My Beautiful Primrose

(Present-day, New York)

Damon Hale reclined in his office chair, the polished leather creaking slightly under his weight. A glass of neat whiskey sat half-empty on the desk beside him, untouched, as Victor, his personal assistant, more like a brother to him now, entered with the usual burst of energy and a clipboard clutched under one arm.

"Evening, sir," Victor said, a hint of excitement in his voice. "Tonight's auction. You might want to hear what's on the docket."

Damon didn't look up. "I know about it, Victor. I'm there for the sculpture. You said it yourself."

Victor's grin widened. "Yes, yes, the sculpture. But... Lot Thirty-Two. There's been some chatter. People are talking about it."

Damon finally raised an eyebrow, setting the whiskey down. "Lot Thirty-Two? And why should I care about chatter, Victor?"

Victor leaned casually against the edge of the desk, eyes glinting. "Because it's a portrait. Massive apparently. They say it's remarkable. You might find it worth seeing before your sculpture."

Damon smirked faintly. "A portrait? Not exactly my area of interest. But arriving early won't hurt, I suppose."

Victor laughed softly, shaking his head. "Oh, it won't hurt at all, sir. Promise."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

By the time Damon arrived at the auction hall, he had taken a seat near the front, Victor chattering beside him nonstop. Damon's attention was elsewhere. His eyes flicked to the stage, to the objects waiting their turn under their protective coverings. Lot Thirty-Two sat there, draped in thick cloth, waiting patiently for its turn. Damon felt a prickle of curiosity that he couldn't explain.

Victor leaned over, whispering, "Do you think it's really worth the fuss?"

Damon's gaze remained fixed. "Everything is worth the fuss if it calls to you," he replied.

Victor snorted. "You call everything that catches your eye 'calling to you.'"

Damon smirked but did not respond. He studied the crowd instead. He noticed the nervous fidgeting of wealthy bidders, the murmurs of assistants and gallery staff, but his mind kept returning to the draped object. Something about the anticipation and the secrecy was tantalizing.

The auctioneer stepped forward, voice crisp and commanding. "Lot Thirty-Two!"

Mr. Hale?" his assistant, Victor, leaned closer. "They're about to unveil it."

Damon nodded without really meaning to. "Mm."

Onstage, the auctioneer stepped forward. He was tall, silver-haired and theatrical.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said smoothly, spreading his arms, "what we have here tonight is unusual."

The lights dimmed slightly.

"This portrait was discovered in a private estate outside County Clare. It has changed hands only twice in over a hundred years. No official signature. No confirmed artist. And yet-"

He paused, smiling.

"-no one who has seen it has ever forgotten it."

Victor nudged Damon, grinning. "This is it. The moment of truth."

The room fell into expectant silence as the cloth was slowly lifted. Damon leaned forward slightly, the tiniest spark of interest igniting in him. He did not yet know why, but there was a magnetic pull he could not ignore.

"Oh, it's enormous," Victor muttered beside him.

"It's just a painting," Damon replied, though his voice carried a trace of doubt.

The cloth slipped away completely.

Damon held his breath.

Red hair that seemed almost glowing under the hall lights. Pale, luminous skin, freckles scattered like star dust across her cheeks. And the eyes were green and vivid, as if they knew him. They were not looking at the room. They were looking at him.

Victor nudged him again. "Well? Are you going to bid, or just stare?"

"I wasn't planning on it," Damon admitted softly, though he felt the strange pull tightening around him.

The auctioneer's voice rang out "Bidding starts at one million dollars?"

"Two million." Damon said firmly, surprising even himself.

Victor's eyes widened. "You're serious?"

"Very," Damon replied calmly, though there was an intensity beneath it.

Bidding climbed quickly. Three... four... five million. Damon's pulse remained steady and his eyes did not leave the painting. He noticed every detail, from the curve of her lips, to the soft blush on her cheeks, to the way her hair shimmered like copper. Every brushstroke whispered to him.

Victor muttered under his breath, "You look like someone who has been enchanted."

"I'm intrigued," Damon corrected, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Six million... seven million.

"Ten million dollars." Damon said without blinking.

The room seemed to shrink around him. All sound faded except for the auctioneer's voice, the faint scrape of chairs and the subtle hum of something unspoken between him and the woman in the painting.

"Going once, going twice-sold!"

Victor clapped lightly, grinning, but Damon did not notice. The applause faded into background noise. He stepped forward, letting his eyes travel over her again, memorizing the details as the staff carefully wrapped the painting for transport.

Ten million dollars. Originally listed at one million. Damon's lips pressed together. "Worth every cent," he whispered. "And then some."

Victor chuckled. "You truly are something, sir."

"Perhaps," Damon said, his gaze still lingering. "But some madness is necessary."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Later, in his private gallery, Damon carefully unpacked the painting himself. He set it on an easel, stepping back slowly, drinking in every detail. The green eyes seemed alive, flickering almost imperceptibly in the dim light. He felt an unfamiliar tension in his chest, a pull he could not explain.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

The gallery was empty. Only the painting remained, staring back at him, as if awaiting his answer.

He became exhausted and eventually went to bed.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

He found himself in a garden bathed in sunlight and filled with colors so vivid that it hurt his eyes. There were rows of primroses in yellow, pink, red, and violet stretching as far as he could see. The air smelled sweet and intoxicating, and the breeze carried the soft rustle of petals brushing together.

She appeared then, walking toward him, bare feet moving lightly across the grass. Her hair caught the sunlight and was glowing like fire. Her green eyes met his instantly, and her lips curved into a smile that made his heart skip a beat.

"Jeffrey," she said softly, and the name resonated within him as if it belonged to him. "My love."

Damon blinked, confusion rippling across his mind. "Jeffrey?"

"Yes," she said, reaching out, her delicate fingers brushing the air toward him. "Do you not feel it? It is yours."

He tried to speak and ask questions, but the words caught in his throat. "Who... who are you?"

"Don't you remember me?" she asked, stepping closer, the breeze teasing her hair around his face. "It is I, Maeve."

Her name struck him like lightning. It was familiar and impossible at the same time. He reached for her hand, desperate to feel her warmth to confirm she was real. But as his fingers stretched toward hers, she flickered, dissolving into mist before he could touch her.

"Maeve!" Damon called, his voice breaking, panic rising. "Wait-please!"

He woke up suddenly, sheets tangled around his body, his heart was hammering against his chest.

"What the hell?!"

–