Chapter 8: Collision of Two World
I woke up with my phone beside my pillow. I barely slept. My mind kept replaying the message I sent last night. I accepted the commission.
The moment the words left me, my life felt like it tilted in a new direction.
A notification blinked on my screen.
Wynford Corporation -New Email
I opened it with shaky hands.
"Dear Miss Eva Sinclair,
Your acceptance has been received,
Kindly come to our headquarters(Wynford Cooperation) on Friday by 9:00 a.m. for your briefing.
Further instructions will be provided upon arrival."
I sat up straight. Friday 9 am, two days from now. My heart skipped a beat.This was real, and not a dream. A real appointment with the most powerful art-commissioning company in the city.
For a moment, I just stared at the email. The air in my room felt heavy, like the walls shifted closer. I wasn't used to things like this. Big buildings, corporate environments, billionaire clients. Hidden expectations.
But they chose me.
I put on my slippers and paced. My hands wouldn't stay still. I kept checking the email, reading the words again and again, making sure I didn't imagine any line.
"Friday. 9 am."
I washed my face, brushed my hair, and stood in front of the mirror. I didn't look like someone who belonged in a place like Wynford Corporation. Their offices were sleek and cold. Mine was warm and cluttered with brushes.
But if they wanted me, then I would show up.
Friday came faster than I was ready for.
I barely ate much breakfast, my stomach twisted too much. I wore the cleanest, neatest outfit I owned. Simple, presentable, and nothing loud. I tied my hair back and prayed it stayed in place. Then I packed my sketchbook, my pencils, and the small confidence I could gather.
The bus ride downtown felt longer than usual. The city blurred past me, noisy and alive. I clutched my bag like it might anchor me.
When I arrived at the front of Wynford Tower, I froze.
The building rose into the sky like it was built by people who never doubted their place in the world. The glass reflected the morning sun. Security guards stood by polished doors. Cars I had only seen in magazines pulled in and out.
"Oh Eva ," I whispered to myself. "You're here, you can do this!"
I walked inside.
Cold air washed over me. Marble floors. Tall ceilings. A smell of new paper and money. People in suits crossed the lobby with fast, purposeful steps.
I approached the reception desk. My heartbeat began beating faster.
"Good morning," I said. "I… I have an appointment. A briefing. For an art commission."
The receptionist typed something. Her face softened. "Ah Miss Eva, take the elevator to the twelfth floor. Someone will meet you there."
I stepped into the elevator. My reflection stared back at me in the mirror-lined walls. My palms were damp. My pulse loud.
Twelfth floor.
The doors opened with a soft bell.
A woman in a fitted dress waited for me. "Miss Eva Sinclair?"
"Yes."
"Right this way."
I followed her down a hallway filled with framed portraits - real artists' work, not digital prints. My legs felt stiff. My breath shallow.
She stopped at a glass door and held it open for me.
"You'll be meeting our Artistic Director," she said.
I stepped inside.
The room was large, warm, and filled with sunlight. Paintings rested on easels. Sketches were pinned on boards. It felt nothing like the intimidating lobby downstairs. It felt like a place where ideas lived.
Then the inner door opened, a man walked in. Tall, confident, and unfamiliar yet striking in a way that made the air shift.
He stopped when he saw me.
His eyes met mine.
For a moment, the world balanced on a thin line.
He didn't smile. Didn't frown. Just stared with an intensity that made the hair on my arms rise. His gaze held recognition even though we had never met.
A quiet pull, a strange awareness like something in him paused the second he saw me.
"Good morning," he said. His voice was low, steady. "You must be the artist."
I tried to speak, but my voice stuck, and nodded. "Yes Sir, Eva Sinclair."
He stepped closer. Not too close, but enough that I felt his presence. Calm. Powerful. Controlled.
"I'm Adrian Wynford," he said.
The name hit me like a shock.
Wynford!
Wynford Corporation!
The billionaire behind everything I was terrified of walking into.
My heart dropped to my stomach.
He studied me with quiet curiosity. His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes did. Like a déjà vu he couldn't explain settled behind them
His gaze flicked to my sketchbook peeking from my bag, then back to my face.
"Thank you for accepting the commission," he said. "We don't extend invitations lightly."
His voice carried a calm authority, but something in his tone felt thoughtful, almost careful.
I nodded. "I'm grateful for the opportunity."
"Your PaintPrime submission stood out," he continued. "It had weight, and honesty.
You did a remarkable work."
I froze. "You saw it?"
"Yes." His eyes lingered on me. "It was difficult to ignore."
He walked around the room slowly, as if grounding himself, then faced me again.
"Today is only a briefing," he said. "You'll meet with our creative team shortly. I wanted to see the artist behind the piece first."
Why?
The question pressed at my tongue, but I didn't ask.
He held my gaze a moment longer.
Something charged moved in the silence between us. Not romantic, but aware. Like our lifes had touched at a point neither of us could name.
Then he spoke again, softer than before.
"It's strange," he said. "It feels like I've met you somewhere."
"We've never met." I replied
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in thought. "Perhaps."
A knock on the door broke the air.
"Mr Wynford," "the briefing team is ready."
He didn't look away from me. Not immediately.
Then he nodded once. "Welcome to Wynford Corporation, Miss Eva Sinclair."
He stepped aside so I could pass.
As I walked past him, my shoulder brushed the faint warmth of his presence.
And I knew nothing would stay simple after this.
My two world, the small life I knew and the massive one I stepped into by accident collided in that room.
And I felt the impact.