Chapter 1: A Stroke of Fate

The art gallery buzzed with chatter and clinking glasses, the room alight with warm tones of gold and cream. Aria Sinclair adjusted the ill-fitting black-and-white server uniform she had borrowed from her friend. Her stomach twisted as she wove through the crowd, tray of champagne flutes balanced precariously in one hand. This was supposed to be a quick job—a way to earn enough to pay the rent for her tiny, paint-splattered apartment.

But her heart couldn't resist the allure of the artwork surrounding her.

Bold, vibrant strokes of color adorned every wall, each piece a testament to the artist's soul. Aria's gaze lingered on a particular painting: a stormy seascape with a lone figure standing at the edge of a cliff. The figure's face was turned upward as though defying the heavens.

"It's magnificent, isn't it?" a voice startled her.

Aria glanced to her left and found herself face-to-face with an impeccably dressed man whose eyes were colder than the sea in the painting. His dark suit fit him perfectly, and his piercing gray eyes assessed her with barely disguised irritation.

"I—uh—yes, it's beautiful," Aria stammered, gripping her tray tighter.

"Do you work here?" he asked sharply, his tone clipped.

"I do," she said quickly, before adding, "for tonight, at least."

His brow arched, and he opened his mouth to speak, but at that exact moment, someone bumped into Aria from behind. The tray in her hand tilted, sending a cascade of golden liquid splashing into the air.

Time seemed to slow as the champagne arced toward the painting she'd been admiring moments earlier.

"No!" Aria cried, lunging forward to stop the disaster.

She wasn't fast enough. The wine splattered across the canvas, its delicate blues and grays bleeding into a chaotic mess. Gasps rippled through the room like an electric current.

Aria froze, her hand hovering uselessly in midair.

"What have you done?" The man's voice was low, but the fury in it was unmistakable.

"I—I didn't mean to," Aria stuttered, turning to him in desperation.

"Do you have any idea what that painting is worth?" he growled, stepping closer. The gallery's ambient noise seemed to fade as all attention turned to the scene unfolding.

"I'm so sorry," Aria whispered, her cheeks flaming.

"Sorry?" His voice cut through the air like a blade. "Do you think 'sorry' can fix this?"

Aria felt her chest tighten, panic blooming in her mind. Who was this man, and why was he acting as if the world had just ended?

Before she could respond, a tall, older man in a suit rushed over. "Mr. Blackwell," he said, addressing the stranger. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything is far from all right," Lucas Blackwell replied coldly. His eyes never left Aria.

Her heart sank. So this was Lucas Blackwell—the billionaire tycoon who owned half the city's art galleries. And she had just destroyed what must have been one of his most prized possessions.

"I'll pay for it," she blurted out, the words escaping her mouth before she could think.

Lucas laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. "With what? Do you have any idea how much that painting costs?"

Aria swallowed hard, determination replacing her fear. "I'll work for you. However long it takes, I'll repay the debt."

Lucas's gaze narrowed, as though he were calculating the weight of her words. Then, to her surprise, a slow, predatory smile curved his lips.

"Very well," he said softly. "You've just hired yourself a job. Don't even think about backing out."

Aria's pulse raced as she realized she had just signed herself up for something far more dangerous than she could have imagined.