Age Is Just A Number

The rain slicked streets of Manhattan glistened under the muted glow of streetlights as Sophia Rivera tugged her coat tighter around her. The cold November wind bit at her cheeks, but she hardly noticed. Her mind was a whirl of thoughts as she hurried down Madison Avenue, her heels clicking against the pavement in a rhythmic cadence that matched the restless energy coursing through her veins.

She was late. Again.

The gallery's private opening was her chance to prove herself, to show the board of directors that she was more than just an idealistic curator with an eye for modern art. She had fought for tonight's exhibit, convinced them to take a chance on an up-and-coming artist no one had ever heard of. Failure was not an option.

Pushing through the heavy glass doors of the Rivera Gallery-her namesake, though only in coincidence, not ownership-Sophia was greeted by the low hum of polite conversation, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the soft strains of a live cello. The scent of lilies and cedarwood lingered in the air, mixing with the faint hint of paint and varnish.

She smoothed her dress, a sleek black number she had snagged on sale, and quickly scanned the room. The exhibit's centerpiece, a breathtaking installation of suspended metallic sculptures that reflected light in mesmerizing patterns, hung in the center of the gallery. Guests circled it like moths to a flame.

"Late again, I see," came a familiar voice to her left.

Sophia turned, bracing herself. Marcella Bennett, the gallery's managing director, stood with her arms crossed, a glass of champagne in hand. Her perfectly coiffed blonde hair and sharp designer suit exuded authority, but it was the faint smirk on her lips that set Sophia on edge.

"Traffic," Sophia replied smoothly, offering her most practiced smile.

"Of course." Marcella's gaze flicked over her, assessing. "Your artist's work better impress tonight. The board is watching."

"They'll love it," Sophia said, though her stomach twisted into knots.

Marcella raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, moving to greet a group of patrons near the far wall.

Sophia exhaled and took a moment to collect herself before weaving through the crowd. She stopped occasionally to exchange pleasantries with guests, subtly steering conversations toward the exhibit's theme of industrial beauty and the resilience of human creativity. Her artist, Theo, stood near his installation, looking every bit the tortured genius in his worn leather jacket and perpetually tousled hair.

"You're doing great," she whispered as she approached him.

Theo shot her a nervous smile. "If by great you mean trying not to pass out, then yeah."

Sophia chuckled softly. "Just talk about your work. People love hearing about the inspiration behind the pieces."

Before Theo could respond, a sudden ripple of energy passed through the room. Heads turned, and the low murmur of conversation hushed.

That was when she saw him.

Alexander Pierce.

He entered the gallery with the kind of quiet authority that demanded attention without asking for it. Dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin, he moved with an effortless confidence that made the room seem smaller. His sharp, chiseled features were framed by neatly combed dark hair streaked with hints of silver, and his piercing blue eyes scanned the crowd with calculated precision.

Sophia's breath caught.

"Is that...?" Theo whispered, his voice tinged with awe.

"Yes," Sophia said, her voice barely audible. She had seen Alexander Pierce in magazines and television interviews, but in person, he was an entirely different force of nature.

Before she could think of a reason why he, of all people, was at her gallery, Marcella swooped in.

"Mr. Pierce, what a pleasure to have you here," Marcella said, her tone sugary sweet as she extended a hand.