Chapter 1 First Glance

Chapter One – First Glance

Bella – Age 17

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The gallery smells like oil paint and wine, and I hate both.

I trail behind my mother in heels she told me would " make me look elegant"- code for: stop slouching and start pretending you are not seventeen. My dress feels too tight, my lips too red, my smile too fake. I only agreed to come because she promised we wouldn't stay long.

We won't, I tell myself.

That's before I see him.

He's standing near the back wall, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket, the other holding a glass of something dark and expensive. His face isn't beautiful, not in the way most girls my age would describe, but it's... striking. A strong jaw shadowed with stubble, lips that look like they rarely smile, and eyes-calm, cold, a little sad.

He watches the room like he owns it. Or like he's already bored with it.

My mother notices him too. Of course she does. Her entire body shifts. Chin up, voice sweeter.

"Oh, Daniel," she calls out, her laugh suddenly three notes too high. "You made it."

Daniel. His name is Daniel.

I watch as he turns toward her-slowly, like the world doesn't rush him. When he smiles at her, it's polite, warm, but not particularly invested.

Then she says, "This is my daughter. Bella."

His eyes move to me.

And everything slows.

It's not a long look. Just a second. Maybe two. But something passes between us-something heavy and hot and wrong. He looks at me like he's reading something private, and for a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.

I say nothing. Just offer my hand and a practiced smile.

He takes it.

His fingers are warm. His grip is firm. "Nice to meet you, Bella."

My name sounds different in his voice. Like a secret being told for the first time.

I nod. "You too."

My mother is talking again-something about brush strokes and wine choices and the pretentiousness of the artist-but I don't hear any of it. Not really. All I hear is the blood rushing in my ears and the way he keeps glancing at me, once, twice, subtly, like he's trying not to.

I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat. I wonder if he can feel this too.

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The gallery lights shift as the artist steps forward to introduce his work. Applause. Champagne. Awkward laughter. My mother disappears into the crowd, networking like she's still twenty-nine and everyone cares.

I find a quiet corner near a painting of a faceless woman in a bathtub.

And Daniel finds me.

He stands next to me without saying a word, both of us looking at the painting. The silence stretches between us-tight, uncomfortable, electric.

"You like it?" he asks, low voice, no pressure.

I shrug. "It makes me feel... watched."

"That's the point," he says. "It's about exposure. Vulnerability."

I glance at him, only a little. "You speak like you know how that feels."

He looks at me then. A full look.

His smile is small. Almost sad. "Maybe I do."

We hold that look too long. I know it. He knows it. But neither of us breaks it.

Then my mother's voice cuts through the spell-loud and airy. "Bella, let's go. I want to stop by the new bistro before they close."

Daniel steps back. Just a half step.

"It was nice meeting you," he says, professional now, neutral. Back behind his mask.

"You too," I reply. But I can't stop staring.

As I walk away, I turn once-just to see.

He's still watching me.