Love and Justice

Bianca Petit had always cherished the stillness of her mornings. The soft hum of the city outside her window blended with the rhythmic clicking of her French press, filling her small apartment with the aroma of fresh coffee. She leaned against the counter, gazing at the sunlight as it streamed through sheer curtains, casting golden patterns across her neatly arranged bookshelves. It was a life of simplicity; routine, peaceful, and far removed from the chaos she had left behind in her hometown years ago.

She had worked tirelessly to create this quiet existence. After a turbulent childhood marred by loss and the shadow of her father's dubious business dealings, Bianca fled her past and carved out a space of her own in the bustling heart of the city. As an art curator at a prestigious gallery, her days were filled with beauty and structure, a welcome contrast to the disorder she had once known.

That morning, Bianca was preparing for an important meeting at the gallery. She had been tasked with securing an elusive private collector's participation in an upcoming exhibit. His collection, a stunning array of rare 19th-century paintings, was rumored to be one of the most extensive in the country. The chance to work with such pieces had her equal parts thrilled and anxious. Pulling her blazer over her shoulders, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Dark, wavy hair framed her sharp cheekbones, and her deep brown eyes held a mix of determination and nerves. She was ready, or at least as ready as she could be.

The collector's representative had chosen a high-end café downtown for the meeting. When Bianca arrived, she was greeted by the warm scent of espresso and the low murmur of conversation. She spotted her contact immediately: a sharply dressed man with a calculating smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He introduced himself as Victor, a name that meant little to her at the time but would soon become impossible to forget.

Victor's tone was polite but brisk as he spoke about the collector's "strict privacy requirements" and their reluctance to lend pieces from their collection. Bianca remained poised, countering his concerns with thoughtful arguments about the cultural significance of the exhibit and the security measures the gallery had in place. By the end of the meeting, she felt she had made some progress. Victor promised to relay her proposal and assured her she would hear back soon.

As Bianca left the café, her phone buzzed. It was her best friend, Ana, reminding her about their dinner plans. Ana was the only person who knew about Bianca's past, and her support had been instrumental in helping Bianca rebuild her life. Smiling, Bianca texted back a quick response, but as she stepped onto the sidewalk, she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

Across the street, leaning casually against a sleek black car, a man in a dark suit stood out like a shadow amidst the mid-morning crowd. His eyes, cold and calculating, were fixed on her. For a fleeting moment, Bianca felt an inexplicable chill, but she quickly dismissed it as paranoia. The city was full of strangers, and she had no reason to believe this one was any different.

That evening, as she shared a bottle of wine with Ana in a cozy Italian restaurant, the morning's tension faded into the background. Ana, always the vibrant, animated counterpart to Bianca's reserved nature, launched into a story about her latest office drama, filling the air with laughter. By the time dessert arrived, Bianca felt a sense of normalcy return. She didn't realize that her life was already beginning to unravel.

The next day, the call came earlier than expected. Victor informed her that the collector had agreed to lend several pieces for the exhibit. Bianca was elated but also surprised by how quickly the decision had been made. She chalked it up to her persuasive skills and threw herself into preparations for the exhibit.

As the weeks passed, she became increasingly engrossed in her work. The gallery buzzed with activity as shipments of priceless artwork began to arrive. Late nights became the norm, and Bianca often found herself alone in the quiet, dimly lit space, meticulously inspecting the pieces and ensuring their safety.

It was during one of these late nights that she first saw him, Maksimillian Vorobev. He appeared out of the shadows like a figure from one of the paintings she was curating, an imposing, darkly handsome person, who exuded a quiet danger. Bianca had just finished locking up a shipment when she turned to find him standing in the gallery's foyer. Her breath hitched.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said, his voice smooth and low like velvet wrapping around steel. His sharp features were illuminated by the soft glow of the gallery's lights, and his dark eyes bore into hers with unsettling intensity. "I am Maksimillian Vorobev. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance".

It took Bianca a moment to regain her composure. "Victor," she said, the name slipping from her lips like a question.