Chapter 1 The Art of the deal

Sophia's pov

"Why can't something, anything, just go right for once?" I muttered, clutching the crumpled warning letter from the bank in my shaky hands. I skimmed it again, as if somehow the words would change. They didn't. One more overdue payment, and the gallery-my father's dream, my dream-would be gone.

I stuffed the letter into my bag and straightened my back. No one here needed to know how close I was to falling apart. The gallery buzzed with Manhattan's elite tonight-sipping champagne, tossing out opinions about art they probably didn't understand. Soft jazz played in the background, the lights bathed everything in a golden glow. From the outside, it was perfect.

On the inside, I was barely hanging on.

"Ms. Hart, your collection is absolutely stunning tonight," Mr. Harper, a middle-aged man in a tailored suit, said as he passed by.

"Thank you," I replied, forcing a polite smile.

"You'll hear from me soon," he added casually, which I knew meant, I'm not buying anything tonight.

I swallowed my frustration, letting my heels carry me to another group of guests. Smile, charm, sell-that was the mantra.

Then, the energy in the room shifted. Conversations stilled. Heads turned.

I followed their gazes to the entrance, and my stomach dropped.

Damon Blackwood.

Manhattan's infamous billionaire playboy. The man who tore apart businesses for sport. And now, he was walking into my gallery like he owned the place. Hell, like he owned me.

His dark suit fit perfectly, and his sharp features had a way of demanding attention without trying. Even the way he adjusted his cufflinks felt deliberate, like he knew the room was his.

What the hell was he doing here?

"Ms. Hart." His smooth voice cut through the air as he made his way toward me, his gray eyes locking onto mine.

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

"Mr. Blackwood," I managed, slipping on my most professional smile. "I wasn't expecting you tonight."

"Neither was I," he said with a smirk that could start wars. "But I heard this gallery was worth a visit. Thought I'd see for myself."

His gaze swept over the room, lingering on the art, the people, and then back to me. He wasn't admiring anything. He was calculating-deciding what to keep and what to toss.

"Well," I said, keeping my tone even, "I hope you find the collection enjoyable."

"Enjoyable?" He tilted his head, his smirk deepening. "I don't usually enjoy unprofitable ventures."

The heat rushed to my face. Did he just call my gallery a failure?

"Then I'm surprised you bothered to come," I shot back, my tone sharper than intended.

His eyes sparkled, amused. "I admire your spirit, Ms. Hart. Most people wouldn't dare talk to me like that."

"I'm not most people," I replied, folding my arms and holding his gaze.

"No, you're not." His words hung in the air longer than they should have, and then he nodded, smirk intact. "Enjoy your evening."

And just like that, he walked away, leaving me standing there, fuming.

I wanted to scream, maybe throw something at him, but I didn't. I couldn't. The elites in this room were my last hope for keeping the gallery alive, and losing my temper wouldn't exactly inspire confidence.

Still, his words played on a loop in my mind all night.

By the time the last guest left, the gallery was silent. The glow of the evening had long since faded, and the weight of reality settled back in.

Hopeless. That's what he'd called it, right? A "lost cause."

I leaned against the counter and let out a long breath. My father's voice echoed in my head, the way it always did when I felt like giving up.

"This gallery is your legacy, Sophia. You can do this."

Could I, though? Or was Damon right? Was I clinging to something already gone?

I was so lost in thought I didn't hear the footsteps at first. When they finally registered, my heart jumped, and I spun around, clutching a champagne flute like a weapon.

"Relax, Ms. Hart."

That voice.

Damon stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

"What are you still doing here?" I snapped, unable to hide my irritation.

He stepped closer, his presence heavy in the empty room. "I thought we should talk. About your gallery."

"What about it?"

"You need help." His voice was calm, but there was something unsettling in his tone. "And I don't just mean a buyer."

I crossed my arms, trying to steady my racing heart. "What do you want, Damon?"

His smirk returned, colder this time. "Let's just say I have a proposal that could change everything."

He glanced around the room, taking in the artwork and the empty spaces.

"I'll send a car for you soon. Be ready."

Before I could respond, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, stunned.

What did he mean by "a proposal that could change everything"? And why did I get the feeling I was about to step into something I couldn't handle?

As the gallery lights dimmed, I let out a shaky breath. Whatever was coming, it felt like the beginning of the end-or maybe, just maybe, a new beginning altogether.