It was an unseasonably warm evening in late September, and Leah had reluctantly agreed to attend an art exhibit downtown. Her best friend, Emily, had begged her to go, claiming she needed a break from work and a little more excitement in her life.

“You can’t spend every evening editing manuscripts and drinking tea,” Emily had teased. “You need some adventure.”

Leah had rolled her eyes but eventually relented, stepping into a world of color, movement, and soft classical music playing from hidden speakers. The gallery was filled with Chicago’s elite—businessmen in tailored suits, women in designer gowns, and critics murmuring pretentious observations about the pieces on display.

She felt slightly out of place in her simple black dress, but that didn’t stop her from appreciating the art. One painting in particular caught her eye—a bold composition of reds and blacks, each stroke filled with emotion. There was something about it, something chaotic yet heartbreakingly beautiful.

“That one’s my favorite,” a deep voice murmured beside her.

Leah turned and found herself face to face with a man who looked like he belonged in a movie rather than an art gallery. His chiseled features were softened by a boyish charm, and his piercing blue eyes studied her with a quiet intensity. He was tall, well-dressed, and exuded an effortless confidence that made her pulse quicken.

“It’s… mesmerizing,” she replied, feeling an odd flutter in her chest.

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He tilted his head, regarding the painting thoughtfully. “It reminds me of a contradiction. Pain and passion. Destruction and creation. It tells a story without needing words.”

She smiled, intrigued. “And what story do you see?”

He glanced at her then, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “A love story, of course. The kind that burns bright and never truly fades.”

A shiver ran down her spine, but she masked it with a small laugh. “That’s quite the interpretation.”

“I could say the same about you.” He extended a hand. “Derrick Hastings.”

“Leah Monroe.” She hesitated only a second before slipping her hand into his. His grip was warm, firm, and she felt an inexplicable sense of ease wash over her.

From that moment, the night unfolded like a dream. Derrick was effortlessly charming, effortlessly kind. He listened to her thoughts on art, asked about her work as an editor, and seemed genuinely interested in everything she had to say. When he spoke, his words were laced with wit and intelligence, making her laugh and think in equal measure.

“You know,” he mused as they wandered away from the main crowd, “I never come to these things looking to meet someone. But tonight feels… different.”

Leah looked up at him, her heart skipping a beat. “Different how?”

His smile was slow, almost knowing. “Like I was meant to be here. Meant to meet you.”

She should have been skeptical. She should have brushed it off as a line he had used before. But something about Derrick made her want to believe in the impossible.

By the end of the night, he had walked her to her car, the city lights casting a golden glow around them.

“Have dinner with me tomorrow,” he said, not asking, but stating it as if he already knew her answer.

Leah hesitated, but only for a moment. “Okay.”

As she drove away, she couldn’t stop smiling. Something told her this was just the beginning of something extraordinary.