The morning sun painted Manhattan's skyline in shades of gold and amber as Justin Sterling adjusted his charcoal Armani suit jacket, standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Upper East Side penthouse. At twenty-eight, he possessed the kind of effortless elegance that made heads turn in crowded rooms—not through arrogance or ostentation, but through an inexplicable magnetism that seemed to draw people like moths to flame. His dark hair caught the light just so, revealing subtle bronze highlights, while his steel-gray eyes held depths that suggested wisdom beyond his years.
"Another beautiful morning in the concrete jungle," he murmured to himself, straightening his silk tie with practiced precision. The view from his forty-second-floor apartment showcased Central Park in all its autumn glory, the trees a tapestry of crimson and gold that would make Renaissance masters weep with envy. But Justin's attention wasn't on the natural beauty—it was on the subtle details most would miss. The way shadows seemed to linger a moment too long near certain buildings. How some pedestrians moved with an almost predatory grace that didn't quite match their human appearance. The faint shimmer around certain individuals that looked suspiciously like glamour magic.
Not that Justin believed in magic, of course. He was a rational man living in a rational world, even if that world occasionally seemed to harbor some rather... unusual residents.
His reflection in the window showed a man who had somehow won the genetic lottery twice over. Six feet of lean muscle wrapped in expensive fabric, with features that artists spent lifetimes trying to capture—strong jawline softened by kind eyes, aristocratic nose balanced by a mouth that smiled easily and often. Women frequently described him as devastatingly handsome, though Justin himself remained charmingly oblivious to the effect he had on others.
The soft chime of his phone interrupted his morning contemplation. A text from his assistant, Miranda, reminded him of his 10 AM appointment at the Whitmore Gallery. Another eccentric collector with more money than sense, probably looking to acquire some "investment pieces" for their Hampton estate. Justin's specialty lay in matching people with art that spoke to their souls, though he suspected most of his clients were more interested in the prestige than the passion.
Still, he couldn't complain about the lifestyle it afforded him.
Justin's penthouse reflected his refined tastes and mysterious success in the art world. Original paintings by masters both famous and obscure adorned the walls—a small Monet water lily study here, an unknown Caravaggio apprentice work there. Sculptures from various cultures and time periods occupied strategic positions throughout the space, each piece carefully chosen not just for its monetary value, but for the story it told. Persian rugs worth more than most people's annual salaries covered hardwood floors that had been imported from a monastery in Tibet.
Everything had a story, and Justin was an exceptional storyteller.
He moved through his morning routine with the fluid grace of someone completely comfortable in his own skin. Breakfast consisted of perfectly prepared eggs Benedict, fresh fruit that somehow tasted better than anything found in regular grocery stores, and coffee beans that cost more per pound than most people spent on groceries in a week. Not because he was a snob, but because he genuinely appreciated quality in all its forms.
As he ate, Justin reviewed his schedule on his tablet. The Whitmore appointment, lunch with a potential client interested in pre-Columbian artifacts, an afternoon consultation with a tech billionaire's wife who wanted to "add some culture" to their new Manhattan townhouse, and dinner with... nobody. Again.
That was the one area where Justin's otherwise charmed life felt lacking. Despite his undeniable appeal and the constant attention from interested women, he'd never found anyone who could hold his interest for more than a few months. It wasn't that he was shallow or commitment-phobic—quite the opposite. He'd always felt like he was waiting for something, or someone, though he couldn't articulate what that might be.
"Maybe I'm just too picky," he mused, finishing his coffee. "Or maybe I watch too many romantic comedies."
The truth was more complex. Justin had always felt different, though not in any way he could easily define. People were drawn to him with an intensity that sometimes bordered on uncomfortable. Women would find excuses to touch his arm during conversations, their pupils dilating slightly when they looked at him. Men would defer to his opinions even when he was clearly out of his depth. Children would smile at him from across crowded rooms, and elderly ladies would press baked goods into his hands while blushing like schoolgirls.
He'd learned to navigate this strange magnetism carefully, never wanting to take advantage but also not fully understanding its source. His therapist had suggested it was simply confidence and good looks, but Justin knew it went deeper than that. Sometimes, in quiet moments, he could almost sense... something. Like there was a part of himself he hadn't discovered yet, waiting just beneath the surface.
Shaking off the philosophical mood, Justin gathered his things for the day. His briefcase contained client portfolios, authentication documents, and his tablet loaded with digital catalogs from auction houses around the world. His business cards were engraved on thick cardstock that felt substantial between one's fingers—"Justin Sterling, Fine Art Consultant and Cultural Acquisitions Specialist." The title sounded impressive while remaining sufficiently vague to cover the occasional odd request that came his way.
Like the time Mrs. Chen had asked him to find a "painting that would ward off evil spirits" for her Chinatown restaurant. Or when Senator Williams had specifically requested artwork that would "impress beings of discriminating and potentially non-human taste." Justin had attributed such requests to cultural superstitions or the eccentric humor of the wealthy, but they did seem to cluster around him with unusual frequency.
The elevator ride down to the parking garage gave him time to center himself for the day ahead. Justin had learned early in his career that success in the art world depended as much on reading people as on understanding art. His clients often couldn't articulate what they wanted, so he'd developed an almost supernatural ability to sense their true desires. A talent that had made him very wealthy and very sought after, despite his relatively young age.
His car, a midnight blue Aston Martin DB11, purred to life with the kind of sound that made pedestrians pause and stare. Justin didn't drive it to show off—well, not entirely—but because he genuinely appreciated the engineering artistry. Plus, it served as excellent mobile advertising for a man whose business relied on projecting success and sophistication.
The drive through Manhattan's morning traffic provided ample opportunity for people-watching, one of Justin's favorite pastimes. From his car, he observed the endless parade of humanity streaming through the city streets. Business executives checking their phones while walking, tourists craning their necks at towering buildings, street performers setting up for their daily routines. But it was the others that caught his attention—the ones who moved just a little too gracefully, whose beauty seemed almost otherworldly, whose eyes held depths that suggested experiences spanning far more than a human lifetime.
"Seriously, Sterling, you need to stop reading so much urban fantasy," he chided himself, pulling into the parking structure near the Whitmore Gallery. "Next you'll be imagining vampires lurking in boardrooms and werewolves running Wall Street."
Though, if he was being honest, some of his clients did have an oddly predatory quality during negotiations...
The Whitmore Gallery occupied a converted brownstone in SoHo, its exterior understated elegance masking the incredible wealth displayed within. Justin had worked with Marcus Whitmore for several years, helping him acquire pieces for his most discerning clientele. Marcus was one of the few people who seemed genuinely unaffected by Justin's unusual charisma, treating him with professional respect rather than the subtle deference most people displayed.
"Justin, my boy!" Marcus called out as he entered the gallery. At sixty-five, Marcus Whitmore looked like central casting's version of a distinguished gallery owner—silver hair perfectly styled, expensive suit tailored to perfection, eyes that missed nothing. "Right on time, as always. Our client should be arriving momentarily."
"Any details you can share?" Justin asked, setting down his briefcase and accepting the offered espresso. Marcus made exceptional coffee, another small luxury that spoke to his attention to quality.
"Mysterious as usual," Marcus replied with a slight smile. "European nobility, according to her accent. Old money, definitely. She's interested in acquiring pieces with... historical significance. Particularly items from Eastern European collections."
Justin nodded, mentally cataloging the relevant pieces in his current portfolio. European aristocrats often had specific tastes shaped by centuries of family tradition. They usually knew exactly what they wanted, even if they couldn't always explain why they wanted it.
"She's also remarkably beautiful," Marcus added with a knowing look. "Though something about her seems... intense. I thought you might be better equipped to handle the consultation."
Before Justin could ask what Marcus meant by "intense," the gallery's front door chimed softly. Both men turned toward the entrance, and Justin felt his breath catch in his throat.
The woman who entered moved with liquid grace, her every step seeming choreographed by the gods themselves. She was tall, probably five-foot-eight in her heels, with raven-black hair that caught the gallery's carefully positioned lighting like captured starlight. Her skin was porcelain pale, creating a striking contrast with her hair and the deep burgundy of her designer dress. But it was her eyes that stopped Justin's thoughts entirely—crimson red, like rubies held up to candlelight, beautiful and utterly impossible.
Colored contacts, his rational mind insisted, even as some deeper part of him whispered that nothing about this woman was artificial.
"Good morning, gentlemen," she said, her voice carrying the slightest accent—Eastern European, as Marcus had mentioned, but more refined than any regional dialect Justin could identify. It was the voice of old aristocracy, the kind that had been giving commands for centuries. "I trust I am not early for our appointment?"
"Not at all, my lady," Marcus replied with a bow that seemed perfectly natural despite its old-world formality. "Allow me to introduce Justin Sterling, our finest consultant. Justin, this is Countess Seraphina... Dracul."
The name sent an inexplicable chill down Justin's spine, though he maintained his professional composure. He stepped forward, extending his hand with his trademark warm smile. "A pleasure to meet you, Countess. I understand you're interested in acquiring some historical pieces?"
When her fingers touched his, two things happened simultaneously. First, Justin noticed that her skin was surprisingly cool, like marble that had been kept in shadow. Second, the Countess's crimson eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and for just a moment, she looked... surprised? Intrigued? It was difficult to read her expression, but something had definitely shifted.
"The pleasure is entirely mine, Mr. Sterling," she replied, her voice carrying a warmth that hadn't been there moments before. Her gaze lingered on his face with an intensity that made his pulse quicken. "Marcus speaks very highly of your expertise. I have some quite specific requirements for my collection."
"I'm sure we can find exactly what you're looking for," Justin replied, surprised by how natural the words felt. Usually, he was more cautious about making promises to new clients, but something about this woman inspired confidence. "Would you prefer to discuss your needs here, or would you be more comfortable in one of our private viewing rooms?"
"Privacy would be appreciated," the Countess said, never breaking eye contact. "What I seek is... rather personal in nature."
Marcus gestured toward the back of the gallery. "Conference Room A is prepared and ready. I'll leave you two to discuss the details. Justin, take all the time you need."
As they walked toward the private room, Justin found himself acutely aware of the Countess's presence beside him. She moved without making a sound, her heels somehow silent on the hardwood floors. Her perfume was subtle but intoxicating—something floral with deeper notes he couldn't identify. And despite the October morning's chill, she didn't seem to be wearing a coat, though her dress was clearly designed for elegance rather than warmth.
The private viewing room was one of Marcus's pride and joy—soft leather chairs arranged around a mahogany table, walls lined with velvet to showcase artwork, and lighting systems that could be adjusted to complement any piece. Justin held the door for the Countess, noting again how gracefully she moved.
"Please, have a seat," he offered, settling into the chair across from her. "Now, what specific type of historical pieces are you looking to acquire?"
The Countess regarded him for a long moment, her crimson eyes seeming to study every detail of his face. When she finally spoke, her words were not what he'd expected.
"Tell me, Mr. Sterling, do you believe in destiny?"
Justin blinked, momentarily thrown by the philosophical turn. "I... believe we all have choices that shape our paths. Why do you ask?"
"Because sometimes, the universe conspires to bring certain people together at precisely the right moment," she replied, leaning slightly forward. "And sometimes, those meetings change everything."
Before Justin could respond, the lights in the room flickered. Once, twice, then went out completely, plunging them into darkness. In the sudden blackness, he heard the Countess's voice, somehow clearer and more resonant than before.
"Justin Sterling, your ordinary life ends now."