The city skyline framed the glass roof of the building with the shimmer of old wine. Inside the auction hall, crystal glittered like artificial stars, and aristocratic laughter rang out politely but venomously.

Vincent Beaumont stood at the bar, his black suit impeccably neat, his wine glass a mere prop in his hand. He surveyed the room like a king bored of his own palace.

Then he sees her.

She is an unknown woman. Unlike the socialites who always try to approach, she stands alone, twirling the ring on her finger as she examines the painting being auctioned. Her black dress is simple but deadly—the kind of elegance that doesn’t beg for attention, but demands a glance.

Vincent takes a sip of his wine and leans in closer. “Good taste in painting,” he says, his voice quiet but clear.

You turn your head. A small smile plays across your lips, like a razor blade disguised as a ribbon. “I’m afraid this painting is too predictable. I prefer the ones that are blurry, but the market value goes up like crazy because people think they have meaning.”

Vincent raised an eyebrow, amused. "Do you always judge things by the price tag?"

"Not always. Sometimes I judge by who's bidding."

Their eyes met. Not a sweet gaze. More like two hunters sizing each other up. There was no victim. Not yet.

Vincent smiled faintly. For the first time that night, he felt awake. "My name is Vincent Beaumont," he said, holding out his hand.