CHAPTER ONE

ELENA

"I swear, Sofia, I'm at my breaking point," I muttered as my fists gripped a rag stained with dried paint as I paced the room. "I simply cannot live anymore like this. The rent's due again. My latest commission only covered groceries, and let's not delve into how I have been living off instant coffee and prayers." I said in a frustrated tone, throwing the rag onto my disorganized desk.

The pungent odor of paint thinner and stale air filled my tiny studio, but I no longer noticed it. What I did notice was the suffocating weight of reality pressing down on me. Another day, another yet-to-be-paid bill, another reminder that I was running out of time to pay these bills. My frustration was already getting to me.

Sofia Martinez, who was perched on the edge of my couch, which had dried paint splashed all over it, raised an eyebrow. "You're being dramatic."

I shot her a dirty look. "Am I?"

She sighed, folding her arms. "No, but moping around here isn't going to do anything. You have to get out there, Elena. Make people see you, see your work."

"Oh, sure! Because that's how easy it is!" I threw my arms up in the air. "I'll just go into a gallery, demand they pay attention to me, and voilà—problem solved!"

Sofia rolled her eyes. "Well, that's exactly what you should do."

I narrowed my eyes. "What do you mean?"

She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a crumpled magazine, slapping it down on my desk. The bold print headline made my stomach churn.

ELITE ART AUCTION: ALEXANDER MORETTI ANNOUNCES SEARCH FOR NEW TALENT.

I let out a dry laugh, crossing my arms. "And why in the world do I need to see this?" Sofia shot me a knowing look. "Because it's your chance. If you can get Moretti to pay attention to what you're doing, you've got a chance at a commission that would turn everything around. No more scrapping. No more being overlooked."

I couldn't help but laugh bitterly. "Moretti? The billionaire with a reputation colder than his bank accounts? He only works with the best artists."

"So make him see you're the best," she retorted, undeterred. "They're accepting submissions tonight. You've got nothing to lose."

Nothing to lose.

Except my pride.

But pride didn't pay the bills.

I exhaled sharply, gazing at the half-finished canvas propped against my easel. Uncertainty nipped at me, but desperation also. Maybe she was right. Maybe this was the push I required.

"What if he laughs me out of the gallery?" I whined.

Sofia rolled her eyes. "Then at least you'll know you've done your best. But I don't think he will do that. Your work speaks for itself, Elena. You just need to stop hiding."

She was right. I had dreamed for years of my work being seen, of proving I was more than a starving artist. But fear had always been my biggest enemy.

I straightened my shoulders, determination flaring into being within me. "All right," I said, taking a short breath. "Let's do this."

Sofia's lips curled into a self-satisfied grin. "That's my girl. Now, let's get ready to blow their minds."

Later That Evening—The Gallery

The atmosphere was intimidating. The subdued hum of conversation, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the soft, golden light gave the gallery an air of elitism that I was not familiar with. I adjusted the strap of my bulky portfolio, feeling completely out of place, and stepped inside.

Sofia had made me swear to dress in something "presentable," so I'd put on a plain black dress and ankle boots—nothing too flashy, but sufficient to allow me to fit in. Still, I couldn't help but feel like an impostor among the upper-crust collectors and art lovers who circulated the room as though they owned it.

My gaze wandered around the room until I saw the submission table across the room. There was not much of a line, but my heart raced with each step I took in its direction.

"Breathe," Sofia whispered beside me. "It's just a bunch of rich snobs pretending to understand art. You've got just as much right to be here as they do."

I agreed, but my palms were already so sweaty when I got to the table. A serious-looking woman in a tight-fitting business suit hardly looked at me as she accepted my portfolio. "Name?"

"Elena Rossi."

She wrote it down and then opened my portfolio. Her eyes scanned my work, and I waited with bated breath for some sort of response.

She nodded slowly, then shut it. "You will be contacted if your work is chosen for private viewing."

That's it? No criticism, no approval, anything? I still had questions to ask, but before I could say anything, she was addressing the next artist in line.

Sofia tugged at my arm and drew me away. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"It was terrible, Sofia." I drawled

She rolled her eyes. "You'll be hearing from them. And when you do, you'd be ready"

I spun around, snagging a flute of champagne from a circulating tray, my nerves too tense to deal with anything more potent. One sip, that's all I needed—

And then, disaster hit.

My arm twitched, my foot trembled, and before I could say 'Jack Robinson', the glass leaned forward and poured golden liquid directly onto the crisp, pricey suit of the man passing by just in front of me. The man with piercing eyes locked onto mine like a predator sighting its prey.

It was Alexander Moretti.

The room was vacuum-sealed, every sound dissolving into shocked silence. His lips compressed into a line as he slowly glanced down at the spreading stain on his designer jacket. I swallowed hard. He lifted his gaze, flashing with icy amusement. "Well," he drawled, voice velvet soft and steel sharp, "this is one way to make an impression."

And in that moment I knew my destiny was sealed.