Hazel's POV
Hazel stood in front of the gallery window, staring at her reflection. A thin coat clung to her frame, her auburn curls pulled back in a messy bun. Inside, a group of guests mingled beneath hanging lights, sipping champagne and admiring pieces of art far more abstract than meaningful.
Tonight wasn't about belonging—it was about reclaiming space.
Her artwork—her soul on canvas—lined the farthest wall of the gallery. And though she wasn't the headliner, it was her first public display.
A milestone.
"You coming in?" Tasha's voice buzzed in her ear through the phone. "Stop overthinking."
Hazel smiled faintly. "I wasn't."
"You were," Tasha laughed. "Now walk in there like the goddess you are."
She ended the call and took a deep breath.
Inside, the soft hum of jazz music wrapped around her. She made her way to her section, grateful no one noticed her entrance. Her pieces stood in quiet rebellion—paintings filled with emotion, chaos, and the ache of love lost and rediscovered in solitude.
She sipped sparkling water and turned to admire the third painting—*Unspoken*. Two figures stood back to back, connected by a golden thread that frayed at the center.
"Beautiful," a smooth voice said behind her.
Hazel turned, meeting eyes with a stranger.
Tall, sharp-jawed, with an olive complexion and dark curls swept carelessly across his forehead. His tailored suit suggested wealth, but there was a softness in his gaze that disarmed her.
"You painted this?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes."
"I don't usually understand art," he confessed, tilting his head. "But this… it hurts. In a good way."
Hazel's lips quirked. "Then you do understand it."
He smiled. "Touché."
"I'm Hazel."
"Leon," he replied, offering his hand.
His shake was firm but not overbearing.
"Are you an artist too?" she asked.
"No," he said. "I run a design firm. But my sister dragged me here. She's over there, pretending to critique that sculpture."
Hazel chuckled. "What brought you to this side?"
He shrugged. "The thread. I couldn't stop staring at it. It reminded me of something I once lost."
Hazel's smile faltered slightly.
"Sorry," he said quickly. "Too much?"
"No," she said softly. "I get it."
They talked for a while—longer than Hazel expected. About art, cities, mistakes, and second chances.
It was… easy.
Unlike the tension-filled conversations she used to navigate, Leon's presence was steady. Warm.
He didn't know her past. He wasn't tied to her heartbreak. He just saw *her*.
When the event began to wind down, he handed her a card.
"I'm not trying to rush anything," he said. "But I'd really like to see more of your work. Or hear more of your stories."
Hazel stared at the card. "You're not asking me out?"
He smirked. "Not tonight. Tonight, you shine. No distractions."
She blinked, caught off guard.
"Take care, Hazel," he said, then walked away without waiting for a response.
Hazel stood frozen, card in hand.
Maybe the chapter with Caspian had closed.
And maybe, just maybe, something new was beginning.