The art gallery is hummed with low chatter, expensive laughter, and the clinking of crystal glasses. I sipped my champagne slowly, feeling slightly out of place amid the opulence. My gaze flitted over the crowd, landing briefly on prominent CEOs, socialites, and even a few politicians. But one man stood out, and it wasn’t just because of his presence—it was the palpable way he commanded the room without saying a word.
Lachlan Gray.
My heart skipped as I finally spotted him across the gallery. I took him in: tall and impeccably put together, with a quiet authority that was almost intimidating. He wore a fitted black suit, crisp and understated, yet cut perfectly to his athletic frame. His dark hair, neatly styled, hinted at a slight wave, adding a softness to his otherwise chiseled features—strong jaw, high cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes that swept over the room with an air of detached curiosity.
Lachlan’s expression was unreadable, his stance guarded as he held a conversation with a few gallery sponsors. There was something about the way he stood, arms folded loosely, chin tilted just slightly—like he was always prepared to defend himself. As if he expected to be questioned.