The gallery smelled of polish and wine. White walls stretched tall, lined with paintings that looked too serious under the golden lights. Waiters floated around with trays of champagne, offering them with rehearsed smiles.
I walked in like I belonged. My dress was simple, nothing too loud, nothing too quiet. Just enough to blend. I let my heels click lightly against the floor, stopping here and there to stare at paintings I didn't care about.
But I wasn't here for art.
I knew he would come. Men like Williams Coker always showed up at places like this where money pretended to love beauty.
I had calculated every bit of his moves, I couldn't miss.
And then I saw him.
I was right.
He stood near a bronze sculpture at the far end, a glass of red wine in hand, laughing too loudly with two men in suits. His voice carried across the room, smooth and entitled—the kind of voice that expected people to stop and listen.
Our eyes met.
For the first time, Williams Coker looked at me.
I didn't blink. I didn't look away. I tilted my head slightly and shifted my gaze back to the painting in front of me red bleeding into black as if that was all I cared about.
It didn't take long.
I heard his footsteps. Slow. Measured. He left his companions and came straight toward me, just as I had predicted.
"Interesting piece, isn't it?" His voice came low, close, dripping with confidence.
I glanced at him once, then back at the canvas. "It depends on who is looking," I said.
He chuckled, shifting closer. "Then maybe you should tell me what you see."
My fingers traced the rim of my glass. Calm. Controlled. I measured him silently, the arrogance in his tone, the hunger in his eyes.
Finally, I turned to face him fully. My expression was unreadable. "Maybe another time," I said, and walked past him, my perfume trailing in the air.
I didn't need to look back. I knew he was watching. Men like Williams always watched. And he would come after me.
That was exactly what I wanted.
"Wait," his voice came behind me, smoother now, almost playful.
A slow, crooked smile stretched across my face, dark and satisfied, the kind that reeked of triumph and quiet evil."
I slowed my pace but didn't turn immediately. Let him chase a little, and let him think he was the one making the move.
He caught up, stepping in front of me near the exit where the air smelled faintly of rain drifting in from outside. "I don't think we've met before," he said, his eyes scanning me openly, the way men like him always did like they were picking from a menu.
I raised one brow. "And you think every stranger in this city owes you an introduction?"
That made him laugh, loud enough for people nearby to glance at us. He didn't care. He liked the attention. "Not every stranger," he said, lowering his voice, "just the interesting ones."
I tilted my head slightly, letting my lips curl into the smallest smile. A smile that wasn't a smile. "Maybe I like being a stranger."
He studied me for a moment, as though I were another piece of art he wanted to buy. Then, confidently, he stretched his hand out. "Williams Coker."
I let my gaze drop to his hand, then back to his face. I didn't take it. Instead, I shifted my glass into my left hand and brushed an imaginary crease off my dress. His arm dropped, just a little, before he recovered with another laugh.
"I see. You're not easily impressed."
"Should I be?" I asked softly.
His eyes glittered with something between amusement and challenge. He leaned closer, his cologne thick, expensive, cloying. "Give me your name. Just your name. Then I'll leave you alone."
I let a pause stretch. The gallery noise faded into a soft hum around us. Then I gave it to him, gently, like a secret.
"Grace."
His lips parted like he wanted to taste the sound of it. "Grace," he repeated slowly. "Something tells me this won't be the last time I say your name."
I looked at him… looked… memorizing the lines of his jaw, the arrogance in his smile, the hunger he didn't bother to hide.
And then I turned away, my heels clicking against the marble as I walked out into the night air.
As I moved through the exit, I felt him behind me. His footsteps weren't loud, but they carried weight, a restless curiosity that trailed me like a shadow. I didn't bother to turn. Men like Williams always followed. It was in their nature to chase anything that dared to move ahead of them.
I slowed my pace just enough, adjusting my clutch bag. The card slipped from my fingers and landed softly on the marble floor. Not an accident. Never an accident.
I kept walking, heels striking in a steady rhythm, each step deliberate, measured. I didn't need to look back to know he'd pick it up. They always did.
That card wasn't just paper. It was bait. My name. My number. My carefully chosen email. A breadcrumb that would lead him exactly where I wanted.
I imagined his face as he read it, the smug little curl of a smile spreading across his lips, convinced he'd stumbled on some grand coincidence. Men like him loved to think the world bent itself to their desires. Let him believe it.
Because for me, it wasn't a chance.
It was a calculation.
And just like that, I knew: Williams would come to me.