The air in the gallery didn't just smell like expensive perfume and aged wine, it smelled like success. Not the kind of success that shouts, but the kind that whispers from the shadows of a room where every single chair costs more than a mid sized sedan.

The Lore Collective was the most prestigious gallery in the city, a minimalist dream of polished concrete and floor to ceiling glass. Tonight, the temperature outside had plummeted, turning the city into a frozen crystal, but inside, the heat from three hundred elite bodies and a roaring fireplace kept things cozy.

I leaned against a marble pillar, my fingers curled around a crystal flute of vintage champagne. I was dressed for the weather but kept it regal. I wore a floor length, structured coat made of deep midnight blue velvet, trimmed with faux fur so soft it felt like a cloud.

Underneath, I wore a sleek, high necked silk dress that hugged my curves and brushed my ankles. My eyes were tucked away behind a pair of oversized, dark tinted sunglasses. People probably thought I was a celebrity or a snob. In reality, I just didn't want them to see the way my eyes sometimes glowed when the light hit them just right.

I was a ghost in my own house.

Everyone was here to see the works of Vespera. The anonymous artist who had taken the world by storm. They were dropping fifty, eighty, a hundred thousand dollars on canvases I'd painted in my pajamas while listening to old records.

I moved through the crowd, my heels clicking softly, until I reached the centerpiece of the auction. It was a massive canvas, nearly six feet tall.It was a mountain peak, jagged and terrifying, covered in snow so realistic you could almost feel the bite of the frost. At the very top stood a wolf. But it wasn't just a wolf. It was huge, its fur thick and dark, its muscles coiled like it was ready to leap off the canvas and tear the throat out of anyone who looked at it too long. Behind it, a full moon hung in a bruised purple sky, glowing with a light that seemed to pulse.

I'd painted it in a fever dream three months ago. I didn't know why. I'd never seen a wolf that big, and I'd certainly never been to that mountain, but my hand had moved like it was being guided by a memory that wasn't mine.

"The detail is... haunting, isn't it?"

I didn't look at the person. I just took a slow sip of my drink as a man in a tailored gray suit stepped up beside me. He was staring at the wolf with a look of pure hunger.

"It's the eyes," I said softly, my voice smooth as silk. "Most people paint animals with blank stares. This one looks like it's hunting us."

The man nodded, entranced. "It looks like a photo, but better. Like a photo of a dream. I've never seen anything like it. Do you think the artist has actually seen a creature like this?"

I let out a small, playful hum. "Maybe. Or maybe they just know what it feels like to be that lonely on top of a mountain."

The man looked at me, really looking at me for the first time, though he couldn't see my eyes behind the shades. He smiled, clearly impressed. "You've got a poetic way of looking at things. I'm Marcus."

"I'm just a fan of the view," I replied, keeping it light. I didn't give him a name. I didn't give anyone a name.

Marcus waved over a gallery assistant with a sharp flick of his wrist. "I want it. Don't even wait for the auction to hit the floor. Mark it sold. Whatever the starting bid is, triple it. Do whatever you can so I can have this painting."

I hid my smile behind the rim of my glass. That single sale just paid for my next ten years of "retirement."

"You're making a good choice," I said to him. "The way the light hits the snow in the corner? If you look at it long enough, it feels like the wind is actually blowing. It's about the silence right before a storm hits. That's why it's special. It's not about the wolf, it's about the power of the moment."

Marcus let out a slow, low whistle. "Damn. You make it sound like you painted it yourself."

I shrugged slightly, a playful tilt of my head. "I just have a very vivid imagination. Enjoy your new prize, Marcus. Have a great rest of your night."

I turned away before he could say anything else, weaving through the crowd of socialites and billionaires. I saw Julian, my publisher, near the bar. He was a very tall man in a neon pink blazer that shouldn't have worked but somehow looked iconic on him. He was currently trapped in a conversation with two women who looked like they'd had a few too many rounds of Botox.

I tipped my glass toward him as I approached.

Julian's eyes snapped to mine, and he practically perked up like a puppy. He excused himself so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, scurrying over to me and pulling me into a quiet alcove behind a velvet curtain.

He looked like he was about to burst with excitement, his hands fluttering, but there was a sharp edge of worry in his eyes that made me pause.

"Darling, you are the star of the century! The sales tonight are astronomical. Truly, you could buy a small island by midnight," he squealed in a hushed tone. Then, his face fell, and he leaned in closer, his voice dropping an octave. "But... we have a bit of a hurdle. A very expensive, very insistent hurdle."