The First Cut

Leonhart stood in silence before the unpainted canvas.

It was tall seven feet, maybe more propped against the far wall of his penthouse gallery, wrapped in Italian linen and primed days ago. The brushes were laid out beside it, immaculate and unused. The scent of turpentine hung faintly in the air, cut with bergamot and stillness.

He hadn't touched a brush in years.

Not since Berlin.

Not since the night he'd realized art no longer emptied him.

Now he simply collected.

He bought others' catharsis. Owned their confessions. Kept them behind glass and temperature-regulated walls.

Control, distilled.

But this canvas stayed.

Untouched.

Waiting.

Like it was his and not his. Like it knew something he didn't.

The rain hadn't stopped in Florence, though the sky pretended otherwise.

Below him, the city moved—golden domes, soaked cobblestones, the slow pulse of a place too old to ever sleep. He watched it all from behind the glass wall of his penthouse, one hand holding a crystal tumbler, the other tucked into the pocket of his tailored trousers.

A file sat on the table behind him.

Thick, beige, bound in leather. Rafael Santoro—Leonhart's chief advisor and oldest confidant—had left it that morning without a word.

He turned from the window and opened it now.

Her name was printed on the tab in small, precise type:

AANYA ROY

A black-and-white ID photo was clipped inside—passport-quality, unsmiling, forgettable to anyone else. But he didn't need to see it to remember her face.

He skimmed the contents.

Scholarship: Emerging Artisan Grant – Accademia di Arte e Restauro FirenzeResidency status: On Probation (Creative Inactivity – 5 months)Languages: Bengali, Hindi, English, Italian (Basic),Family: Deceased

He stopped reading.

The foundation that funded her internship—his foundation—had been created eight years ago for tax optimization and discreet acquisitions. It had never awarded a grant personally approved by him.

Until now.

And still, he hadn't spoken her name aloud.

The knock came soft.

He didn't answer, but Rafael let himself in anyway.

"Tell me this is not what it looks like," Rafael said dryly, gesturing toward the file.

Leonhart didn't turn.

"It's research."

"No. This is research." Rafael dropped a separate folder on the table. "Market instability in three of your holdings. Dubai's a mess. One of the Santoro contracts needs eyes. You're ignoring all of it."

Leonhart closed the file slowly. "I'm reallocating focus."

"To a girl."

"To a variable."

Rafael sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "Leon—"

"I'm not sleeping with her."

"Yet."

Leonhart finally turned, glass still in hand. "She doesn't know who I am."

"That hasn't stopped you before."

"This isn't before."

That silenced the room.

Rafael narrowed his eyes. "You said Berlin was the last one. That you were done pulling threads from broken things."

"I am."

"But she's different?"

Leonhart's jaw flexed.

Rafael scoffed. "You're not curious, Leonhart. You're circling."

Leonhart walked away from the conversation and into the deeper chamber of the penthouse—his private collection room.

It was darker here. Cooler.

Lights activated by motion revealed paintings like secrets: an 18th-century nude from Vienna, a shattered fresco fragment from a lost cathedral, a contemporary sculpture of a mouth sealed shut in copper and silk.

But at the center of the room hung a single canvas.

Untitled.

Unsigned.

Unframed.

It had been hers.

Aanya Roy's.

He'd bought it three years ago, under another name, through an anonymous bid on a third-tier auction site.

It was the same painting she had stood before at the gallery—his gallery—two nights ago. The one he had placed there deliberately, knowing she wouldn't be able to ignore it.

The woman in the painting stood with her back to the viewer, red silk wrapped loosely around her wrists. Her skin was pale against the saturated red, and her spine arched like a question. There was no violence in it.

Only surrender.

He'd kept it in this room for years, unframed, untouched, too intimate to be contained.

Now, it had served its purpose.

He stared at it for a long time.

Berlin had taught him one thing: never mistake consent for connection.

The woman before Aanya—brilliant, beautiful, unyielding—had signed his contract, fulfilled it to the letter, and left him colder than before.

He'd built the contract system after his twenty-fifth birthday. Every woman who entered his world knew the rules:

No love. No lies. No lingering.

It worked.

Until it didn't.

He approached the painting now, stopping just close enough to feel the air shift.

He had not touched it since it arrived.

But now, he raised a single hand.

Fingers brushed the edge of the canvas.

He didn't touch the paint. He didn't need to.

She had painted this with her own grief, her own body.

And now she was in Florence.

Starving.

Isolated.

Silent.

Perfect.

He returned to his study and opened a drawer.

Inside lay a black envelope.

Blank contract. Unused.

Customary for any new potential arrangement. He'd once had twelve printed at once.

Now only three remained.

He slid one out.

Unfolded it.

And stared at the space where her name would go.

He didn't write it.

Not yet.

Because Aanya Roy would not be offered what the others had.

She would not be seduced with luxury or spoiled with empty promises.

She would be given a door.

And she would walk through it herself.

He poured a new drink, leaned against the window, and watched the city exhale beneath him.

Florence was an elegant beast—its beauty centuries deep, its sins older still. A place where art disguised power, and desire dressed itself in light.

A cab rolled to a stop at a distant corner.

A figure stepped out.

Umbrella tucked under one arm.

Sketchpad pressed to her chest.

Her.

Even from this height, he knew her gait—measured, inward, almost reluctant. Her body didn't ask to be seen, but it was impossible not to look.

He didn't move.

Didn't blink.

A truck passed. When it cleared, she was gone.

His phone buzzed once.

A message from the restoration studio's project manager:Subject confirmed for tomorrow's orientation. Will begin with minor repair work.

He didn't reply.

Instead, he walked back to the untouched canvas in the private gallery and stared at it again.

Maybe tomorrow, he would paint.

Or maybe he would wait.

Just like she did.

Final Lines:

Leonhart had never believed in fate.But he believed in timing.And Aanya Roy had entered his world at the exact moment she was meant to be claimed.Not by force.Not by charm.But by the echo of her own surrender.