Chapter 2: Storm Interrogation on the Rooftop
The gallery was too bright, too quiet. Every squeak of Lily’s sensible flats on the polished concrete floor felt like a transgression. She’d worn a blouse—cream silk, the only one she owned that felt remotely “client appropriate”—and it already felt like a costume.
She was re-hanging a small abstract, her hands steady only through force of will, when the air in the room changed.
It wasn’t a sound. It was a drop in pressure, a hollowing out of the space near the entrance. She knew it was him before she turned.
Adrian Cross stood just inside the glass doors, rainwater gleaming on the shoulders of his dark wool coat. He wasn’t looking at the art. He was looking at her, his storm-grey eyes tracking her movement with a focus that made the bright lights feel hot.
“Mr. Cross,” she said, her voice thankfully level. “Right on time.”
“Adrian,” he corrected, walking toward her. He moved through the sterile white space as if he owned it. He probably could have. “I see you survived the night. No ill effects from the chill?”
The reference to his last words on the balcony was deliberate. A test.
“I’m resilient,” she said, turning fully to face him. Up close in the daylight, he was more. More defined, more real. The subtle lines at the corners of his eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. He smelled of rain and cold air and something crisp, like bergamot. “The Miro collection is along this wall. As you requested.”
He didn’t glance at the paintings. “You look different in the light.”
“So do you.”
A ghost of something—amusement, challenge—flickered in his eyes. “Less ominous?”
“More solid.”
He finally looked at the Miro, but his attention was perfunctory. “I’ll take them. All four. Have the invoices sent to Sera, my assistant.”
Lily blinked. The meeting was supposed to last an hour. It had been ninety seconds. “You don’t want to… discuss them? The provenance is—”
“I know the provenance. I know what I’m buying.” He cut her off, his gaze returning to her. “This was just the excuse.”
Her pulse thrummed in her throat. “The excuse?”
Before he could answer, a deafening crack of thunder split the sky. The gallery lights flickered. Outside, the bright morning had vanished, swallowed by a bruised, boiling purple. Rain began to fall, not in drops but in a solid, drowning sheet, hammering against the glass facade.
“The building’s ancient,” Lily muttered, more to herself. “The roof leaks into the storage loft when it rains like this. I have to go move some pieces.”
“I’ll help.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It is,” he said, and it was not an offer.
The service elevator to the rooftop storage was a rattling iron cage. It creaked ominously as they ascended, the drumming rain growing louder. The doors opened directly into the vast, open terrace that served as overflow storage—a glass-and-steel space, half-walls open to the elements.
It was chaos. The wind howled through, driving rain in horizontal gusts. Canvases leaned against racks, their protective sheets flapping madly. A few smaller pieces had already been knocked flat.
“Over there!” Lily yelled over the din, pointing to a dry corner. She grabbed a large canvas, her silk blouse instantly plastered to her skin by a fresh blast of rain. The cold was shocking.
Adrian was already moving, gathering paintings with an efficient, muscular grace. He worked in silence, his coat discarded, his white shirt quickly soaked through and transparent against the planes of his back. They formed a frantic, wordless assembly line, carrying the vulnerable art to safety.
As Lily reached for a fluttering pastel drawing, the wind ripped it from her grip. She lunged, but a strong hand shot past her, pinning the paper to the wall.
Adrian’s body was right behind her, a wall of heat against the chill. He held the drawing, his arm caging her in for a breathless moment. Rainwater dripped from his hair onto her neck.
He stepped back, handing her the salvaged piece.
They got the last of it secured just as the downpour reached its peak. They stood in the relative dry of the covered section, panting, dripping onto the concrete. Lily’s hair was a wreck, her blouse a translucent second skin. She crossed her arms self-consciously.
A figure appeared at the elevator—a sleek, professional woman in a trench coat, holding a large umbrella. “Mr. Cross! I have the car ready below.”
Sera, the assistant. Of course.
Adrian didn’t turn. “Wait downstairs.”
“Sir, you’re soaked. You have the board call in twenty—”
“Downstairs, Sera.”
His voice held a finality that brooked no argument. With a concerned glance, Sera vanished back into the elevator.
The silence after the door closed was filled only by the roar of the storm. Adrian turned to Lily. He stepped closer, into the space where the rain still misted. Drops caught in his dark lashes.
“You have a little…” He reached out, his thumb brushing just above her collarbone. It came away smudged with a tiny streak of cobalt blue. “Leftover from last night.”
She shuddered at the contact. “I told you. I’m resilient.”
“You also lie,” he said softly. The noise of the city was a muffled roar below them. “You lie when you’re scared. You said it was just paint. It wasn’t. You said it was just a colour. It wasn’t.”
He was so close now she could see the flecks of darker grey in his irises, the tension in the muscle along his jaw. The rain had soaked through his shirt, and she could see the old, faint silvery lines of scars across his knuckles.
“Tell me you felt it too last night,” he whispered, the words cutting clean through the sound of the downpour. “Or lie to us both.”
The air left her lungs. She could lie. It would be the smart thing, the safe thing. She could retreat into being just the gallery girl, he the client. The distance between their worlds was a canyon.
But the canvas behind him, the one she’d slashed with midnight blue, was a testament to a truth she couldn’t escape. He’d seen it before she had.
She looked from his scarred hand up to his waiting eyes, where storm clouds gathered and something raw flickered, something that looked less like power and more like need.
“I felt it,” she said, the admission leaving her in a rush, barely audible.
His eyes closed for a heartbeat, as if her words were a verdict. When they opened, the intensity had sharpened, focused into something terrifyingly singular.
“Good,” he said, the word low and final.
He didn’t move to touch her again. He didn’t smile. He simply stood there, letting the rain drench them both, as if the storm was a boundary they had just willingly crossed, and there was no going back.
He simply stood there, letting the rain drench them both, as if the storm was a boundary they had just willingly crossed, and there was no going back.
The world went white.
A searing, soundless blast of light erased everything—the city, the rain, his face. It filled her vision, her skull, her bones. Then the thunder came. It wasn’t a sound; it was the sky splitting open directly above them, a physical concussion that slammed into the terrace and shook the concrete under their feet.
Lily cried out, stumbling backward. Her ears rang with a high, deafening whine.
Instinctively, Adrian moved. Not away, but toward her. His arm shot out, hooking around her waist and pulling her hard against him, pivoting so his body was between hers and the open sky. They staggered together into the relative cover of the storage area, knocking against a rack of canvases.
The air smelled sharp, of ozone and burnt stone.
“What the hell was that?” she gasped, her voice muffled by her own ringing ears and the crush of his wet shirt. Her hands were fisted in the fabric.
“Close.” His voice was a rough vibration in his chest. He didn’t let go. “Too damn close.”
He was scanning the terrace, his gaze sharp and calculating. Then she saw it. A jagged, blackened scar marred the steel railing where the bolt had grounded itself, ten feet from where they’d been standing. Tendrils of smoke rose from it, quickly beaten down by the rain.
“My God,” she whispered.
His grip on her tightened briefly, a reflexive squeeze. Then, as if realizing he was holding on, he released her. The sudden absence of his solid warmth left her unsteady.
“Are you hurt?” He was looking her over, his eyes scanning for injury, the previous intensity channeled into a frightening efficiency.
“No. I’m… no.” She brushed wet hair from her face, her hands trembling. “You?”
He shook his head, his attention already returning to the damaged railing. The storm seemed to be slackening, the furious downpour easing to a steady, soaking rain. The immediate violence had passed, leaving a shaken, dripping quiet in its wake.
“The building’s grounding must be for shit,” he muttered, more to himself. He walked over to the scarred metal, not touching it. The heat would have been tremendous.
Lily watched him. The adrenaline was receding, leaving a hollow, shaky feeling in its place. He’d pulled her in. Shielded her. It was a simple, physical fact, yet it felt more intimate than anything that had been said.
“You just had to have a meeting during the apocalypse,” she said, the words coming out before she could stop them. It was a weak attempt at lightness, her voice still unsteady.
A faint, surprised sound escaped him. It wasn’t quite a laugh. He turned, and she saw a new expression on his face—something assessing, and perhaps approving. “You’re making a joke. Now.”
“It’s either that or scream.”
He walked back toward her, his steps slower now. “Screaming is also a valid option.” He stopped a few feet away. “The car is downstairs. Let me take you home. This terrace isn’t safe.”
“I have to close the gallery.”
“Sera will have someone do it.” He stated it as a fact, not a negotiation. “You’re shaking.”
She was. From cold, from shock, from the residual electricity that seemed to still hang in the air between them. The cream silk blouse was ruined, transparent and clinging. She hugged herself again. “I look like a drowned cat.”
“You look alive,” he said, his grey eyes holding hers. “Thoroughly, vibrantly alive. It’s better.”
He fetched his soaked wool coat from a dryish crate and held it out. It was heavy, saturated, but it was an offering. A barrier from the world. She slid her arms into the sleeves, the lining cold but the weight strangely anchoring.
The elevator ride down was silent. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. She watched their reflection in the polished doors—a drenched, haunted-looking pair, wrapped in the smell of rain and near-disaster.
Sera was waiting in the luxurious, silent lobby, her professional composure flickering only for a second at the sight of them. A black car idled at the curb.
“The gallery is handled, sir. Your board call has been moved.”
Adrian gave a single nod. He guided Lily outside with a light hand at the small of her back, a gesture that was both possessive and protective. He opened the car door for her.
She paused, one foot in the warm, leather-scented interior. She looked back at him, water dripping from his hair onto the sidewalk. “You’re not getting in?”
“I have to deal with the building management. That strike shouldn’t have happened.” His jaw was tight. “The car will take you home. I’ll be in touch.”
It was a dismissal, but his eyes promised it wasn’t. The order was back, the distance re-established, but the crackle of the storm was still there underneath.
She slid into the car. As the door closed, sealing her in quiet luxury, she saw him through the darkened glass. He stood on the curb, watching the car pull away, a tall, dark silhouette against the gleaming wet street, the scent of ozone still clinging to his coat wrapped around her.