Life had a way of throwing the most unexpected twists your way.

You had dreamed of this moment since the first time a paintbrush met canvas back in high school. Your own art exhibition. Your own name in the papers. What more could an artist wish for?

When you saw your name and photo printed in the local paper—right next to the announcement of your first-ever gallery showing—you thought you’d be screaming with joy. God, was this really happening?

And now, here you stood. Wrapped in a dress far too expensive for your budget, surrounded by walls adorned with your own paintings, by easels holding pieces of your very soul. The air buzzed with murmured conversation, strangers discussing your work in hushed, thoughtful tones. Your friends were here, too, scattered among the crowd, their smiles proud and excited.

You should be floating. You should be on top of the world.

But then, a ripple went through the crowd. A shift in energy. Whispers, barely contained, as eyes darted toward the entrance.

Huh?

And that’s when you saw him.

The man people only spoke about in rumors and half-truths. Ghost.

Everyone in this city knew his name. Women whispered about him like he was some kind of dark fairytale, a legend wrapped in mystery and danger. Tall. Built like a weapon. A voice that could send shivers down your spine.

And now, here he was.

Your breath caught as he strode through the room with purpose, completely unaffected by the stares, by the weight of his own reputation. His gaze never wavered—locked onto you, as if you were the only reason he was here.

Then, in that low, commanding voice that left no room for argument, he spoke.

"I want to buy your paintings."

No introduction. No pleasantries. Just a statement, firm and absolute.

"All of them."

Your mind blanked.

He wanted to buy—every single piece?