Page 5

It’s been a rather crazy couple of days since the race that spread my name like wildfire across the street racing syndicate.

Almost every crew had already heard about my victory and how I bested the Phantom Rider himself.

My phone had been blowing up ever since that night with calls and texts from folks I’d never met before.

Some of them claimed to be sponsors interested in investing in such “raw talent,” as they called it. They believed that I was destined to do great things and that winning a race against the Phantom Racer was just one of my many victories to come.

“This is just the beginning, Ayla. You have such great potential, and the whole world needs to know who you are,” one of them had said, their voice laced with sheer enthusiasm.

“Skills such as yours shouldn’t be buried.

They should be harnessed and used for the greater good.

Can you take a moment and imagine what wonderful things you’d achieve with the right sponsors backing you up?

You’d be unstoppable, Ayla—a fucking legend. ”

Of all the people who’d reached out to me, this guy—Wesley Coleman—was the most persuasive. The man had sugar on his tongue. And although I never really gave him a positive response, he wouldn’t stop calling and reminding me of how I could make history and create a legacy for myself.

It sounded like everything I’d ever wanted: the thrill, the calls for sponsorship, the praise and fame in the underground biker world.

It felt too good to be true, as if I were in a dream or some kind of virtual reality.

However, as great as these offers seemed, I knew deep down in my heart that now wasn’t the time.

Besides, despite my rebellious nature and stubbornness, I knew I couldn’t go against my father. At least not now and not like this. The praise and all the opportunities that came with winning that race were great, but I wouldn’t let those get to my head.

Yes, I hated law school, and I hated that I was set on a path without my permission.

But there were better ways to defy the destiny chosen for me that wouldn’t involve making impulsive and rash decisions.

As much as I wanted the life the likes of Wesley Coleman had promised me, I still needed to be careful and thoughtful.

If I’d learned anything from being the daughter of a cruel and merciless mafia boss, it was that things didn’t always come cheap, and everyone was only after their own interests.

The world was not as kind as I would’ve wanted it to be.

Sad, but true. If I acted on impulse and defied my father just because of some promises made by complete strangers, and it backfired, I’d be the stupidest daughter in the history of stupid daughters.

I’d find a way around my predicament. I’d figure something out.

Meanwhile, life had been a delicate balancing act for me these days. Between law school deadlines piling up and the pressure from my father to attend more Irish family meetings, I’d barely had a moment to breathe.

Peace seemed like something too far out of reach. And quiet? God, I’d almost forgotten what that felt like with all the craziness going on in my life right now.

My professors had already started hinting at internship placements.

The thought of spending my entire summer shadowing lawyers in some stuffy office made me feel nauseous.

Law school was prison enough on its own.

An internship—that was a whole new level of confinement, and I was not at all prepared for that shit.

It didn’t help that Father’s expectations loomed over everything.

He’d been pushing me to cut out distractions, which, in his world, meant everything except his version of success.

Racing, friends, my freedom—those were all nothing but noise to him.

Whatever I did that was not related to law was insignificant to him, unworthy of his attention, and below the high standards he’d raised.

Ronan O’Hara was a hard man to please; that was for sure.

To make matters even worse for me, my older sister Maeve was getting married in a few months.

And now, the whole family was in full prep mode, making sure everything was in order and that Maeve’s big day would not be one to be so easily forgotten.

I was tasked with helping to pick a venue for one of the bridal events.

It was a huge relief because at least that way, I got to leave the house, and I got to have a little taste of freedom. I was already bored to death in the grand mansion and had grown so tired of Father’s lectures. So, when this opportunity presented itself, I wasted no time jumping on it.

And that’s how I ended up in a high-end art gallery and event space in River North, a place known for its wealthy clientele rather than the actual art itself. My friend, Ester Sharpe, had decided to tag along—mostly for the free wine and people-watching.

Inside the opulent space, the air hummed softly with the scent of fresh paint and old wood floors.

Natural light filtered in from the high windows as tall walls stood still, clean, like they were holding their breaths.

The gallery was quiet, the type of quiet seemed rather intentional, and for the first time in a few days, I felt it. Peace.

Elegantly dressed people moved like they were part of the art: slow, thoughtful, eyes wide.

Some lingered in small groups, whispering.

Others didn’t even speak at all; they just admired the artist’s work with faint smiles on their lips.

The high walls were adorned with beautiful pieces, hanging like secrets to be found: strange shapes, bold strokes, and a mix of colors that made my chest tighten without even knowing why.

The pieces were all striking, and the moment I paid close attention to one, the story behind it began unraveling before me.

Crazy how a picture could tell a story. This particular massive abstract piece pulled me in like a moth to a flame until I was standing in front of it, eyes fixed on the painting.

“Hey, stay put. I’ll be right back, okay?” Ester said, tapping my shoulder.

My gaze flickered in her direction as she walked toward a sculpture across the room, her heels clicking softly against the floor.

I returned my gaze to the piece in front of me, intrigued by the chaos bottled in color.

The painting was massive yet simple, with just a few brush strokes here and there in different colors.

Entangled in this web of bold strokes and colors was a figure—a man, a woman; I wasn’t sure, but it was a person.

Somehow, I thought the painting told a story of an individual struggling with their demons. What I saw in that painting was someone wrapped in chaos, trapped in a world designed to keep them prisoner. And in the eyes of this figure, there was a desperate need for freedom.

Yep. I knew someone who matched this description.

That’s right. Me.

Fuck, it was like staring at my own reflection in a mirror, except this wasn’t a mirror. It was a painting of my life.

I was so engrossed in the painting and how I could relate to it that I didn’t notice the tall man standing beside me until he spoke.

“I’ve never really understood why people are so drawn to that piece.” His deep, husky voice cut through my thoughts like a knife.

Snapped back to the present, I blinked a few times and then shot a quick glance in his direction.

I swear to God, my heart stopped for a moment when our eyes met.

Dark brown hair styled to perfection, charcoal black suit, and a pair of sharp, piercing gray eyes.

He looked like a weapon forged in war—broad-shouldered, rugged features, and a crooked grin, however faint, playing on his lips.

He was older—maybe two decades—but not in a creepy or stuffy way. More like danger wrapped in silk.

My brain went completely blank, and for the next few seconds, I just stared at him like some creep.

It was so embarrassing. The silence between us was way beyond awkward, and I hated myself for going numb.

The only good thing here, though, was the flat expression I managed to wear.

At least it did a great job at masking my anxiety.

He lifted his champagne flute to his lips and took a sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “If you ask me, I’d say the painting is…overrated,” he added, his deep voice making me freeze as if the space had turned to ice.

“Overrated?” I managed to find my voice, brows rising by a whisper. “If you ask me, I’d say you’re not familiar with the story in the painting.”

He tilted his head a little to the side, his gray eyes squinting ever so slightly. “Well then, humor me.” His voice dropped to a low whisper. This strange man drew closer, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

I felt that pesky little anxiety creeping back in as he closed the distance between us, his cologne invading my senses. I steeled myself, trying so hard not to freeze under the intensity of his gaze.

Clearing my throat, I broke eye contact and fixed my eyes on the painting. “What do you see when you look at this?” I asked, my voice calm and collected, my exterior exuding confidence and composure, as if I were in control. A stark contrast to the turmoil brewing inside of me.

He shifted his eyes to the painting, sipped his drink, and then looked at me again. “I’m not sure.”

“See? That’s why you think it’s overrated,” I said.

Still holding my gaze, he stroked his jaw. “Tell me: What do you see when you look at the painting?”

I hesitated for a moment before answering, my eyes shifting across him and the hanging piece.

“I see a person wallowing in darkness. A prisoner trying to crawl their way out, doing all they can to have a taste of freedom. They’re trapped.

They know they don’t belong here. But they can’t find a way out.

” My words were slow and deliberate, my heart heavy, wrapped in anxiety, afraid of ending up like the figure in the painting.

“You got all of that…from that?” The slight pause came when he pointed at the hanging piece. His brows were raised, a glint of astonishment flashing across his face.

Well, it’s kinda hard to miss when it’s your reality, I thought to myself.

Strange how there was this familiarity in the way he watched me. It was almost like he already knew me from somewhere.

The race. Maybe he knew me from the race.

I doubt it. He’s too polished for games like that. too old. Maybe if he were twenty years younger, sure. He looks more like a man who barely has any time for himself, always working.

Anyway, this strange familiarity and the way he looked at me were starting to unsettle me in ways I couldn’t explain.

“Hey, Ayla, come see this!” Ester called out, her voice echoing through the gallery.

Several heads turned to face her, their stern expressions hinting at how little they appreciated the disruption.

“Sorry,” she muttered, her eyes flickering across their disapproving faces like she actually meant the apology.

Thank goodness. I got to leave this ridiculously attractive, strange man with an even stranger aura.

I shrugged my shoulders, a plastic smile playing on my lips. “That’s my cue. Gotta go now, if you don’t mind.”

“Ayla,” he said softly, eyes still fixated on me.

Never heard my name sound so sexy before. Jeez!

“That’s a pretty interesting name.” He extended a hand. “I’m Sergei.”

My eyes dropped to his outstretched hand, and I hesitated before shaking it. His grip was gentle—firm, but gentle. “Nice meeting you, Sergei.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” His lips twisted into a grin that was both charming and alarming at the same time.

He let go of my hand, but his gaze never left my face.

Even after I left his presence, I could still feel his stare.

I caught up with Ester, and while waiting to hear why she called me over, I noticed her attention was focused behind me.

My eyes squinted, and I followed her gaze until I turned around and saw Sergei approaching me.

“I almost forgot.” He chuckled lightly, halting in front of me. Sergei withdrew his phone and handed it to me. “Just in case I need a little more clarity on… overrated paintings.”

He wants my number. Why does he want my number? I mean, he’s hot and all that, but he also looks like a man I shouldn’t mess with.

My eyes flickered to Ester, who simply shrugged her shoulders with a casual smile on her face.

Finally, I accepted the phone and punched in my digits. “Here.” I handed it back to him.

“Thank you,” he said, nice and polite. “Have a nice day.” Sergei flashed me a faint smirk and then walked away, his shoes clicking on the wooden floor.

Ester turned to me, her smile broadening by the second. “Okay, who was that?” she asked, her voice dripping with enthusiasm.

“Nobody. Now let’s get outta here,” I said, my tone swift and dismissive.

“He’s hot for a ‘nobody’,” she teased under her breath, air-quoting the word.

I didn’t check my phone for the rest of the day; I couldn’t even if I wanted to. It was a really busy day for the O’Haras. Later that night, after I had showered and eaten dinner, I checked and realized I had missed a call. No voicemail. No texts. Just a number sitting there, waiting.

It was Sergei’s.

I was sure.