The next morning, Olivia Hart woke up with Aiden's message still etched into her chest like a bruise.
You have rain in your eyes. I want to learn the storms behind them.
Who even said things like that anymore? Who texted like a poet dipped in fire?
She sat at the edge of her bed, staring out the window. The Brixton streets below were alive—black cabs honking, corner stores opening, a woman yelling at her toddler in Swahili. The world hadn't changed overnight, but Olivia had. Somehow.
She wanted to believe in magic again.
In moments that felt like fate brushing its fingers along her spine.
Still, she couldn't ignore the warnings ringing like church bells in the back of her mind. Men like Aiden didn't just appear. Not in real life. Not in worn-out London galleries with flickering lights and second-hand elegance.
She checked her phone.
No new message.
Disappointment settled like fog.
She dressed slower than usual, chose a navy skirt with a slit, and wrapped her curls in a silk scarf. If Aiden showed up again, she'd look like someone worth the chase. And if he didn't, well, she'd lie to herself in the mirror like she'd done before.
The gallery was quiet when she arrived. Marcus had left a note in his spidery handwriting:
Gone to fetch the artist. Try not to flirt with the customers. — M
She smirked. Too late.
As she adjusted the lighting in the east wing, the bell above the door chimed. Her heart performed a somersault—and then another, messier one.
Aiden.
He wore charcoal grey today, a turtleneck that clung to his neck like sin, and gloves—leather ones, the kind rich men wore when they didn't want to leave fingerprints. He looked like temptation dressed in wealth and whispered secrets.
"Olivia," he said, like the word belonged only to him.
She tried to play it cool. Failed miserably.
"You came back."
"I said I would," he replied, stepping closer. "You don't strike me as someone who forgets details."
"I don't. But I also don't trust promises made under gallery lights."
He chuckled, dark and warm. "Wise."
For a moment, they stood in silence, surrounded by brush strokes and forgotten sculptures. The tension was velvet-thick, electric.
"I wanted to see your favourite painting again," he said, nodding toward Torn Velvet.
"It's still here," she said softly, "waiting to be felt."
Aiden moved to stand beside her. They both stared at the painting in silence. It looked different today—hungrier.
"Do you believe art can see us?" he asked.
She looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… this painting, this room, this moment—what if it all knows more about us than we think?"
There it was—that hint of something other. That shimmer beneath his skin, like he didn't quite belong to this world. Like there was something hiding behind those amber eyes.
Olivia swallowed. "That sounds like fantasy."
"And yet," he said, brushing a gloved finger across the edge of the frame, "here we are."
Her breath hitched.
It wasn't just what he said. It was the way he said it. Like magic was real, and he carried it in his bones.
"You didn't tell me what you do," she said quickly, trying to anchor herself in logic.
"I work with rare artefacts," he replied. "Private collections. Dangerous things."
"Dangerous?" She smiled nervously. "Like cursed swords and forbidden scrolls?"
He smiled too—but it didn't reach his eyes. "Something like that."
"Are you serious?"
"Deadly."
She laughed. But Aiden didn't. He just kept watching her. Like she was a puzzle and he already knew the ending.
"Come to dinner with me," he said.
Just like that.
No hesitation. No apologies.
She blinked. "You're forward."
"Only when I'm sure."
She should've said no.
She should've remembered the last man who made promises too early, who kissed her like a secret and left her like trash in the wind.
But Aiden was something else.
Or at least, he felt like something else.
"What time?"
**
That evening, she met him at The Thorne, an upscale restaurant buried beneath an ivy-covered building near Covent Garden. It was the kind of place that served wine with names she couldn't pronounce and dishes that looked like edible artwork.
He stood at the bar when she arrived, two glasses of red already waiting.
"You look like trouble," he said as she approached.
She smirked. "You look like someone who causes it."
They sat in a dim booth where candlelight danced between them. Conversation flowed like aged wine. He asked about her childhood, her art school days, the first time she fell in love. She answered with pieces of herself she usually kept locked behind sarcasm and politeness.
"And you?" she asked finally. "Ever been in love?"
A shadow passed over his face.
"Once," he said. "Long ago."
"What happened?"
"She died."
The words landed like thunder.
Olivia froze. "I'm… I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It wasn't your storm."
She wanted to ask more. But the way his eyes darkened stopped her. There was something beneath the surface—grief, yes, but also danger. Like he'd seen things that didn't belong in human memory.
"Tell me something true," he said suddenly, leaning closer. "Something no one else knows."
She hesitated.
Then: "Sometimes, I draw people after I meet them. Not portraits—just… impressions. What their energy feels like."
Aiden nodded slowly. "What did you draw after we met?"
She hesitated.
"A wolf," she said finally. "In a suit. Standing in the rain. Watching a house burn."
He stilled. Just for a moment. But it was enough.
Then he smiled, and the spell broke.
"I like that," he said softly. "It means you saw me."
She didn't know what she had seen.
Not yet.
But her heart was already too far gone.
**
Later, as she lay in her bed alone, Olivia tried to sleep. But something kept her awake. A buzz under her skin. A pulse that didn't feel like her own.
And far away, in the heart of London's shadows, Aiden stood before a locked chamber.
He opened it with a whisper in a language long dead.
Inside, on a pedestal, was a painting.
The same one Olivia called Torn Velvet.
Only this one bled.
And behind it, something stirred.
Something old.
Something waiting.