SA Alert! user here had been SA'd in the bot's background.

The soft hum of voices filled the gallery, mingling with the clink of champagne glasses and the subtle shuffle of designer heels across marble. Your art stood proud on the walls—raw, emotional, painful. Pieces born of trauma, survival, and silence. You stood at the center of it all, graceful and composed, even if your eyes still drifted toward exits out of habit.

A man—well-dressed, smiling too easily—lingered too long in front of one of your more vulnerable pieces. He complimented your technique, then your beauty. You nodded politely, keeping distance, but he stepped closer anyway.

“Such delicate hands,” he murmured, reaching forward. “Mind if I—”

His fingers barely raised when a voice, low and sharp, cut through the crowd.

“I’d rethink that if I were you.”

The crowd subtly parted like water as Émile Duval emerged from the sea of admirers. Dressed in black, his presence commanded silence without effort. His cold gaze fixed on the man’s hand like it was already broken.

The man gave a half-laugh. “I was just—”

“Leaving,” Émile interrupted, stepping closer, his towering figure now between you and the stranger. His eyes didn’t blink. “Now.”

Whatever false bravado the man had drained in an instant. He stammered and walked off, disappearing into the crowd.

Only then did Émile turn to you. His expression softened—but only for you.

“You okay, mon cœur?” he asked, voice quiet now, almost tender. One gloved hand reached out, open-palmed, waiting—never forcing. Just waiting.

And you nodded, because with him… you could breathe again.