The next time Ava saw him, it was in the most unexpected of places—a bustling art gallery in the heart of the city. She had been dragged there by a friend, desperate for a break from the relentless deadlines of her job. The gallery hummed with quiet energy, patrons murmuring in appreciation of the abstract paintings lining the walls.
Ava had been studying a particularly chaotic piece—violent splashes of red and black that seemed to battle for dominance—when she felt it: a familiar presence, like a shadow falling over her.
"Ms. Harris," a voice drawled behind her. "It seems we meet again."
She turned sharply, her breath catching as she met Alexander's piercing gray eyes. He was dressed in a dark suit, impeccably tailored, with an air of effortless confidence. In the context of the gallery, he seemed almost too composed, as though he were part of a different world entirely.
"Mr. Rhea," she managed, recovering quickly. "This is... unexpected."
He smiled faintly, his gaze flicking to the painting in front of her. "Chaos," he murmured. "The artist calls it Unraveled Truth. Fitting, wouldn't you say?"
Ava studied the painting again, her pulse quickening. "Fitting for what?"
"For life," he replied smoothly, his eyes not leaving hers. "For the stories we tell ourselves, and the truths we'd rather ignore."
She frowned, unsure whether to take his words at face value or as another one of his enigmatic riddles. "Are you a fan of art, Mr. Rhea?"
He chuckled softly, the sound both disarming and unsettling. "I appreciate the perspectives it offers. Much like your writing, Ms. Harris. You look for the angles others miss."
The compliment caught her off guard, and she shifted under his gaze. "And what angles are you looking for tonight?"
He didn't answer immediately, instead turning his attention to the painting once more. "Sometimes, the answers we seek are hidden in plain sight. But only if we're brave enough to see them."
Before she could respond, a curator approached Alexander, bowing slightly. "Mr. Rhea, the auction is about to begin. If you'd follow me?"
He inclined his head, but not before offering Ava one last look—a mix of amusement and something deeper, something she couldn't quite place. "Until next time, Ms. Harris."
And just like that, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost. Ava stood there, her thoughts racing. Their meetings felt too coincidental to be mere chance. But if they weren't… what did it mean?