Florence, Italy. June.
The light poured in like fire.
Aanya Roy stood barefoot in the middle of her studio as the Florentine sun slanted through the tall, cracked windows, setting the dust ablaze in the air. The smell of turpentine, stale wine, and linseed oil clung to her skin, too thick to scrub away. Her last canvas lay against the wall—unfinished, just like everything else she'd tried to hold on to.
In her hand: a final eviction notice, creased from how tightly she'd crumpled and uncrumpled it over the last hour.
"Thirty days past due, Miss Roy," said the landlord without looking at her, as if her collapse were a dull administrative task. "I've given you more time than I should have."
She didn't speak. Not at first. Not until he stepped on one of her sketches and kept walking.
"I just needed one more week," she finally rasped. Her voice was dry. Unused. "The gallery promised"
"They cancelled," he replied, shoving a rolled canvas into her arms like trash. "You're no longer on their schedule."
"But Lucille said—"
"Lucille took on new clients. Trends shift. You didn't keep up."
His words struck with the precision of someone who'd done this before. The sharp crack of professionalism pretending not to be cruelty.
The door slammed shut behind him. Just like that, she was alone.
Her studio once a womb of color and rebellion felt gutted. Half-finished portraits hung like ghosts on the peeling walls. Brushes floated in dirty jars. An overturned stool bled paint onto the floor like an open wound. She stood in the middle of it all with her fingers twitching for something to hold, something to destroy.
She lifted her last finished painting a faceless woman caught mid-scream, the mouth wide, the eyes blurred into storm clouds and stared at it until her vision blurred.
Then the brush slipped from her fingers. Hit the floor. Rolled away into silence.
The city was too alive. That was the worst part.
Outside, Florence thrummed with golden heat and weekend cheer. Street vendors peddled honeycomb gelato. Lovers twirled in lazy circles near fountains. Even the pigeons seemed smug, fat with crumbs and freedom.
And she—Aanya, the girl who had once painted skin so vividly her professors said it could make the dead feel desire was walking on a broken heel with her heart in her throat and her dreams bleeding out.
Her backpack strap snapped near Via Roma. She cursed, knelt, and gathered the scattered sketches before the wind could steal them. A stranger stepped around her like she was trash in the street. She hugged the pages to her chest. Her fingers were smudged with charcoal and dried blood.
She made it to the gallery on adrenaline alone.
Galleria Aurora gleamed like a white lie. Polished floors. Spotless glass. No soul.
"Lucille said I was confirmed," she told the assistant, a man with cheekbones like blades and eyes that flicked over her without stopping.
He didn't bother with a smile.
"You've been replaced."
"Why?"
"She changed her mind."
"Is she here? I'd like to speak—"
"She's busy."
Aanya's voice dropped. "You didn't even look at my work."
He slid her portfolio across the counter like it disgusted him. The edge caught her wrist. A papercut bloomed.
"You weren't under contract," he said with a shrug. "This happens."
He turned his back before she could reply.
The rain started halfway through the plaza.
It was slow, summer rain—warm and mocking. The kind that smelled like wet cement and pity.
She walked straight through it.
Let it soak her shirt, her hair, the paper clutched to her chest. Her boots squelched. The hem of her jeans darkened and clung to her calves. She passed three couples, four shops, and a street musician playing something in minor key. The music matched the throb behind her eyes.
She reached the Ponte Vecchio just as thunder cracked over the Arno. Her foot caught on a curb stone. She stumbled.
And walked straight into the street.
The screech of tires came too fast.
A horn. Then silence.
Aanya froze as a black car swerved and stopped inches from her knees. Her breath caught. A jolt of cold spread from her spine to her fingertips.
The passenger door opened. Smooth and slow.
He stepped out.
He moved like a shadow peeled from stone—tall, deliberate, sharp in his tailored suit despite the rain. His eyes were a bruised shade of gold, set deep under dark brows. His hair was wet, slicked back. He looked like someone used to war zones and opera houses, and equally bored in both.
She stared.
"You're bleeding," he said.
His voice was calm. Unbothered. As if they were talking about spilled wine.
"I'm fine," she muttered. Her knee ached where it had scraped open, blood mixing with the rain. She tried to stand. Her leg gave out.
He crouched in front of her and pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket. It was monogrammed with a sharp M.
"Here," he said.
She snatched it, pressed it to her knee. "Thanks."
He stayed there, crouched like a king who didn't mind the dirt. Watching her.
"You shouldn't walk in the street when you're falling apart," he added.
She blinked at him, the insult hitting harder than it should have. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
He tilted his head, not quite smiling. "You're carrying too much. That sketchbook's soaked. Your hands are shaking. You look like someone who's one breath from shattering."
"And you look like someone who gives out commentary no one asked for."
Still, he didn't move. He just studied her, gaze dipping from her ruined jeans to her ink-streaked collarbone to her trembling fingers. Not in a predatory way. In a way that made her feel seen and skinned all at once.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he stood, reached into his coat, and produced a black card—sleek, heavy stock, edges rimmed in gold. No name. No title. Just a small, embossed crest she didn't recognize.
He held it out to her.
"You dropped this."
"I didn't—"
He tucked it into her palm. His fingers brushed hers. Cold. Certain.
"You should go home," he said. "You look like someone who forgot how."
Then he turned and stepped back into the car.
The door shut. The engine purred. He was gone before she could blink.
Aanya stood in the rain, stunned, hand curled around the card like it might burn her.
She turned it over.
One line of text, handwritten in neat, inky script:
When you're ready to stop surviving.