A World Of Colour

Sergie's pov.

The gala was everything I expected: polished, extravagant, and painfully predictable. The room gleamed with muted opulence, from the crystal chandeliers overhead to the perfectly arranged hors d'oeuvres that no one seemed interested in eating. Wealthy patrons in designer suits and gowns milled about, murmuring polite observations about the art on display. It was all so... lifeless.

I adjusted the cuff of my tailored charcoal-gray suit and scanned the room, my expression unreadable. I wasn’t here to mingle or to be seen—my role as one of the evening’s sponsors required little more than a discreet appearance and a well-timed donation. I’d long since learned that my presence at events like these served more to keep up appearances than to inspire genuine connections.

Still, something about tonight felt different.

I wandered along the edges of the gallery, letting the noise of the crowd fade into the background as I examined the pieces. Most were technically proficient, their lines precise and their colors balanced, but they lacked any real emotion. They were calculated, designed to impress rather than provoke.

Then I saw it.

A painting near the far wall stopped me in my tracks. At first glance, it was chaos—an explosion of reds and golds, clashing and blending in jagged streaks across the canvas. But as I stepped closer, the chaos gave way to something deeper. The colors didn’t simply collide; they danced, creating a sense of movement and raw emotion that pulled me in.

Falling Forward. The title was scrawled in neat, almost hesitant handwriting on the placard beneath the painting.

There was something deeply personal about this piece, as if the artist had poured themselves into it without restraint. I could feel the urgency in every brushstroke, the desperation and hope battling for dominance. It was honest in a way I rarely saw, and I couldn’t look away.

“You like it?”

The voice startled me. I turned to see a young woman standing a few feet away, her auburn hair catching the light. She was slim, dressed in a blazer that didn’t quite fit, her green eyes wide and uncertain.

“I do,” I said, keeping my tone neutral.

She smiled faintly, a mixture of relief and nervousness crossing her face. “It’s one of mine,” she admitted.

I studied her more closely, noting the faint smudge of paint on her wrist, the callouses on her fingers. She was an artist through and through—one who had clearly fought hard to be here.

Her work had already captivated me, but now my curiosity deepened.

“You have a distinctive style,” I said, glancing back at the painting. “It’s not something you see often in places like this.”

She flushed slightly, ducking her head. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

There was a vulnerability in her that matched her art, a quiet strength beneath the surface that intrigued me. She seemed out of place among the polished patrons and their empty praise, and yet her presence felt genuine in a way theirs never could.

“I’m Vanessa,” she said after a moment, extending a paint-streaked hand.

I hesitated. Revealing my identity now would change the way she saw me, turning what felt like an authentic interaction into something transactional. Instead, I took her hand briefly and offered a simple, “Sergie.”

Her smile widened, and I realized how rare it was for me to see such unguarded sincerity. It wasn’t the kind of smile people usually gave me—not after they learned my name.

Before I could say more, someone called her name from across the room. She glanced over her shoulder, then back at me, her expression apologetic.

“I should go,” she said. “But thank you for your kind words.”

I nodded, watching as she disappeared into the crowd.

For a long moment, I stood there, staring at her painting. Falling Forward. The title seemed fitting—not just for the piece, but for the artist herself. She was clearly someone who had faced struggles, someone who understood what it meant to risk everything for her passion.

And she intrigued me more than I cared to admit.

As I turned away from her painting, a thought struck me. I could use someone like her. Her talent, her perspective—there was something unique about her work that could bring a fresh edge to my upcoming co

llection.

But more than that, I wanted to know her.