Olivia dreamt of fire.
Not the destructive kind, but something stranger—more intimate. In her sleep, she stood barefoot in a forest that pulsed with light. Trees whispered secrets in a language she didn't understand. And in the centre of it all stood Aiden, shirtless, golden light dancing across his skin like he was carved from starlight.
He reached for her.
She stepped closer.
But just before their fingers touched, his form flickered—and turned to ash.
She gasped awake.
Her skin damp with sweat. Sheets twisted around her like vines.
Just a dream, she told herself.
But it didn't feel like one.
She sat up slowly, her heart still thudding, as if it were trying to knock something loose inside her. It was barely 5 a.m., London still bathed in that early morning grey. She padded to the kitchen in her oversized jumper, poured herself water, and stared at her reflection in the window glass.
Her eyes looked different.
Wider. Darker. Like she'd seen too much in a single night.
She picked up her sketchpad and flipped it open to a blank page. Her hands moved on their own. First, the trees—twisted and tall. Then the firelight. Then… Aiden. But not as he appeared at dinner.
This version had cracks running through his face like porcelain. And his eyes weren't brown—they were glowing gold.
She dropped the pencil.
"What the hell is happening to me?"
**
By mid-morning, the gallery buzzed with more visitors than usual. An article had come out in a small arts magazine praising The Hollow Room for its "haunting aesthetic and undercurrent of mysticism." Marcus was pleased, which meant he mostly left Olivia alone.
She didn't expect Aiden to show up again so soon. But by noon, he did—only this time, he didn't come through the front door.
He was already inside.
Standing by Torn Velvet, his back to her.
"Do you always sneak into galleries uninvited?" she asked, approaching cautiously.
He turned with that unreadable smile. "I never left."
She paused. "Excuse me?"
"I came early. Before opening. Marcus let me in."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"I had something to return."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, rolled canvas tied with twine. Olivia recognised the tag instantly—Property of The Hollow Room. But the painting itself was unfamiliar.
It was a woman, nude and floating, surrounded by red ribbons that looked almost alive. Her face was half-covered by shadows, but something in her expression gripped Olivia by the throat. She couldn't explain why.
"Who is she?" she whispered.
Aiden looked at the painting as if it hurt him. "Her name was Seraphina. She was an artist. And a witch."
Olivia blinked. "You're joking."
"No."
She stared at him, searching his eyes for humour. There was none.
"Witch? Like... potions and black cats and—"
"Not the kind you see on Netflix," he said quietly. "She painted with blood. Dreamed of futures. And made men fall in love with her only to ruin them."
"And what was she to you?" Olivia asked, her voice barely steady.
"She was my curse."
The air thickened between them. For a moment, all the noise in the gallery faded. All Olivia could hear was her own breath and the whisper of a thousand questions clawing at her lips.
He handed her the painting. She took it, fingers brushing his for a second too long.
"Why return this now?" she asked.
"Because you need to see it."
"Why me?"
Aiden's eyes locked on hers.
"Because you're dreaming of fire. And that only happens to the ones she chooses."
**
Later that night, Olivia walked the streets of Soho in a daze. After Aiden had left the gallery, she hid the painting in the locked cabinet beneath the front desk. She didn't want Marcus asking questions—mostly because she had none of the answers.
Why had Aiden brought her that painting?
Who was Seraphina?
What did he mean by curse?
She stopped at a quiet bookshop. It had a window display filled with dusty tomes and wooden tarot decks. Something pulled her inside.
A bell tinkled as she entered. A woman in a burgundy shawl looked up from behind the counter. Her eyes were violet. Not lavender. Violet.
"You're being followed," the woman said without greeting.
Olivia froze. "Excuse me?"
The woman smiled. "Not by a man. By a name. Seraphina."
Blood rushed to Olivia's head.
"Do you know her?"
"I know of her," the woman said, standing. "Witch of the Velvet Flame. She lived a hundred years ago. Died in fire. But her magic never did."
"This is insane," Olivia murmured.
"Is it? Then why are your dreams on fire? Why is your skin humming? Why did the wolf come to find you?"
"The wolf?"
The woman stepped forward. "You see him in your dreams. Tall. Golden eyes. Always standing between you and something ancient."
Olivia's heart was now hammering like a warning bell.
"What am I?"
"Not what," the woman said. "But who. And that, my dear, is the question Seraphina has been trying to answer through you."
"I don't understand," Olivia said. "I'm just a gallery assistant. I paint sometimes. I drink cheap wine. I—I've been heartbroken, sure, but I'm not…"
"Not magical?" the woman asked, head tilted.
Olivia couldn't answer.
The woman reached beneath the counter and handed her a book. It was bound in cracked red leather.
The title read: The Velvet Lineage.
Inside was a sketch.
Of Olivia.
Naked. Floating. Wrapped in ribbons.
Exactly like the painting Aiden returned.
Olivia stumbled back. "What the hell is this?"
"It's not hell," the woman said. "It's heritage."
Olivia fled the shop.
**
Across the city, Aiden stood in a high-rise flat overlooking the Thames. The night was quiet. But inside him, a storm raged.
He stared at his reflection in the window, eyes glowing faintly gold.
"She's awakening," came a voice from behind him.
A man stepped out of the shadows—tall, pale, eyes rimmed in shadow.
"She doesn't know what she is," Aiden replied.
"She will."
Aiden clenched his jaw. "And when she does, the fire will return."
The man nodded. "Then so will she."
They both turned to look out at the city.
And somewhere, deep beneath the ground, the ashes of Seraphina stirred.