The quiet, cavernous exhibition space echoed Sarah Pierce's weak click of heels. The once-bright walls covered in vivid paintings now stood naked, their absence like weight on her chest. Every stride she made seemed weighty, as though the weight of her family's heritage had thickened the floor itself. Originally a living tribute to the ideals of her late father, the gallery has evolved into a tomb for his aspirations.
She paused at a dimly lit spot where a single piece of artwork remained. Her father's last creation before his death was one she cherished. Deep blues and silvers whirl together like a sea against a jagged crag. The colors spoke to her; yet in the empty space, the work felt out of place. It vanished, same as hers.
Her fingertips stroked the frame as though she would get strength from it, but the taste of defeat suffocated her. Cancers were making their way to her doorstep, and her bills continued to rise. The future of the gallery is in the balance. Though Sarah had battled valiantly to keep it alive, it felt more pointless every day. The bank would be calling again tomorrow. If she could locate a means of payment, the situation would be resolved.
The gallery would close, therefore eliminating the last link to her father's legacy. Like everything her father had worked so hard for, the dream she had dedicated her life to was crumbling away.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but she knew it was another reminder of her approaching failure—another creditor—not from looking at the screen. She turned aside her phone and stared at the door, while a chilly draft fluttered the drapes like ghosts.
**It's over.**.
She kept thinking about it again and again until it was the only thing she could feel and hear.
The gallery door groaned open just then. The unexpected sound caused Sarah's heart to skip a beat. She straightened, fast brushing away a tear gathering in the corner of her eye, and adopted a neutral demeanour. She had not anticipated anybody. But there at the gateway, silhouetted by the grey dusk light, was a figure she had never seen before.
The man.
With his tall stature and well-fitting black suit, he effortlessly commanded the place. His dark hair was somewhat messy, as if he had emerged from some lost age, and the minute he entered, his eyes—strikingly icy, strong—locked onto hers.
"Are you Sarah Pierce?" she asks. Though his voice was low and deep—almost calming—there was an edge to it that made her skin tingle.
"Yes," she said, attempting to sound collected. "Can I support you?"
At first, he did not move. He remained motionless, gazing at her as though he could penetrate the barriers she had erected around her. Before he moved towards her, his presence dominating the room, a flutter of depression—something, probably depression: amusement—passed across his features.
Russell,
Russell,He said fluidly, "My name is Vane Russell." "I'm here to provide a fix."
by him,
by him,Her eyelids closed to absorb the confident posture of the stranger. He Bound: *Vane's seemed to already know everything about her, which made something unsettling about him. His speech also seemed keen; his analytical look never wavered. Sarah felt a sudden shiver run down her spine.
"I'm not sure what you mean," she said warily, taking a step back as her heart began to race. We're closed tonight.
He disregarded her comments and moved across the gallery with a sense of dominance, his hands tidy behind his back. "It's a shame," he said, his voice silky with depression but with a subdued intensity that made her uncomfortable. "If it were in the right hands, Control: Sarah's place might be something remarkable once more."
Russell,
Sarah started to stiffen her neck. Was he making fun of her? Was he simply making fun of her? She cleared the lump down her throat.
Bound: *Vane's"And what exactly are you offering?" she enquired, her mistrust evident in her tone. "You know there isn't much left here. No investment will betray this facility.
Vane paused at one of the vacant walls and focused his gaze on the previously Tighten area, which was now covered in artwork. Quietly, he murmured, "You're wrong," and turned back to her. "I'm providing a path out here. I am making a financial commitment to revive this gallery and honor your father's legacy. I am capable of bringing all of this about.
Her breath was stiff. chest. Though Sarah understood better than to trust in Control: Sarahreams nowadays, the statements sounded like a dream. She wasn't naive.
"Why would you do that?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper. "What then is in it for you?"
A quick smile, one that missed his eyes, emerged from the corner of his mouth. "Everything carries a cost, Sarah. If you're interested, though, I believe we could work out something."
She watched him, attempting to evaluate his genuineness. His stillness in his approach was disturbing. She had spent years attempting to save her family's gallery from almost certain disaster, and now this stranger—with just a few words—was providing a path out?
Trying to keep control, she responded, "How much are you offering?" Her heart accelerated.
Vane moved in closer, his gaze blazingly focused on her. Her flesh burned. "Enough to clear your debts," he added, his voice lowering further. The terms aren't negotiable, though.
Sarah's head whirled, his offer weighing hard on her shoulders. The reality of her circumstances—the desperation that had been gnawing at her for months—muted the pride screaming at her to send him away. Her father's heritage, the gallery, her own dreams—all of it may fall through her hands in a few days.
Uncovering the trembling in her voice, she questioned, "What's the catch?"
Once more, he grinned, but this time it was colder. "There is always a catch," he remarked vaguely. However, I am confident that your terms will be amicable. You should be prepared to cover the cost of atonement.
Sarah's gut started to clench. Then she sensed the odd attraction between them, the pull of his presence, the promise of something deeper under his cool, collected surface. But the discomfort just intensified, as though an implicit threat permeated the very air between them.
With his feet firm and solid, he turned to go. "Take your time," he said over his shoulder, "but not too much. Though I'm a tolerant man, I have limitations too."
Sarah stood there motionless in the middle of the gallery as the door snapped closed behind him. Her fingers clenched as she held the edge of the table in front of her. His card sat on the surface, waiting for her.
Though she didn't know it yet, taking his offer would transform everything, pulling her into a world of darkness she might never be able to escape. The weight of the choice looms over her like a heavy cloud.**