scrolling his phone, bored. He steps away, lighting a cigarette, his back turned—my chance.

I grab a tray of empty glasses from a cart, prop it up like I'm staff, and slip toward the door. My hands shake, glasses clinking loud, and I'm halfway in when a voice barks, "Hey! You!"

I freeze, heart in my throat, and turn slow. It's the guard, stomping over, smoke trailing from his cig. "Staff only—ID?"

I swallow, mouth dry, and force a grin. "Forgot it—new guy, Tony."

He squints, sizing me up, then grunts, "Move it, don't screw around."

I nod fast, slip inside, and ditch the tray in the kitchen—pots banging, cooks yelling, chaos masking my steps. I hit the main hall, palms slick, pulse racing. I made it—barely.

The room's a swarm—rich bastards everywhere, voices loud, dripping cash. Chandeliers sparkle overhead, waiters glide with wine trays, and I snag a glass, sipping to steady myself.

It's sharp, fancy, burns different from the cheap stuff I'm used to. I straighten up, try to blend, scanning for anyone who'd buy art.

My paintings are back home, stacked against the walls, but I can talk, hustle my way in—I have to. I'm on my second glass, weaving through the crowd, when I spot a guy—mid-forties, slick hair, suit screaming money.

I step up, voice tight but bold. "Hey, you into art? I've got stuff—dark, real, San Francisco vibes. You'd like it."

He turns, eyebrow arched, sipping his drink slow. "You an artist?" he asks, smirking like it's a joke.

"Yeah," I say, pushing on. "I've got pieces that'd kill on your wall—one of a kind."

He laughs, short and cold. "Kid, I buy from names, not nobodies. Keep dreaming."

He walks off, leaving me standing there, face hot, desperation clawing deeper. I need this—seven days, no options.

I grab another glass, down it fast, the room tilting soft, when I bump into him—tall, dark hair, suit so sharp it could cut.

He turns, gray eyes hitting mine, steady, a small smile tugging his lips. "Careful," he says, voice low, smooth. "You'll spill that."

I wipe my hand on my jeans, leaving a damp streak, and mutter, "Sorry, it's crowded."

He steps closer, close enough I feel the heat off him. "It is. I'm Daniel." His name lands heavy, and he's too handsome—watching me like he's already hooked.

"Leo," I say, throat dry, wine not helping.

He tilts his head, testing me. "You here for the art?"

I lie, "Something like that," and sip again, glass cold in my grip. "You?"

He smiles wider, easy but sharp. "Same. What kind you into?"

I hesitate, then dive in. "Dark stuff, messy—cityscapes, raw edges. Mine's like that."

He leans in, listening, his cologne faint, rich, screwing with my head. "Sounds bold," he says, eyes flicking over me like he's sizing up more than my words. "You've got guts, talking it up here."

I grin, loose from the wine. "Takes guts to make it."

He laughs, soft, his hand brushing my arm, testing again. "You're not like these people—I like that."

My face heats, buzzing now. "Yeah? You're not bad yourself."

It's dumb, bold, but he doesn't pull back—he steps closer, the crowd fading, just us in the heat and noise. "Let's get out of here," he says, nodding to a hall off the side.

I follow, legs wobbly, wine singing in my veins.

We weave through the crowd, Daniel leading, his shoulder brushing mine as he nods to a bar tucked in the corner. “Drink?” he asks, voice low, cutting through the noise. I nod, throat tight, and he grabs two glasses of red wine from a passing tray, handing me one. It’s dark, heavy in my hand, and I take a long sip—sharp, warm, hitting my chest like a spark.

He watches me, sipping his own, gray eyes glinting. “So, Leo,” he says, leaning against the bar, “what’s your deal? You don’t fit this crowd.”

I laugh, short and rough, the wine loosening my tongue. “Broke artist, crashing this thing to sell something—rent’s due.” He raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Bold move. I like risk-takers.”

I grin, draining my glass, and he flags down another tray, swapping mine out. “You?” I ask, the second glass going down easier, fuzzing my edges. “Rich guy playing art fan?”

He chuckles, deep, stepping closer.

“Something like that—sponsoring this mess, dodging my own crap.” We talk—art, the city, his questions sharp, mine slurring as the wine piles up. My head’s swimming, his hand brushes my arm again, lingering, and I’m too drunk to care who sees.

The lounge is dim, plush couches lining the walls, quieter than the chaos outside. He shuts the door—click—and he's on me, lips crashing hard, messy, hands grabbing my jacket, yanking me in.

I kiss back, head spinning, fingers clawing at his shirt, tugging buttons loose. We stumble to the couch, clothes shedding fast—my shirt's open, his tie's gone, his jacket hits the floor with a soft thud.

I'm drunk, dizzy, but it's clear, sharp. I drop to my knees, his hands knotting in my hair, rough, pulling tight.

I unzip his trousers, free him, and take him in my mouth—hot, fast, sloppy. His groan fills the room, low and deep, vibrating through me.

I don't think, just feel—wine and him drowning it all out. The eviction notice, Mia's cracked voice, the smug suit's rejection—gone. It's just this, just us, wild and reckless, and I'm lost in it.