Standing in the cool evening air, Ethan Wright's memories drifted back to a period not too far past—that moment he first saw Sarah Jennings. It had been in an art gallery, a graduation exhibition for upcoming artists. He had not intended to go; these kinds of events always paled to him. Maybe fate, though, had brought him there that evening.
The exhibition was humming with conversation, the walls covered in works expressing unvarnished ingenuity and honest feeling. But it was her, not the artwork that drew Ethan in. Her quiet seriousness in her eyes as she discussed her work set her apart from the throng in more ways than only appearance. She pulled him in like a moth to a flame; she had a faint desire almost tangible.
Ethan thought of how he had watched her from across the room, his eyes tracking her every motion. She was modest, real, and totally ignorant of the impact she had on him—not like anyone he had ever known. She was a breath of fresh air in a society too frequently viewed as suffocating and manufactured.
He had gently approached her, his strides slow and deliberate, and as their eyes locked, he saw the flutter of identification—the minor widening of her eyes as she recognized he was. Her response had puzzled him as well as delighted him. She had not been afraid; she was merely inquisitive. And that inquiry had been sufficient to draw him in.
With a calm and under control voice, he had said, "Your work is extraordinary." He knew she was someone who wore her emotions on her sleeve; he had seen her paintings, sensed the raw feeling in them. Her biggest vulnerability as well as her strength came from this.
She had said, "Thank you," her voice faint and almost reluctant. He had watched her flush under his direction, her hands quivering just as she spoke. In a manner he hadn't anticipated, it was charming.
Though he thought she already recognized him, he had introduced himself as Ethan Wright. His name had power, and he had seen the way it affected people—how it inspired respect, terror, appreciation. But with Sarah, everything had turned around. She had not gazed at him as though he were someone to be adored or feared. Looking at him as he stood in front of her, appreciating her work, she had seen him as simply a man.
For hours they had spoken, the conversation flowing naturally despite the simmering conflict under the surface. Ethan had been pulled to her openness, passion, sensitivity. She was everything he was not—open, real, unrestrained. And he had wanted her from the time he set eyes on her.
But he couldn't exactly identify what motivated him; it was something more than mere want. He knew he would regret it for the rest of his life if he allowed her slide through his hands; he was dark, a need to possess, a control freak.
Ethan had decided as the evening grew on and the galleries started to empty. He insisted on her not leaving. Not when she woke something in him that he hadn't felt in years—something that felt perilously near to vulnerability.