My Beautiful Primrose

(Present-day, New York)

Damon Hale reclined in his office chair, the polished leather creaking slightly under his weight. A glass of neat whiskey sat half-empty on the desk beside him, untouched, as Victor, his personal assistant, more like a brother to him now, entered with the usual burst of energy and a clipboard clutched under one arm.

"Evening, sir," Victor said, a hint of excitement in his voice. "Tonight's auction. You might want to hear what's on the docket."

Damon didn't look up. "I know about it, Victor. I'm there for the sculpture. You said it yourself."

Victor's grin widened. "Yes, yes, the sculpture. But... Lot Thirty-Two. There's been some chatter. People are talking about it."

Damon finally raised an eyebrow, setting the whiskey down. "Lot Thirty-Two? And why should I care about chatter, Victor?"

Victor leaned casually against the edge of the desk, eyes glinting. "Because it's a portrait. Massive apparently. They say it's remarkable. You might find it worth seeing before your sculpture."

Damon smirked faintly. "A portrait? Not exactly my area of interest. But arriving early won't hurt, I suppose."

Victor laughed softly, shaking his head. "Oh, it won't hurt at all, sir. Promise."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

By the time Damon arrived at the auction hall, he had taken a seat near the front, Victor chattering beside him nonstop. Damon's attention was elsewhere. His eyes flicked to the stage, to the objects waiting their turn under their protective coverings. Lot Thirty-Two sat there, draped in thick cloth, waiting patiently for its turn. Damon felt a prickle of curiosity that he couldn't explain.

Victor leaned over, whispering, "Do you think it's really worth the fuss?"

Damon's gaze remained fixed. "Everything is worth the fuss if it calls to you," he replied.

Victor snorted. "You call everything that catches your eye 'calling to you.'"

Damon smirked but did not respond. He studied the crowd instead. He noticed the nervous fidgeting of wealthy bidders, the murmurs of assistants and gallery staff, but his mind kept returning to the draped object. Something about the anticipation and the secrecy was tantalizing.

The auctioneer stepped forward, voice crisp and commanding. "Lot Thirty-Two!"

Mr. Hale?" his assistant, Victor, leaned closer. "They're about to unveil it."

Damon nodded without really meaning to. "Mm."

Onstage, the auctioneer stepped forward. He was tall, silver-haired and theatrical.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said smoothly, spreading his arms, "what we have here tonight is unusual."

The lights dimmed slightly.

"This portrait was discovered in a private estate outside County Clare. It has changed hands only twice in over a hundred years. No official signature. No confirmed artist. And yet-"

He paused, smiling.

"-no one who has seen it has ever forgotten it."

Victor nudged Damon, grinning. "This is it. The moment of truth."

The room fell into expectant silence as the cloth was slowly lifted. Damon leaned forward slightly, the tiniest spark of interest igniting in him. He did not yet know why, but there was a magnetic pull he could not ignore.

"Oh, it's enormous," Victor muttered beside him.

"It's just a painting," Damon replied, though his voice carried a trace of doubt.

The cloth slipped away completely.

Damon held his breath.

Red hair that seemed almost glowing under the hall lights. Pale, luminous skin, freckles scattered like star dust across her cheeks. And the eyes were green and vivid, as if they knew him. They were not looking at the room. They were looking at him.

Victor nudged him again. "Well? Are you going to bid, or just stare?"

"I wasn't planning on it," Damon admitted softly, though he felt the strange pull tightening around him.

The auctioneer's voice rang out "Bidding starts at one million dollars?"

"Two million." Damon said firmly, surprising even himself.

Victor's eyes widened. "You're serious?"

"Very," Damon replied calmly, though there was an intensity beneath it.

Bidding climbed quickly. Three... four... five million. Damon's pulse remained steady and his eyes did not leave the painting. He noticed every detail, from the curve of her lips, to the soft blush on her cheeks, to the way her hair shimmered like copper. Every brushstroke whispered to him.

Victor muttered under his breath, "You look like someone who has been enchanted."

"I'm intrigued," Damon corrected, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Six million... seven million.

"Ten million dollars." Damon said without blinking.

The room seemed to shrink around him. All sound faded except for the auctioneer's voice, the faint scrape of chairs and the subtle hum of something unspoken between him and the woman in the painting.

"Going once, going twice-sold!"

Victor clapped lightly, grinning, but Damon did not notice. The applause faded into background noise. He stepped forward, letting his eyes travel over her again, memorizing the details as the staff carefully wrapped the painting for transport.

Ten million dollars. Originally listed at one million. Damon's lips pressed together. "Worth every cent," he whispered. "And then some."

Victor chuckled. "You truly are something, sir."

"Perhaps," Damon said, his gaze still lingering. "But some madness is necessary."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Later, in his private gallery, Damon carefully unpacked the painting himself. He set it on an easel, stepping back slowly, drinking in every detail. The green eyes seemed alive, flickering almost imperceptibly in the dim light. He felt an unfamiliar tension in his chest, a pull he could not explain.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

The gallery was empty. Only the painting remained, staring back at him, as if awaiting his answer.

He became exhausted and eventually went to bed.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

He found himself in a garden bathed in sunlight and filled with colors so vivid that it hurt his eyes. There were rows of primroses in yellow, pink, red, and violet stretching as far as he could see. The air smelled sweet and intoxicating, and the breeze carried the soft rustle of petals brushing together.

She appeared then, walking toward him, bare feet moving lightly across the grass. Her hair caught the sunlight and was glowing like fire. Her green eyes met his instantly, and her lips curved into a smile that made his heart skip a beat.

"Jeffrey," she said softly, and the name resonated within him as if it belonged to him. "My love."

Damon blinked, confusion rippling across his mind. "Jeffrey?"

"Yes," she said, reaching out, her delicate fingers brushing the air toward him. "Do you not feel it? It is yours."

He tried to speak and ask questions, but the words caught in his throat. "Who... who are you?"

"Don't you remember me?" she asked, stepping closer, the breeze teasing her hair around his face. "It is I, Maeve."

Her name struck him like lightning. It was familiar and impossible at the same time. He reached for her hand, desperate to feel her warmth to confirm she was real. But as his fingers stretched toward hers, she flickered, dissolving into mist before he could touch her.

"Maeve!" Damon called, his voice breaking, panic rising. "Wait-please!"

He woke up suddenly, sheets tangled around his body, his heart was hammering against his chest.

"What the hell?!"

–

He went straight to his private gallery. The gallery was silent. The painting stared at him with those same piercing green eyes. He trembled slightly, his chest rising and falling rapidly. For the first time in years, Damon felt an unfamiliar helplessness, a yearning he could not name, tethered to a woman he had never met outside of canvas and dream.

Morning light filtered in somewhere behind him, but he hadn't turned to look. He hadn't moved at all, actually. He stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders squared, gaze fixed on the massive portrait hanging across from him as if he were waiting for it to speak first.

"Well?" he said quietly.

The woman in the painting did not answer. Damon took a closer look. Tracing the brush strokes. Her red hair caught the light in a way that made it look almost bright and fiery like a wild fire. It was alive. Her pale skin was dusted with freckles that looked perfectly scattered in place.

Whoever painted her must have loved her deeply to be able to capture such details flawlessly.

Her green eyes-God-those eyes didn't stare blankly the way painted eyes were supposed to. They looked right through him.

Damon swallowed.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "You're a fucking painting. Oil and canvas. You didn't call me anything."

Silence pressed back at him.

In his dream, she had stood in a garden bursting with colorful flowers stretching endlessly behind her. He could still smell it when he closed his eyes. The sweet smell, so soft and familiar in a way that made no sense.

Jeffrey.

The name landed in his chest like a misplaced memory. He exhaled sharply and dragged a hand down his face.

"I don't even know anyone named Jeffrey," he said to the empty room. "So if this is some elaborate psychological break, I'd really like it to be less creative."

The painting did not blink or breathe. It didn't even tilt its head the way it had in his dream when she smiled and said, My love.

He stared harder, as if intensity alone could force an explanation out of her.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Nothing.

"Why did I dream about you?"

Still nothing.

A ridiculous thought crept in uninvited.

What if it's cursed?

Damon scoffed out loud at that. "Oh, come on."

He didn't believe in curses. Didn't believe in superstition. Didn't believe in haunted objects or past lives or spirits lingering in oil paint. He believed in provenance, market value, and the psychology of obsession. That was it.

And yet.

The dream had felt too real and not fragmented the way dreams usually were. He'd felt grass beneath his fingers and the sun on his face. He'd felt like he was home.

The gallery door opened behind him.

Victor stopped short the moment he saw Damon standing there.

"You're going to burn a hole through it if you keep staring like that," Victor said lightly. "And considering what you paid, I'd prefer we keep it intact."

Damon didn't turn.

Victor frowned. "Okay. That's new."

Damon finally spoke. "Do you ever look at something and feel like it's looking back?"

Victor blinked. "Good morning to you too sir."

Damon glanced over his shoulder. "I'm serious."

Victor stepped into the room, his usual easy posture sharpening with attention. "You didn't sleep."

"That obvious?" Damon asked.

"You look like you spent the night arguing with a ghost." Victor replied.

Damon huffed a short laugh that held no humor. "That's not funny."

Victor studied him for a moment, then followed his gaze to the painting. "Is this about her?" "She has a name," Damon said without thinking.

Victor raised an eyebrow. "You know that how?"

Damon hesitated.

This was the moment where he either laughed it off or told the truth. The truth sounded insane even in his head but he chose the truth.

"I dreamt about her," he said.

Victor waited.

"I wasn't... watching her," Damon continued slowly. "I was there. With her. She spoke to me."

Victor's expression changed in curiosity. "What did she say?"

Damon swallowed. "She called me Jeffrey."

Silence stretched between them.

"And?" Victor prompted.

"And she acted like she knew me," Damon said. "Like I was supposed to remember her."

Victor folded his arms. "You know dreams borrow faces all the time. Especially after intense experiences."

"That's the thing," Damon snapped, then softened his tone. "It didn't feel borrowed. It felt remembered."

Victor studied the painting again, more carefully this time. "Did you know her name before the dream?"

"No."

"And now you do."

"Yes."

Victor exhaled slowly. "Okay. That's interesting."

Damon shot him a look. "You're not even going to pretend that's normal?"

"Oh, it's not," Victor said. "But it's also not unheard of. Art can trigger subconscious associations. Especially if-"

"She said her name was Maeve," Damon interrupted.

Victor stopped mid-sentence. "You're joking."

"I wish I were."

Victor stared at the painting for a long moment.

"Does the catalog list a subject name?"

"No. Just 'Unknown Woman.'"

Victor nodded once. "Then we find out."

Damon frowned. "Find out what?"

"Who painted her. Who owned her. Where she's been." Victor met his eyes. "Paintings don't appear out of nowhere, Mr Hale. Someone put her into the world."

Hope flickered before Damon could stop it.

"Let's start now," Damon said.

They did.

By noon, Damon had spoken to three galleries, two private collectors, and an archivist who owed Victor a favor. By midafternoon, they'd chased down every lead tied to the auction house. The answers were always the same.

No records. No ownership trail. No listed artist.

"That's impossible," Damon muttered, hanging up another call.

Victor rubbed his temples. "It's not impossible. It's intentional."

"Intentional how?"

"Someone erased her," Victor said. "Or hid her very well."

Damon leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The dream replayed again. The way she'd looked at him like he was something precious.

Don't you remember me?

His phone buzzed. Unknown number.

He hesitated, then answered. "Hello?"

There was a pause. Then a voice.

"You've been asking questions about the painting."

Damon's spine went rigid. "Who is this?"

Victor straightened.

The voice continued. "If you want answers, you'll need to come in person."

"Where?"

"I'll text you the address."

The line went dead.

Victor stared at him. "What was that?"

Damon looked at his phone as the address came through. "Someone who knows."

They left that evening.

The streets seemed narrower as they turned onto the side avenue. Rain slicked the asphalt with reflections of neon signs dancing in puddles. Damon barely noticed, lost in thought about the painting and the strange dreams it had inspired.

Suddenly.

The tyres screeched. A horn blared.

The driver swerved sharply to avoid a truck, but it was too late. Then-

A loud crash.

–

The emergency doors flew open so hard they rattled against the wall.

"Trauma incoming!"

The shout tore through the ward sharply and Ivy Byrne was already moving before the words fully registered. Charts were dropped. Conversations died mid-sentence. The controlled hum of the hospital snapped into something louder and urgent.

A gurney burst through the doors, pushed hard, its wheels squealing against the floor.

"Male. Severe head trauma."

"BP's unstable."

"Clear a bay now!."

Ivy fell into step beside the gurney, pulling on gloves as she moved. The man on it was unconscious, blood dark and sticky in his hair, his face frighteningly pale beneath it. There was a split at his lip, swelling already blooming along his cheekbone. His chest rose, but unevenly, like breathing itself was an effort.

"Sir," a paramedic called loudly, leaning close. "Sir, can you hear me?"

No response.

Ivy's fingers found the pulse at his neck. It was weak.

"Pressure's dropping," she said, voice steady even as her heart kicked up.

"Get fluids in."

"I've got him."

Hands moved fast. Too many at once. Ivy focused on what was in front of her, numbers, rhythm and the body on the edge of slipping away.

"Stay with us, sir," someone said again. "Stay with us."

The words felt less like instruction and more like a plea.

They reached the bay, transferring him in one fluid motion. Ivy helped secure lines, adjusted monitors, her movements were efficient and automatic. She'd done this a hundred times before. Still, something about him snagged her attention.

"Any ID?" someone asked.

"Name's Damon Hale," a voice answered from behind them. "Brought in with two others."

Ivy didn't turn. Names came later. Survival came first.

The monitor beeped with sharp sounds.

"He's crashing."

The room tightened.

"BP's dropping fast."

"Come on," another voice muttered. "Don't you do this."

Ivy caught a glimpse of a man just beyond the curtain. He was tall and shaken with blood on his sleeve. He was injured, but upright, refusing a chair that someone tried to push toward him.

"That's him," the man said hoarsely. "That's Damon."

Victor was devastated.

She didn't know him but she recognized the way he stood still, like if he moved he might fall apart.

"Sir, we need you to step back," someone told him.

"I'm not in the way," Victor said tightly. "Just tell me what's happening."

"We're doing everything we can."

The words sounded rehearsed. Ivy hated that. She hated how empty they always felt.

"Sir, can you hear me?" the doctor repeated, louder this time.

Nothing.

Ivy watched the monitor dip again, numbers sliding in the wrong direction.

"Hold him steady."

"I've got him."

Her hands were on his arm now, grounding him, grounding herself.

"Stay with us."

The phrase echoed through the room, said by different voices, layered on top of each other like a chant.

For a moment, just one terrifying moment, the monitor flatlined.

Everything froze.

Then-

A heartbeat.

A flicker.

The line jumped.

"There," someone said. "There we go." The room exhaled as one.

"Okay," the doctor said. "Okay. He's stabilizing."

Ivy didn't relax. Not yet. Stabilizing was fragile and temporary. It meant not dead, not safe. They worked for several more minutes, the tension slowly easing but never disappearing entirely. Finally, the worst of it passed.

"He's stable," the doctor confirmed. "For now."

Victor sagged visibly, one hand bracing against the wall. Ivy saw his knuckles whiten as he clenched them.

"Can I see him?" he asked.

"In a moment," the doctor replied. "He needs imaging first."

Victor nodded once, jaw tight. "I'll wait."

They moved Damon out of the bay once the immediate danger had passed. Ivy followed with a chart in hand, though she hadn't been assigned to him specifically. She told herself it was habit.

The hallway was quieter. The machines hummed steadily now, no longer screaming alarms.

Damon lay still on the bed, his breathing was more even, but still shallow. Ivy adjusted his IV, checking his vitals again.

Damon Hale.

The name surfaced, lodged somewhere in her thoughts.

She frowned faintly at herself and pushed it away.

Victor appeared again, refusing help for his own injuries, insisting on standing beside the bed. "What's his condition?" he asked.

"Stable," the doctor repeated. "But unconscious."

"How long?"

The doctor hesitated. Ivy noticed that.

"It's too early to say," he answered carefully. "The head trauma was severe. He may wake up soon. Or it may take time."

"How much time?" Victor pressed.

"Days," the doctor said. "Weeks. Possibly longer."

Victor nodded slowly, absorbing the words like blows.

"And the other?" he asked. "The driver?"

"Alive," the doctor said. "Broken ribs. Fractured leg. He's in surgery now."

Victor closed his eyes briefly. "Hmmm"

Ivy watched all of this quietly, cataloging details she didn't need to remember but somehow knew she would.

The way Victor stood too straight and the way his eyes never left Damon.

Hours passed.

The ward settled into its nighttime rhythm. Ivy's shift continued, duties pulling her away and then back again.

She told herself she didn't need to check on him again. She did anyway.

Damon lay unchanged, machines humming softly beside him. His face looked calmer now, stripped of urgency, almost peaceful.

Almost.

Ivy adjusted the blanket at his shoulders, careful not to disturb him.

"Several months wouldn't be unusual," she heard a doctor say quietly outside the room.

Her hand stilled.

"That long?" Victor asked.

"Yes. There's no guarantee. He could wake tomorrow. Or not at all."

Silence followed.

Ivy pretended not to listen, but the words settled deep.

Several months.

She looked at Damon again, really looked this time.

He didn't look like a man who belonged to a hospital bed. He looked like someone paused mid-stride, caught between one moment and the next.

She straightened, scolding herself silently.

"This is unprofessional."

Later, when the lights dimmed further and the ward quieted to a low murmur, Ivy found herself back in his room one last time.

Just to check the monitor, she told herself. And to make sure everything was steady. She moved softly, adjusting a setting, smoothing the sheet.

His fingers twitched.

It was small. Almost nothing. But she saw it.

Her breath caught.

"Sir?" she whispered, before she could stop herself.

Nothing.

She waited. Her eyes were fixed on his hand with her heart pounding.

It didn't move again.

Rationality rushed in. Probably muscle reflex and nerve response. It meant nothing. She told herself that as she stepped back and forced herself to leave the room. The door clicked shut behind her.

But long after she returned to her duties, the image lingered in her mind.

"Why do I feel this way?" She asked herself.

–