2. Sofia
2
SOFIA
I smooth my hands over my pencil skirt for the tenth time, checking my reflection in the gallery window. The space is different after hours—emptier, more intimate. I double-check the wine selection I’ve laid out.
A week has passed since Nikolai Ivanov paid over the market value for one of my most provocative pieces. Not to mention, arrogantly asked me out, not that I’m a stranger to that kind of behavior when it comes to my clients. Many men I sell art to are rich and think they are entitled to anything they want, including me. However, there was something different about Nikolai. He exuded quiet confidence, and he was the first man whose offer I wanted to consider.
Nikolai Ivanov left an impression on me I can’t shake, so when he asked for a private viewing, I agreed. His eyes were like arctic frost, and he seemed to see right through my professional facade.
My phone buzzes with a security notification, alerting me to his arrival. Drawing in a deep breath, I remind myself this is just business. Art acquisition. Nothing more. Yet my pulse quickens, recalling his firm handshake and how his fingers lingered a fraction too long.
The gallery’s track lighting casts dramatic shadows across the walls, highlighting each piece I’ve carefully selected and arranged. Art has always been my sanctuary—my escape, passion, and purpose. Tash constantly teases me about being a workaholic, but she doesn’t understand. When my adoptive parents died in that accident two years ago, art was the only thing that kept me anchored. While the rest of my world crumbled, these pristine walls and carefully curated collections remained constant. Dependable. Unlike people, art doesn’t leave you.
I’ve positioned each piece strategically throughout the space, anticipating Nikolai’s arrival. This is what I do best—creating the perfect atmosphere and telling stories through placement and light. It’s more than just a job; it’s how I make sense of the world and how I maintain control when everything else feels chaotic.
My hands aren’t quite steady as I arrange the wine glasses.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the empty gallery. I fight the impulse to check my lipstick again. This is ridiculous. I’ve handled plenty of private showings before, but there’s something about Nikolai’s commanding presence that puts me off balance.
A gentle knock sends my heart racing. I square my shoulders and move to answer the door, my professional smile already in place. The handle is cold against my sweaty palm as I open the door to face him.
“Mr. Ivanov, “I try to steady my voice, but it comes out steely. “Thank you for coming.”
His tall frame fills the doorway, and his perfectly tailored suit emphasizes his broad shoulders. His subtle cologne drifts over me, making my mouth dry.
Through the doorway, I drink in his devastatingly handsome features. Silver threads at his temples catch the gallery lights, lending distinction to his dark hair. Nature has crafted him with the same unforgiving precision as Michelangelo’s chisel—each angle of his face a study in masculine perfection and predatory gray eyes that strip away my careful composure with just a glance.
A day’s worth of stubble shadows his jaw, making him look even more polished rather than unkempt. He’s the kind of man who turns heads without trying, who commands attention through sheer magnetism.
The telltale signs of aging only enhance his appeal, like a fine wine reaching its peak. I’d put him around forty, but there’s something timeless about him. His perfectly tailored charcoal suit emphasizes broad shoulders that taper to narrow hips. The cut is immaculate, probably bespoke, and costs more than most people make in months.
That small scar through his left eyebrow catches my attention—the only imperfection in an otherwise flawless face. It makes him human and adds character to those aristocratic features. I find myself wondering about its story.
When he moves past me into the gallery, it’s with a predatory grace that makes my breath catch. Every gesture of his is precise, controlled, and deliberate. Nothing about this man is accidental.
“Sofia.” My name in his voice is aged cognac, rich and dangerous, pooling low in my stomach. “The pleasure is mine.”
I lead him through the gallery, feeling the electricity of his presence behind me. Though I’m discussing the provenance of an early twentieth-century painting, his focus seems elsewhere. His questions are precise but personal, sliding between art expertise and subtle inquiries about my background.
“Your eye for authenticity is remarkable.” He steps closer, warmth radiating from his body. “How did you develop such... discerning taste?”
My breath catches. “Years of study. Columbia’s program was thorough.”
“Columbia.” He hums, reaching past me to trace the frame of the painting. His chest brushes my shoulder. “Yet you chose Boston to establish yourself.”
“The art scene here has unique opportunities.” I step sideways, needing space to think clearly. “Though I suspect you’re less interested in Boston’s gallery culture than you’re pretending to be.”
That dangerous half-smile curves his mouth. “Very observant. Since you declined my dinner invitation, I had to be creative.”
“So this isn’t about the art at all?” Heat creeps up my neck.
“The art is exquisite.” The intensity of his stare makes my pulse jump. “But not what draws me here.”
I back up, bumping into a pedestal. He steadies me, his hand burning through my blouse. Neither of us moves.
“This is inappropriate,” I whisper, but don’t pull away.
“Is it?” His thumb traces small circles on my arm. “You arranged a private showing. After hours.”
“For business.”
“Keep your illusions, if you must.” He closes the distance between us, his presence overwhelming my senses. “Though denial suits neither of us.”
Years of professional poise can’t quiet my racing heart. His hand lifts, deliberately and gently, as he brushes my hair back, and breathing becomes an art I’ve forgotten.
“Say the word,” he breathes against my skin, “and this ends.”
I should. I know I should. But the words won’t come.
The space between us disappears with agonizing slowness. First, his heat hits me, and then his breath ghosts across my skin, giving me goosebumps. Time stretches like heated glass as he hovers, letting the anticipation build until I’m trembling.
When his lips capture mine, it’s with the intensity of a gathering storm. One heartbeat of resistance, then I’m drowning in sensation, surrendering to a kiss that’s pure possession—everything I knew he would be, everything I’ve fought against wanting.
Reality crashes back. I wrench away, stumbling backward. “That’s enough.” My voice shakes but gains strength. “This is a place of business, Mr. Ivanov. If you can’t maintain professional boundaries, I’ll have security escort you out.”
A dark chuckle escapes him. The sound raises goosebumps along my arms.
“Security?” His expression shifts, something dangerous flickering behind those steel eyes. “You think your rent-a-cops could remove me?”
The temperature in the room drops. I steady myself against a nearby table, suddenly unsure of my footing. The sophisticated businessman’s facade cracks, revealing something predatory beneath.
“I don’t know who you think you are?—”
“No.” He cuts me off, moving closer again. “You don’t. That’s becoming increasingly clear.”
My chest tightens as he towers over me. Gone is the polite art collector, replaced by someone who radiates raw power. I’ve miscalculated badly.
“Let me be clear about what I want, Sofia.” His finger’s path along my jawline draws an involuntary shiver, my treacherous body seeking more. “You. No force in this city could prevent me from claiming what’s mine. And make no mistake...” His thumb ghosts across my sensitive lip, a reminder of his kiss. “You were mine the moment I saw you.”
The quiet intensity in his voice terrifies me more than any show of force could. This isn’t just desire. It’s something more consuming. And despite every warning bell screaming in my head, part of me thrills at the danger in his touch.
“You should leave,” I manage to whisper.
“I will.” His hand drops away. “For now.”
I watch Nikolai’s broad shoulders as he strides toward the exit, my body alive from his touch. His cologne still floats through the air, a masculine blend that weakens my knees. My fingertips trace my lips where his kiss branded me moments ago.
The click of the door closing echoes through the gallery. I sink against the wall, my legs trembling. The space feels emptier without his commanding presence, yet still charged with electricity.
“Enough,” I whisper, fighting to still my shaking hands as I adjust my designer skirt. Yet every heartbeat echoes with remembered heat—his body caging mine, his deliberate touch mapping my jaw, that wolfish gleam in steel-colored eyes when I dared mention security measures.
I cross to my desk and pour myself a generous glass of wine. The burgundy liquid sloshes against the crystal as I try to steady my grip. One kiss. One kiss, and he’s demolished every professional boundary I’ve built.
Looking in the window, I can see my flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. I barely recognize myself—I’m not the collected gallery owner I’ve worked so hard to become. Still, as I try to calm myself, his words echo.
What I want is you.
I quivered beneath his attention, and we both had to know the cool evening air wasn’t to blame. The predatory grace in his movements, the quiet power in his voice—everything about him screams danger. Yet here I stand, already aching for his touch again.
The security camera feed catches my eye. His sleek black car still idles outside, and I know he’s watching. Waiting.
No force in this city could prevent me from claiming what’s mine.
I drain my wine glass, trying to ignore how my body responds to the memory of his kiss. Tonight changed everything, crossed lines that can’t be uncrossed. And despite every rational thought screaming warnings, a small part of me is already counting the minutes until I see him again.