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Black. Gold.

The same color theme from Friday night.

And red. The color of my dress that night.

Even the receptionist is wearing a stunning red dress that hugs her like it was made for her body. Paired with crimson lipstick, she looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not sitting behind a sleek black desk, typing effortlessly on a glass keyboard.

Straightening my posture, I pull the black card from my purse and step forward, clearing my throat.

"Hi," I say, placing the card on the desk. "I was given this on Friday night. I was told to show up today?"

The woman looks at the card, then up at me. And smiles.

Not a generic customer-service smile, but one with amusement—like she already knows something I don’t.

"Ah," she hums, looking at the card before giving it back to me. "Lucian hoped you would show up."

Lucian.

The name hits me like a shock to the spine.

So that’s his name.

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tattooed.

I blink, carefully keeping my expression neutral. "I think so? I, uh… didn’t catch his name."

The receptionist gives me a knowing look, then gestures toward the far wall.

I follow her hand?—

And my stomach drops.

There, just across the way, hangs an obnoxiously large, gilded frame.

A painting.

Of him.

Lucian.

Not a photo. A goddamn painting.

His powerful frame is captured in stunning detail—broad shoulders beneath a deep blue shirt, black slacks tailored to perfection, sleeves rolled up his forearms, revealing the tattoos I already know he’s proud of.

But it’s the eyes that get me.

Piercing. Sharp. Like they see everything.

Like they’re looking straight at me, even now.

A shiver races down my spine.

Lucian Vale.

The receptionist stands, moving with the kind of effortless grace I’ll never possess, and pulls a black folder from beneath the desk.

Ah.