Florence. Night.
The rain hadn't stopped.
It came in waves now gentler, but colder, a kind of hush that pressed down on Florence's cobblestones like breath held too long. Aanya walked home soaked through, the black card clutched in her hand, burning hotter than it should in this wet dark.
She hadn't let go of it once.
She could still hear his voice. Low, refined. That precise enunciation. The way he'd looked at her not with lust, not with pity, but with that sharp, impersonal curiosity people had when they observed something broken they weren't quite sure how to fix. Or if they even wanted to.
"You shouldn't walk in the street when you're falling apart."
Bastard.
She shoved the card into the inner pocket of her jacket and picked up her pace. Her knee throbbed with every step. The blood had dried, caked against the skin, but she didn't care. Not tonight. Not after losing her gallery, her studio, her place.
Not after that voice, that card, that look—like he already knew how she'd taste when she gave in.
Her building creaked when she pushed the door open. Second floor, no lift. The hallway smelled of garlic and dust. She fumbled for her keys, then gave up and just leaned her shoulder against the door until it gave way.
She didn't turn on the light.
The silence of her apartment welcomed her like a sigh. Paintings leaned against the wall—abandoned lovers waiting to be finished. The fridge hummed. A lone wine glass on the table still bore her lipstick from two nights ago.
She peeled off her wet jacket, kicked off her boots, and went straight to the kitchen. No food. One apple. Some stale crackers. She poured herself a glass of water instead, her reflection twitching in the silver rim of the sink.
She took the card out again and laid it flat on the table.
One logo. One line.
When you're ready to stop surviving.
It was either a threat, a promise, or both.
She dreamed of eyes.
Gold-flecked and rimmed in black. They followed her through narrow alleyways and oil-drenched canvases, staring not with desire but recognition. She tried to run. Her feet stuck in wet paint. When she turned, her mouth full of apology, he kissed her anyway.
She woke with a start.
Four a.m.
The room smelled like rain and turpentine. Her leg was stiff. The bandage she'd wrapped—torn from an old scarf—had come loose. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and stared at the ceiling.
What did he mean by that?
Stop surviving.
As if survival were a choice.
She dragged herself to the tiny bathroom. Splashed water on her face. Looked in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her curls tangled. Ink had smeared down her collarbone. She looked like someone unraveling—quietly, beautifully, without witnesses.
Back in the kitchen, she picked up the card again. Flipped it. Turned it over. No address. No number.
She picked up the card again and laid it flat on the table. One logo. One line. When you're ready to stop surviving.
But as she turned it over—something slid loose from her jacket lining. Folded once, tucked so tightly into the inner crease she hadn't noticed it before.
Another card. Black. Heavier. No name—just a number. A silver-embossed crest in the corner, the same symbol from before.
He must have slipped it in her pocket while her hand was bleeding.Smooth. Deliberate. Like everything he did.
And a number.
Her finger hovered over it.
She didn't call.
Morning arrived soft and grey. No sun. Just the kind of light that made the whole city look like an old photograph.
She dressed in silence.
An oversized sweatshirt. Black jeans. She pulled her hair into a loose knot and walked out without makeup, without earrings, without anything.
The café on Via dei Calzaiuoli was always half-full before nine. She took her usual corner, ordered a small espresso she couldn't afford, and pulled out her sketchpad. Her hands trembled slightly, but she ignored it.
She began to draw. Not from vision, not from muse—just from memory.
A jawline. Sharp. Sculpted.
Eyes, heavy-lidded but alert. Watching.
Mouth. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… unreadable.
Leonhart Moretti.
She didn't know his name yet. But she knew it had to be something cold and noble, something belonging to a man who wore power like cologne.
She drew him again. And again.
Until the page felt like confession.
"You're a fast study."
Her spine straightened.
He stood behind her, dressed in charcoal grey today, his shirt open at the throat, no tie. The rain had returned, clinging to the tips of his dark hair. His presence shifted the room. People looked. Not because he was loud—because he was unmistakably there.
She shut the sketchpad slowly. "Are you stalking me now?"
"If I were, you wouldn't know."
"Comforting."
He slid into the seat across from her without asking. The air grew tighter between them.
"I see you found the card," he said.
"I found it, stared at it, and nearly lit a cigarette with it."
"I'm disappointed you didn't."
"I don't smoke."
"Shame."
Aanya crossed her arms. "What do you want?"
His gaze dropped to the sketchpad. "A conversation."
"About what?"
He leaned forward. "How much of yourself are you willing to lose to keep painting?"
The question stopped her breath.
He didn't look smug. He looked serious. Too serious. Like someone who had stood at the edge of ruin before and taken notes.
"I'm not interested in selling myself," she said flatly.
"You sell your soul to landlords, don't you? Galleries that promise visibility and give you silence?"
Her lips tightened.
"I'm offering you something else," he said. "Not salvation. Not charity. Control."
She narrowed her eyes. "Of what?"
"Of your life. Of your art. Of what burns inside you that no one's dared to name yet."
The café blurred. She wasn't sure if it was the coffee or the sudden thrum in her chest.
"You don't even know me," she said.
Leonhart tilted his head. "But I see you."
He stood, slowly, as if the conversation had reached its conclusion."I'll make you an offer. But not here."
"Where then?" she asked.
"Somewhere quieter," he said. "Somewhere private. No expectations. Just answers."
"And if I don't come?"
"You keep trying to breathe through drowning."
He didn't wait for her reply.
When she looked up, he was already out the door.