Utterly, Entirely Ruined

Camille strode into the dimly lit gallery, the soft hum of conversation blending with the low ambient music drifting from hidden speakers. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and fresh paint.

She paused at the entrance, her invitation quickly checked by a receptionist who nodded politely. As she entered further, her eyes quickly swept over the crowd.

The room was filled with Paris' elite-artists, collectors, and critics-all moving between clusters of abstract paintings and sculptures bathed in soft, flattering light.

Camille felt a thrill of anticipation as she moved deeper into the space, her gaze lingering on a large canvas ahead of her; its vibrant colors and bold strokes already commanded attention.

She was used to these events-the quiet hum of anticipation, the sharp clicks of heels, and the whispered praise and critique.

The fact that she was used to them doesn't mean she liked attending. She would rather be in her studio, surrounded by paints and canvas. But this was an art opening; she couldn't stay away if she tried.

She lived for art, breathed for it. She would have gone mad years ago without it; and so, here she was. She plucked a glass of champagne from a moving tray and moved deeper into the gallery.

The scent of paint in the air surrounded her like a hug. Maybe if she just focused on those things, focused on the arts enough, she could drown out those voices and pretend she was the only one in this large space.

"Miss Lefevre?" And there went her plan to disconnect.

She turned towards the voice, making sure her polite smile was in place.

A man was staring at her with bright eyes. He was tall and lean, a mess of blonde hair framing his strikingly handsome face, with thick glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

"Oh wow, it really is you," he gushed, a wide smile on his face, his voice a mixture of awe and excitement. "Camille Lefevre, in the flesh."

His smile was infectious, full of warmth and genuine admiration. Despite the formality of the event, he exuded an almost youthful energy, as if the world hadn't yet quite figured out how to make him serious.

Camille was envious of him. She offered a polite smile, used to these encounters. "I suppose I am. And you are?"

He straightened up, offering his hand to her with a confident but unassuming grace. "Julien Moreau," he said, his voice smooth with just a hint of excitement. "I've admired your works for years. But admire feels too small a word-I think I might be in love with it." There was a sincerity in his tone, a clear respect for her as he awaited her handshake, still smiling like he couldn't believe his luck.

The smile Camille had slapped on her face turned real as she slid her gloved hand into his and shook it gently.

She liked meeting people who knew and liked her work. She always felt like she connected with those people through her work.

Her art was dark, disturbing-as people have said countless times-and depressing. Not everybody looked at her work and saw the beauty in it. So when she met people who did, it filled her with so kind of warmth.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Moreau," she said softly. "I'm glad to know someone sees the beauty in my work rather than just calling it disturbing."

"Please call me Julien. And I think disturbing things can be beautiful, don't you think? That's what makes them so unforgettable. I would give anything to see how your brain works for you to paint those masterpieces."

She chuckled softly. Oh, she liked him. That was a first for her. Liking someone who she had just met.

They lunged into talks of art. He walked around and told her details about different paintings. Soon, Camille didn't even know why she hadn't wanted to come.

After a while he had to excuse himself, saying he had an errand to run and would find her soon. The light feeling in her chest evaporated as soon as he left, and she wanted to bolt out of this place.

She brought out her phone from her purse and checked the time. She would wait for Julien for thirty minutes, and if he wasn't back by then, she was leaving.

She picked up another glass and drained it before she left the hall and went to look for the restroom. She was almost there when a noise stopped her.

She turned to a corner and saw a man holding a woman, his mouth on her neck. The woman moaned again, her hands tightening on the man's jacket.

Camille could have just turned and given these people privacy, but she found that she couldn't bring herself to turn. Maybe it was how the woman's moans sounded. It didn't sound like she was having pleasure, it sounded like she was in pain. Or maybe it was the blood that was running down her delicate neck.

The man raised his eyes and they landed on Camille's.

Camille was shocked by what she saw. The man's eyes were glowing red, his pupils ringed with it. He pulled his mouth out of the woman's neck slowly, and Camille could have sworn she saw fangs before they disappeared.

He licked the blood out of the woman's neck, making her whimper, while not taking his eyes off Camille.

Camille should not just be standing here and witnessing whatever this was. She should turn right now and shout for help, call 911, report this man.

But she couldn't move, couldn't blink. She wasn't even sure she was breathing. She was captivated.

The man smirked as if he knew what she was thinking, his sinful mouth curled up. He released one of his hands from the woman's waist and palmed her breast through her clothing.

This time the moan that left the woman's lips was pleasurable. She arched her back and pressed herself closer to him as if they weren't already close enough.

His hand moved to the other breast and he did the same.

He didn't break eye contact with Camille. He didn't even blink. And neither did she.

And then he opened his mouth, and... there. Fangs. Camille had seen it correctly before.

Without warning he plunged those fangs into the woman's neck and she gasped in pain. The fangs remained there, and Camille saw him swallow.

He swallowed?

Goodness, was he drinking her blood?

The red around his eyes shined brighter and he finally closed his eyes as he drew the woman closer. She tried to fight him. She pushed at him, clawed at his back, but he didn't even loosen his hold on her.

Her fights grew weaker until finally, she stopped and her body went limp in his arms.

She was dead. Dead.

Camille had just witnessed a murder.

The man retreated his fangs from her neck and licked the last drop of blood, before he licked his lips, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

He sighed happily before he straightened his suit and his eyes landed on Camille again.

This was the part where she was supposed to run and go screaming for help. Why then were her feet still fixed on the ground?

The man put his hands into his pocket and walked slowly towards her as if he were giving her time to run in the opposite direction.

Run, Camille! Goddammit! Try as she must, she couldn't listen to that voice and stood where she was.

The man stopped a few feet away from us and his smile widened. Lord, he was beautiful.

"Well, what do we have here?"

Lucien didn't like art openings. No, he didn't like crowded places. And he especially didn't like crowded places that were packed with humans.

Their blood called to him, drew him in like a moth to a flame.

Being the three-hundred centuries-old vampire that he was, he knew how to control his blood lust. But that didn't mean he wanted to control it.

Unlike the other vampires who had accepted to live with humans and even treated them like equals, Lucien only saw them as a means to satisfy his hunger, even though he had once been a human himself. He used them for sex and their blood and disposed of them after that.

Since Sebastian had insisted Lucien come to the art opening, he was going to enjoy himself.

A pretty blonde has been eyeing him since when he stepped foot inside the gallery. It didn't take much effort to draw her to a corner. Humans were so easy, it was disappointing.

He didn't bother with foreplay or teasing and had just sunk his fangs into her neck. He moaned when her blood filled his mouth. She tasted good, sweet, but with a depth that lingers-something like chocolate.

She fought against him, trying to push him away. But Lucien had a strong hold on her. The fear that was coming out of her was even sweeter than her blood.

While he continued to feed he noticed a presence. He looked up to see a lady standing there, staring wide-eyed at him. She didn't scream like he thought she would, nor did she look away. No fear was coming out of her. She simply was... curious.

Interesting.

He made a show of playing with his meal as he drank. Her heartbeat became a slow throb until finally, it stopped.

He swallowed the last blood out of her and dropped her body before he looked back at the intruder. She still stood and stared at him, her eyes wide.

He walked slowly to her, expecting her to run but she did no such thing. She didn't even blink.

He stopped in front of her and her scent immediately assaulted his nose.

She smelled so sweet, so intoxicating, like fresh rain on warm earth, with a hint of honey and spice.

He was sure her blood would taste just as nice. His fangs were trying to come out but he forced them back in.

"Well, what do we have here?" he said, his voice low and steady.

She finally blinked, slowly, as she stared at him with the most beautiful green eyes he had ever seen. There was something guarded in her gaze as if she was trying to figure him out-just as he was trying to figure her out.

Why wasn't she running? Or at least panicking? She had just witnessed him kill someone, sucked her blood dry. She was supposed to be shaking with fear yet he felt nothing of the sort from her.

"What in God's name are you?" she asked, her voice soft and melodic.

And just like that, Lucien was hooked.

She didn't ask why he killed the woman or how. She asked the right question. What an odd human.

Before he could speak, she spoke first, "Tell me I didn't just see what I think I saw."

The corner of his mouth twitches, a slow, predatory smirk. "That depends. What did you think you saw?"

"You... you drank from her. And she..." She swallowed. "She stopped moving."

He tilted his head, studying her as if she's more of an enigma than the corpse behind him. "And yet, you're still standing here, watching, captivated."

She looked deep into his eyes, not a single sign of fear in those exquisite eyes. "What are you?"

What an odd human, indeed. Something dangerous flashed in his red-ringed gaze, and she gasped, stepping backward. "Do you really want to know?"

She shook her head, taking a step back. "I guess not." She took another step back. "I saw nothing. I heard nothing. Have a nice day, sir."

And with that, she turned and left with hurried steps. Lucien watched her disappear with a smile on his face.

He concluded at that moment; that he had found a new prey. But this wouldn't be like his other prey. He was going to toy with this one before he went for the kill.

There was something interesting about her. She didn't seem like the other humans he had met over the long, long years he had lived. She was supposed to be scared of him. But she wasn't. He wanted to make her scared before he would sink his fangs into that pretty neck and see if she tasted as good as she smelled.

He had a mind that she wouldn't make it easy for him, that she would challenge him in every way. And that was exactly what he wanted.

The anticipation had his skin buzzing. If he had a heart he was sure it would be beating fast. There was a bounce to his step as he went back to the gallery with a smile on his face.

Finally, some fun after long years of boredom.

***

Lucien sat on top of the roof facing his latest prey's house.

Camille Lefevre. Twenty-seven years old. A well-known artist of dark arts. The only surviving family member was a father who she wasn't in contact with. Had only one friend who lived in England. No husband, boyfriend, or even a lover.

Lucien has done his homework, and he was disappointed, to say the least.

He had expected his prey to be more... alive. But Camille was bland. But not in beauty though.

Camille Lefevre was a striking woman.

Her fiery red hair cascaded in waves, catching the light with a subtle sheen, framing her face with a wild, untamed beauty. Her green eyes were like vibrant emeralds, sharp and keen, yet holding a depth that hinted at something more beneath the surface.

Her figure was perfectly balanced-not too slim, not too full-but with curves that hinted at strength and grace.

She wasn't the type to draw attention with overt beauty, but something was captivating in her quiet elegance, the way she carried herself, a subtle allure that Lucien couldn't ignore.

Stalking her was oddly entertaining until her monotonous life sucked the thrill out of it.

He was currently watching her as she prepared to end her day.

She went around her normal routine; cleaning up her studio, before she went to the kitchen and made a meal. Then she went to the bathroom to prepare her bath.

Lucien looked away when she was about to take off her clothes.

That was a side he wasn't ready to see yet. He was saving it for when he finally had his prize. The wait makes it all fun.

Thirty minutes later he looked back to see she was already dressed in a robe and was tucked into bed with a book in hand.

An hour later she turned off the lamp, and she was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

For this past week, Lucien has only watched her sleeping from the rooftop. Today, he was going to watch her from her room.

Camille turned and tossed in her bed all night. Her body couldn't relax completely for her to fall into a deep sleep.

Her neck tingles and the hair on her body rises. That was her body's way of telling her she was in danger. But how could she be in danger when she was alone in her room?

At one point in the night, she managed to finally fall into a deep sleep, but something roused her up. She blinked open her eyes to see red eyes staring down at her. When she opened her eyes fully there was no one staring at her and it was morning.

What sort of dream was that? And why did she keep thinking about red eyes? About that strange man?

She carried herself out of bed and went about to start her day even though she needed a few more hours of sleep.

She has been paranoid since that day at the art opening. She felt like eyes were always watching her every move, twenty-four hours a day; when she went out, when she was indoors, painting, when she slept.

She couldn't shake off that feeling no matter how hard she tried. And there were a few times she could have sworn she saw red eyes in a crowd when she went out, looking directly at her. But when she looked again the eyes were gone.

What was going on with her?

She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands and made her tea. She immediately felt relaxed once the scent filled the air.

She was okay. She was fine. Nobody was watching her. What could probably interest them? Nothing. She was just plain Camille Lefevre. Boring, without a social life. She had nothing to offer anybody who might stalk her.

That thought made her feel better and she went about her day with a light mood.

She made a quick breakfast and went to her studio once she was done.

Painting was how she let out emotions and feelings. And that was why all her paintings were dark and depressing, because... well, her emotions were dark and depressing.

That was all she could feel since she was old enough to.

She never knew her mother; she had died a few months after giving birth to Camille. So Camille grew up with her father and no siblings.

Her father was a bastard, an alcoholic, a grumbler. The list went on and on. He had neglected Camille as a child, and beaten her the few times he was around. Those few times he came home were the worst of Camille's life.

He would come back home after days of absence, smelling like alcohol. Camille would hide, then. But no matter where she hid he would always find her. He would take out his frustration on her-losing his money on grumbling, if someone pissed him off that day, or mistakes that happened in his life long before Camille was even born.

He would turn her into a punching bag and leave her bloodied and broken. Camille had learned to patch up her own wounds. People in her neighborhood saw her bruises and heard her cry every time, but they never interfered one day or called the police.

That was the kind of neighborhood she grew up in; the worst of the worst in England, where nobody gave a damn about what was happening next door.

She had run away when she was sixteen when the beatings became too much. She left before her sperm donor of a father could kill her.

She had lived in the streets and worked three jobs to try and survive. And one day she decided to post one of her paintings online. The post had gone viral, and from that day she continued posting all her works online.

And one day her paintings were hanging in museums and people were paying millions to have them. As soon as she had enough money she left England and came to Paris where she expanded her work. And she hasn't regretted that decision.

She hasn't heard from her father since then. Eleven years and not a single word or glance of him. He could be dead, drank himself dead, or beaten. She didn't care one bit.

She might be years and miles away from her past, but she wasn't yet free from their clutches.

She has found over the years that she wasn't good with relationships. It required feelings-bright feelings that she does not possess. The men required too much that she couldn't give, so she abandoned the idea of relationships after too many failed ones.

Sex didn't excite her much, so she didn't bother to have lovers. In fact, nothing excited her much but art. So there.... Camille was just plain, and boring.

She put her tea down and stared at the blank canvas in front of her. Time to get to work.

***

Camille would have spent all day locked up in the world of paint and canvas if not for the ringing on her doorbell. She looked out the window to see it was just mid-afternoon.

She wiped the paint off her hands and climbed down the stairs to check the door. As soon as the door was opened, she was attacked.

Hands squeezed her neck tight and warm lips planted kisses all over her face.

"God, Lily, you nearly scared my bloody soul out of me!" she muttered breathlessly, her heart slowing down.

Lily giggled and pulled away from her to stare up at her face. "I didn't think anything could scare Camille Lefevre," she teased with a smile.

"Shut up." Camille drew her friend into her arms and held her there. Lily was the only bright thing in her life. She had met her after she ran away from home in England. Lily had also been in a tight place then and they had helped each other. They have been inseparable since then.

"Oh, I have missed you so much," Lily said softly as she pulled away from her, and Camille led her inside. "I have spicy gossip all the way from England."

Camille snorted. Of course, she does.

They walked to the sitting room and Lily immediately started talking about everything she's seen and heard in England. Camille listened with intense attention like she always does, even though she had no use for these kinds of gossip. But she listened because Lily was the one speaking.

The girls chatted and drank tea-because what was gossip without some tea?-until it became dark.

"I have to go," Lily said, and Camille felt a pang of disappointment. "I have a date today. But I promise I'll be here tomorrow."

"Alright." Camille tried not to let her disappointment show in her voice.

Lily leaned down and kissed her cheek before she walked to the door, Camille following behind her.

"See you tomorrow, Cam!" She waved as she walked to the car.

Camille waited until Lily was safely in her car before she locked her door and went back inside. She couldn't go back to painting so she was going to call it a day.

She was about to climb back up to her stairs when her doorbell rang. Could Lily have forgotten something?

She rushed back to the door and opened it. "Did you-" She cut herself off when she saw red eyes staring down at her.

The man from the art opening smiled. "Hello, Camille."