The morning air was crisp and filled with the scent of freshly brewed coffee. Maya Carter tightened her grip on her portfolio, her heartbeat quickening with every step she took toward the pristine glass doors of the Grayson Gallery. Today was her chance—her chance to be seen, to be noticed. After years of struggling as an artist, working odd jobs to make ends meet, she had finally gathered the courage to walk into one of the city's most prestigious galleries.
She wasn't invited, of course. That kind of privilege was reserved for those who came from money, not for someone like Maya, who grew up juggling school and her mother's medical bills. But this morning, hope outweighed her fear.
Balancing her portfolio under one arm and a cup of steaming coffee in her other hand, Maya pushed the door open. The soft chime of bells announced her entrance into the gallery, and instantly, she felt out of place. The polished marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of recessed lighting, and the air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume. Patrons, dressed in designer clothes, strolled casually, their conversations as polished as the artwork adorning the walls.
Maya swallowed hard, her nerves dancing like static electricity. Just leave the portfolio with the receptionist, she reminded herself. No need to stay long.
She was halfway through the gallery, her eyes darting to the sleek counter near the far wall, when the unthinkable happened.
She rounded a corner too quickly and slammed into a solid wall of muscle. The collision sent her coffee cup tilting, its scalding contents cascading down the front of an immaculate white shirt.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" Maya gasped, her eyes widening in horror.
The man in front of her froze, his gaze dropping to the dark stain spreading across his shirt. Slowly, his ice-blue eyes lifted to meet hers. They were sharp, unrelenting, and filled with a mixture of annoyance and disdain.
"Do you even look where you're going?" he snapped, his deep voice cutting through the quiet hum of the gallery like a blade.
Maya flinched but quickly found her voice. "I—I didn't mean to! It was an accident!"
"An accident?" he echoed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He took a step back, plucking at his now-ruined shirt with a look of disgust. "Do you have any idea what this suit costs?"
Maya's cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and irritation. Yes, she had spilled coffee on him, but the way he spoke to her, as though she were some reckless child, made her bristle.
"I said I'm sorry," she replied, her voice tinged with frustration. She rifled through her bag, pulling out a wad of napkins and thrusting them toward him. "Here, wipe it off."
The man didn't move to take the napkins. Instead, he crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. "Do you know who I am?"
Maya blinked, her irritation mounting. "Should I?"
For a brief moment, his lips twitched as though he were suppressing a smile. But the hint of humor disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. "Alexander Grayson," he said, his name carrying an air of authority. "Owner of this gallery."
Maya's heart sank. Of course, he was the Alexander Grayson—the billionaire art mogul whose name was practically synonymous with high culture in the city.
Her throat went dry. "I... I didn't know," she stammered.
"Clearly," he replied coolly, brushing past her.
Maya stood frozen, watching as he strode away, his broad shoulders rigid with annoyance. Around her, several patrons cast curious glances in her direction, their whispers only adding to her humiliation.
"Well," she muttered to herself, "that could've gone better."
With shaky hands, she adjusted her grip on her portfolio and made her way to the receptionist's desk. The woman behind the counter raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Maya slid her portfolio onto the counter.
"Can you make sure Mr. Grayson sees this?" Maya asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The receptionist hesitated before nodding. "I'll do my best."
Maya nodded her thanks and fled the gallery as fast as her legs would carry her. Once outside, she leaned against the building's cool glass façade, her chest heaving.
"Way to make a first impression," she muttered.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Back in her tiny apartment, Maya replayed the encounter over and over in her mind. She had dreamed of leaving her mark in the art world, of someone like Alexander Grayson discovering her work and launching her career. Instead, she had poured coffee all over him and argued like a fool.
As she stared at her unfinished canvases lining the walls of her studio, a pang of doubt crept in. Maybe she wasn't cut out for this world. Maybe it was time to give up on the dream.
But then she thought of her younger brother, Nate, and their mother, who still struggled to make ends meet back home. Giving up wasn't an option—not when they were counting on her.
She straightened her spine, determination hardening her resolve. Tomorrow, she would go back to the gallery, apologize properly, and find a way to make things right.
Little did she know, her encounter with Alexander Grayson was only the beginning.