- Yara -

This had to be one of those 'oh shit' moments.

Yet, I was spellbound.

This wasn't the old creep I meant to hit. No. This man was something else. Gorgeous, a walking catastrophe in suits.

His hazel eyes caught the chandelier's light, unreadable. Something in them made my pulse falter. He had seen too much of a world I had no business stepping into.

The wineglass trembled in my grip. Cabernet dripped from his lashes, streaked down his cheek. And still, he wasn't angry.

I should have looked away. Should have felt the weight of my mistake. But all I saw was a masterpiece—raw intensity, danger thrumming beneath stillness.

If anything, he looked... mildly irritated. Not mad.

Harris finally uncurled his fingers from my arm, his confidence shriveling like a leaf caught in the fire. He cleared his throat, his voice scraping against the thick tension. "I— I didn't realize you were nearby. My apologies for the... mess." His attempt at a laugh fell flat. "This girl has no manners whatsoever, Mr. Lanston."

I turned a shade paler. Shit.

Lanston?

No—surely not that Lanston.

The name sank in like a lead weight. Zayne Lanston. The heir to one of the most powerful families in the country. A man whispered about in rooms like this, always just out of reach. A man whose influence could shatter people in an instant.

And I had just thrown wine at him!

Panic curled around my ribs. I braced myself for disgust, irritation—maybe even condescension. That's what men like him did, right? Looked down on people like me, unimpressed, unbothered. And I gave every reason to do so.

Instead of disgust, Zayne blinked slowly. A man stepped forward, offering a handkerchief, but Zayne acknowledged it by taking it, dragging the cloth across his face with an almost lazy grace.

"Was it meant for me?" His voice was unhurried, laced with something just shy of amusement.

Harris broke into a sweat. "I— I was only having a chat with Miss Levine..."

Zayne tilted his head, considering him. "Hmm. Is that so?" The question was polite, deceptively mild. His tall frame cast a shadow on the older man "Then I suppose our conversation is over." A pause. Then coldly. "But first, apologize to her for harassing her."

Harris looked torn yet he thought it was better not to argue. He gulped hard, and mumbled out a meek apology before scrambling away, his presence lost beneath the hum of distant hushed whispers.

And then it was just us.

Zayne's gaze returned to mine, assessing me, closely.

"Are you alright?"

Voice low. Smooth. Lethal in its gentleness.

My thoughts stuttered, struggling to catch up. I had just doused this man in wine in public, at a charity party, and yet he was... concerned?

"Yes." I swallowed hard. "I—I'm so sorry. It was an accident. I didn't mean to throw it at you. Please, let me cover the dry cleaning—or—"

He raised a hand, silencing my frantic rambling. A flicker of amusement ghosted through his gaze. "No need," he murmured. "Here I thought charity parties were dull affairs. A little later, and I might've avoided it."

My lips twitched despite my embarrassed, frazzled state.

Gosh, he even had a good sense of humor.

"Please, I insist. Let me make it up to you." My voice scraped above a whisper.

"I'll survive." His hazel gaze dipped, lingering on my fingers still wrapped around the glass, briefly. Then his eyes flicked back up to me, unreadable. "Wine isn't the worst thing I've been covered in."

Something about the way he said it—so casual, so unconcerned—sent a strange chill down my spine.

As if nothing happened, he turned and walked away, his assistant on his toe.

I, on the other hand, was left standing there, trying to stop my heart from pounding out of my chest.

I had just met my first muse.

And I had magnificently ruined the first impression.

_______

I prayed Helen hadn't heard about the wine incident, hoping to quietly bury that disaster. I was lucky that it didn't blow out of proportion. Courtesy to that man of course.

By the time I got home, my body ached, but my mind was sharp—haunted.

His eyes, green with gold flecks, dark and unfathomable, lodged in my thoughts like a splinter. It wasn't just the color—it was the weight they carried, a quiet storm barely restrained by civility.

Barefoot, I slipped into my house clothes, the soft cotton fabric comforting against my skin as I adjusted my messy blonde hair, and pinned them in place using a brush. I arranged my pencils neatly, a calming ritual before I set the canvas in place.

I missed this—the hum of my studio, the soothing rhythm of my hands on the paper, late in the night. The familiar scent of oil paints and pastels filled the air as I carefully prepared my tools. The world outside faded as I focused, letting my thoughts unravel through the strokes. My hands were steady, my gaze sharp, pouring hours into capturing that gaze. The trapped melancholy.

Dawn broke by the time I finished—a decent piece after two months of being stuck. I eyed my supplies.

"Hmm, I don't have that exact hue," I mused, rubbing my chin. "Might have to mix it again." A shrug. Arms up. A stretch. My spine popped, a dull ache from hours of tense concentration and useless parties. Burning the midnight oil had worn me out. Time to crash.

I stood too fast. My vision swam, blurring the edges of the room. Warmth trickled down my nose. Blood.

Damn it. Did I overdo it?

Panic lurched, but I shoved it aside. Water. Sleep. I'd be fine. College students go through this all the time, right?

I made it to the kitchen, glass in hand—then the world tilted as if everything shifted on its axis. The glass slipped, its sharp edges catching the light before shattering against the floor. I crumpled, the cool tiles rushing up to meet me as darkness swallowed me whole.

Muffled voices.

"...how long will she be out?" Jenna, her voice tight with worry.

Exhaustion. Dehydration. Anemia. Trevor's voice, but I couldn't quite place his tone—concern, with a hint of frustration. My body felt leaden, and my eyelids were heavy like someone had draped weights over them.

I forced them open, my head fuzzy, the room spinning as I tried to focus on their faces.

"I'm fine," I croaked, though my throat felt raw, every word scraping against it.

Jenna was beside me in an instant. "Like hell you are." Her voice was sharp, but her hands were gentle as she moistened my lips with cotton before pressing a glass of water to them. "Sip. Slowly."

The water was a cool relief, but guilt churned beneath it. We had a hang-out plan today after yesterday's party, and now I bailed out like this. Jenna never sugarcoated things, but the worry in her dark eyes made my insides twist.

"Sorry, my bad. Overdid it," I muttered, voice hoarse.

"You think?" She sat back, arms crossed, unimpressed. "I found you sprawled on the floor, surrounded by glass shards, like a crime scene. You almost impaled yourself, you idiot."

I winced. Dramatic as always, but not entirely wrong.

Trevor crossed his arms. "You're lucky Jenna found you. She called me, and I contacted the family doctor. You need rest, fluids, and actual meals."

God, not only had I worried Jenna, but I'd dragged Trevor into this mess. I rubbed my head, as the headache came in full force.

"Trevor, I didn't mean to cause trouble. I know Helen keeps you busy—"

Trevor adjusted his glasses with a polite smile. "It's part of the job. Helen's been informed, by the way. She'll call when she's free."

Fantastic. Just what I needed. Helen knew about my little impromptu floor nap.

"How long was I out?"

Jenna checked her phone. "Four-ish hours. What's the last thing you remember?"

The pink hues of late afternoon bled through the window. Definitely longer than four hours.

I blinked, feigning innocence. "Ah... I don't recall. Still kinda woozy."

Jenna squinted at me. "Convenient memory loss, huh."

"I swear, I really can't remember!" I defended my claim. "I was painting, lost track of time."

Trevor chuckled. "Right. Well, someone's keeping an eye on you. I called your department—no grade penalties."

Oh, damn. I almost forgotten about college. I threw him a grateful look. "Guys, I owe you."

"Just take care of yourself, you gave us a big fright," Trevor said, glancing at Jenna. "You staying?"

Jenna folded her arms tightly. "Of course."

"Good. I'll take my leave."

He left with a polite nod, his shoes clicking softly on the wooden floor as he walked away. Jenna followed, but not before throwing me a look that promised a lecture.

I sighed, the weight of her gaze already heavy. Yep, I was doomed.

After some effort—and my secret weapon, the puppy eyes—Jenna finally let me off the hook. With the IV drip gone, we settled on the couch, the comforting scent of fresh strawberry yogurt filling the air as we snacked together. A sci-fi movie murmured in the background, but the real conversation was just between us. We talked about everything and nothing, the familiar hum of our friendship lulling me into a sense of normalcy.

When I told her about my not-so-proud-moment, she nearly fell off the couch laughing.

"Oh god, this is epic." She wiped away a tear, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Only you could pull off throwing a drink at some big shot, and leave unscathed. Let's be real—if he caught your eye, he must be a Greek god in a designer suit. Spill."

My face caught fire, the memory of the night flooding back. "...He was fine I guess."

"Fine?!" Jenna shrieked, leaning forward with an expression I recognized all too well—the one she got when she was about to stalk someone's entire life on the internet. "That's code for smoking hot. I'm gonna find him. Give me ten seconds."

I tried to stifle my laugh as she whipped out her phone, her fingers moving at dangerous speeds.

"You're gonna stalk him, Jen." I rolled my eyes, amused.

She had a smug grin. "Oh yeah, I'll be able to tell you his net worth, his favorite pizza topping, and whether he likes cats or dogs before the next commercial break." Her eyes glinted with triumph. "Found him!"

"You didn't just throw wine at some random big shot. You went and threw wine at THE Zayne Lanston." Jenna tsked, scrolling. "And he's a panty dropper."

A what now?

I leaned in before I could stop myself, my eyes scanning the screen. Sure enough, there he was—unbothered, polished, and dangerously good-looking, the kind of man who belonged in power suits and dimly lit rooms where decisions that shaped the world were made. But the picture didn't do justice.

And it wasn't just his face that made my stomach drop now. It was the numbers next to his name.

Executive Vice President of Lanston Enterprises. Net worth: hundreds of millions.

My brain short-circuited.

"Wait—what?" My voice cracked. "I thought he was just... you know, another heir playing businessman, Jen."

Jenna snorted, scrolling faster. "Oh, he is an heir. But he also took some near-dead sector under Lanston's umbrella and flipped it into a goldmine before he even hit 25. Some high-end, exclusive market revamp or whatever. The point is—he's not just riding the family name. He's good at what he does."

I felt lightheaded. Fan-fucking-tastic. Not only had I humiliated myself in front of an important man, but a man who had his own legacy beyond his last name.

Jenna nudged me. "Hey, relax. He was a gentleman, wasn't he? Didn't throw a tantrum or have you dragged out in cuffs."

"He smirked at me."

She grinned. "See? You're safe."

I wasn't. Not if Helen found out. And definitely not when—despite all logic—my fingers itched for a paintbrush.

My gaze flicked back to the image on her phone. Sharp jaw, effortless confidence, those unreadable eyes. To the eyes, I had spent hours painting.

To the man who had unknowingly embedded himself into my art, my thoughts secretly.

I was fucked.