Marina Cortez, a fiercely talented art student, is left devastated when her wealthy boyfriend Julian Sinclair, humiliates her with a cold, public breakup. Burning with the need for revenge, she sets her sights on his father-Alexander Sinclair, a charismatic billionaire art collector with a ruthless reputation and an unshakeable presence in the elite world of fine art. What begins as a calculated ploy to ruin Julian's ego quickly spirals into something far more dangerous and emotionally complex. As Marina draws closer to Alexander, she finds herself captivated by his intellect, solitude, and the vulnerability buried beneath his sharp exterior. Alexander, used to control and flings without consequence, is thrown off balance by Marina's mix of fire and authenticity. Their chemistry simmers, even as rumors swirl and their secret connection threatens to erupt into scandal. From the glittering galleries of Los Angeles to the romantic streets of Rome, the two are pulled into a deeply passionate affair marked by secrets, sabotage, and self-discovery. Julian fights back. The media pounces. And Marina's original plan for revenge begins to crumble under the weight of her own conflicted heart. As old betrayals surface and new loyalties form, Marina must decide: continue manipulating her way through the Sinclair dynasty-or choose vulnerability and fight for a love that was never part of her plan. In the end, vengeance may have brought her to Alexander-but only truth, courage, and forgiveness can make her stay.
"You're not coming to Milan."
The words dropped like oil on silk-slow, heavy, staining everything they touched. The echo of them seemed to reverberate in Marina's skull, growing louder even as the crowded gallery hummed around her.
She stood frozen, champagne flute held mid-air, a perfect image of composure except for the tell-tale tremble at her fingertips. Condensation slid down the stem of the glass, gathering into a bead that finally gave in to gravity and rolled onto the back of her hand.
Julian Sinclair stood across from her in a tailored navy suit, the curve of his mouth infuriatingly smug. The kind of smug he'd perfected at boarding school, refined through a decade of gallery openings, and weaponized in rooms like this one.
"Excuse me?" Marina said, her voice smooth but stretched too tight, a polite smile painted on like a war mask.
Around them, the clean white walls of the Delacourt Gallery pulsed under low gallery lights. Modern sculptures stood like sentinels among clusters of guests swathed in monochrome silk and tailored linen. The air was dense with the scent of fig candles, designer perfume, and simmering ambition.
Marina's own paintings hung along the far wall, her name etched neatly in black on gold plaques beneath each canvas. Professors, collectors, and minor celebrities orbited her work, their murmurs barely audible over the steady clink of glasses and polite laughter.
Julian took a measured sip of his drink. "I just think... this is your moment, Marina. Look at this turnout. You should soak it in. Here. In L.A."
Her eyes narrowed, searching his face for any sign of a joke. "You invited me to curate with you. You insisted. I turned down three other offers for this. For you."
He shrugged with irritating casualness, his eyes darting toward the crowd. "That was before."
"Before what?"
Julian hesitated for the briefest moment and then gave a theatrical little sigh. "Before things got... complicated."
There it was. Complicated. That limp little catchall word men like Julian deployed when they were done with you but still wanted to appear gracious.
Marina felt her stomach go cold. "You're dumping me. At your own showcase. In front of my professors."
"It's not personal."
She recoiled as if he'd slapped her. Her heel caught the edge of a display riser and tilted.
Julian reached forward instinctively.
She slapped his hand away.
"Don't touch me," she hissed.
From the far side of the gallery came a burst of laughter. Cameras flashed. The energy in the room shifted, the subtle ripple of gossip beginning its slow spread. Julian Sinclair always commanded attention. But now, it was Marina they were watching.
Marina Cortez, the rising star. The name that had been whispered for months in collector circles. The prodigy with fire in her brush and ice in her eyes. And tonight, she would give them something worth watching.
Her expression cooled. She straightened her posture, smoothing the skirt of her midnight blue gown. With deliberate grace, she turned from Julian and walked away, each step a small declaration of fury and control.
She didn't glance back.
The revenge didn't fully crystallize just yet.
But something darker stirred inside her.
Something sharp and hot and beautifully dangerous.
She moved past the patrons and the collectors, past the fawning whispers and speculative glances, until she reached the far wall. One of her pieces dominated the space-a wide canvas of smeared reds and fractured whites, violent and sensual. Her professor, DeWitt, stood examining it, a glass of Bordeaux hovering inches from his chest.
"Ah, Marina," he said, not looking away from the painting. "This piece... it's angry. Raw. The brushwork is almost surgical."
Marina gave him a faint smile. Her heart still thundered in her chest, but her voice came out even. "Is that a compliment, Professor?"
"Most definitely," he said. He finally turned to her. His sharp eyes missed nothing. "But I sense you didn't paint it just for academic approval."
"No," she said simply.
DeWitt held her gaze for a beat too long. Then he nodded. "Good. Hold on to that. The hunger. It shows."
He moved on, melting into a conversation with another faculty member. Marina remained, staring at the canvas, not really seeing it anymore. Her reflection shimmered in the glass of the frame-poised, elegant, unreadable. Everything she'd trained herself to be.
Behind her, footsteps.
She didn't turn around.
"Marina", Julian said quietly.
She let the silence hang, heavy.
"It wasn't supposed to go like that," he tried.
She turned slowly, lifting an eyebrow. "Was it supposed to be more romantic? Should you have waited until dessert?"
Julian glanced around, his composure fraying. "Look, I just think this Milan show isn't the right timing. We both know they wanted a single vision, and I thought..."
"You thought they'd prefer just yours."
He gave a rueful smile. "I mean, it's not personal."
"You keep saying that," she said. "But your career is built on personal. Your charm. Your name. Your bed."
He flinched, just barely.
She leaned closer. "Don't worry, Julian. I'll find my own way to Milan. And it won't be in your shadow."
She walked away again.
Not toward the door, but toward the private hallway where the staff kept their coats and the artists kept their secrets.
Her fingers shook as she pulled out her phone. One name lit up her message history-someone she hadn't contacted in years. Someone who still owed her a favor. Maybe two.
She typed quickly:
Are you still in Italy? I need a studio. Tomorrow.
Send.
Outside, the city sprawled under velvet dark. L.A. glittered like a lie she no longer needed to tell.
Marina Cortez had been dismissed, publicly and with precision.
But tomorrow, she would begin again.
And this time, she would burn the whole scene to the ground.
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