Scorched Palette

** The buzz of neon lights outside the gallery’s glass façade never dimmed, casting a cold, electric glow over the contemporary art exhibition. Inside, patrons murmured softly, their eyes glued to the centerpiece: a towering, abstract sculpture of blackened steel and shattered glass, its jagged edges seeming to consume the room. Lucien Voss stood at the foot of the installation, arms crossed, his tousled black hair catching the dim light. His presence was a storm—brooding, unyielding, and unmistakably arrogant. He’d spent years carving his name into the art world with works that dared to provoke, to shock. He didn’t need approval. He needed attention. “Madame Kade,” he barked, his voice cutting through the gallery’s ambient hum. His gaze locked onto Seraphina Kade, who stood near the entrance, clipboard in hand, her crimson lipstick sharply contrasting against her pale skin. She looked nothing like the haughty curator Lucien had expected. Seraphina had a quiet intensity, a razor-sharp intellect beneath her poised veneer. She’d spent years dismantling artists like Lucien, calling their work “loud and lazy.” “Voss,” she said, her tone cool as polished marble. “You’ve violated every protocol regarding this exhibit. The sculpture isn’t safe for public viewing.” “Safe?” Lucien scoffed. “It’s art. It’s meant to unsettle.” He stepped closer, the scent of expensive cologne and sweat mingling in the air. “You ever feel like the world is too soft? Too predictable? This piece is a reminder that beauty can be ugly. It’s a mirror—hold it up to yourself, Kade.” Seraphina didn’t flinch. “You’ve projected your insecurities onto this. It’s not art; it’s a cry for attention.” Her voice was dangerously calm. “Most people don’t care about your ‘message,’ Lucien. They care about their next drink.” “And yet here you are,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Maybe because you’re one of the few who get it.” She laughed—a sharp, bitter sound. “I pity you. You mistake aggression for passion.” Lucien’s hand twitched toward his wallet, where aNote he’d scribbled earlier resided: *“Seraphina Kade. You’re a prude. A coward. And tonight, we’re having sex.”* She didn’t notice. --- **Scene 1: The Steal** Five minutes later, Lucien had stolen the sculpture. It was a masterpiece of destruction—six feet tall, its fractured limbs dangling from welded steel cables. He’d pried it loose from its pedestal with a crowbar, his muscles corded with effort. Now, he carried it like a weapon, the cold metal grazing his skin as he slipped into a maintenance closet near the gallery’s rear entrance. Seraphina was already there, her dark eyes scanning the room. She’d tracked his movements through security cameras, her calculated precision making Lucien itch to ruin her. “You’re insane,” he muttered, shoving the sculpture into a padding-lined crate. “And you’re clueless,” she snapped, grabbing his wrist. Her grip was iron. “This is dangerous, Voss. You’ll get yourself killed.” “Risk is part of the appeal,” he hissed. “You want a lesson in vulnerability? Here you are, a curator with nothing but opinions.” “Then knock it off,” she said, pulling him into an awkward, tense embrace. His hardness pressed against hers as she dug her nails into his shoulders. “You think this is foreplay? It’s not.” “Isn’t it?” He nipped her earlobe, his breath hot against her skin. “You’re the ones who made this fight happen. You ruined my exhibit. You wanted to *“protect”* it. So why not protect me instead?” Seraphina froze. His words stung—not because they were false, but because they were *true*. She’d wanted to expose him as a talented nobody, but now he was treating her like a prize. “Maybe I *do* want to protect you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But not like this.” “Oh, yes you do,” he growled, dragging her toward the small glass door. “You’ve always wanted this. The power. The control.” Before she could protest, he shoved her into the closet. The door hissed shut behind them, plunging them into darkness. “Now you’re the one who’s vulnerable,” he murmured, tracing a line up her neck with his thumb. “Admit it. You want this.” She didn’t deny it. Instead, she thrust her hips against his, forcing him back against the cold metal wall. “Don’t tell me I want this,” she snapped. “You don’t even know me!” “Maybe not,” he said, unbuttoning her blouse. “But I know enough to know you’re screaming for it.” Her curse was wasted as his fingers slid under her tank top, tracing the dip of her stomach. Seraphina bucked into him, her nails raking into his shoulders as he pulled the fabric away. His lips found her neck, biting just shy of her collarbone. “Lucien,” she hissed, her voice trembling between pleasure and defiance. “You don’t own me.” “No,” he whispered. “But I *can* break you.” --- **Scene 2: The Blackout** The gallery’s power flickered once—then died entirely. Silence. Lucien and Seraphina stood in the ruined exhibit, the shattered sculpture now a twisted monument between them. Outside, the city roared with life, but inside, it was a tomb. “I should call security,” Seraphina said, though her voice lacked conviction. “You could,” Lucien replied, stepping closer. His breath ghosted her ear. “But I doubt you’d want to.” She didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed his collar, jerking him into a kiss. Her mouth was rough, demanding. He responded in kind, his tongue forcing its way past her lips as her hands clawed at his back. “Stop,” she panted, though her body betrayed her. “You don’t—” “Shut up,” he growled, unbuttoning her jeans. His fingers found her damp panties, sliding inside with a practiced ease. She gasped as he plunged a digit inside her, then another, his touch precise, invasive. “*What the hell are you doing?*” “Relax,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “You wanted this, didn’t you?” “I *hate* you!” “Good.” He plunged deeper, his hands gripping her thighs as he thrust. “Hate is a good thing.” When she came, it was a wrecking ball. Lucien arched off the floor, his fury and need melting into raw ecstasy. He pulled out, wiping his aperture on her thigh before she could stop him. “You’re mad,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “You think this is some game?” “It is,” he said, kissing her fiercely. “But it’s *our* game now.” --- **Scene 3: The Crimson Price** The next morning, the gallery was closed for maintenance. Lucian found Seraphina in the lobby, her normally impeccable patience fraying. “You almost got me fired,” she snarled, her usual composure cracked. “You almost *made* me.” She turned, startled by his sudden proximity. “What?” “Your file says you’ve been undermining my work since your first curator gig. You’ve had my sculptures labeled ‘pointless,’ my interviews sabotaged. You’re a villain, Kade.” She opened her mouth to protest, but Lucien silenced her with a kiss. It started soft, then became desperate, his hands roaming her body as he moaned against her lips. When he pulled away, she was panting, her cheeks flushed. “Why are you doing this?” she breathed. “Because you’re worth it,” he said, tugging her into his arms. “Because you’re *mine* now.” She didn’t fight him this time. Instead, she led him to an abandoned maintenance tunnel beneath the gallery, its damp walls echoing with their hurried breaths. He stripped her slowly, his fingers lingering on every inch of her as he peeled her clothes off. When he was inside her, she cried out—not from pain, but from the sudden, terrifying pleasure. Lucien didn’t slow down. He kissed her, his tongue exploring her lips as he fucked her hard, deltaic. “You’re disgusting,” she whined, though her hips moved with him. “No,” he said, his voice thick with arousal. “You’re perfect.” They didn’t stop until he filled her with his seed, his release loud in the confined space. When he collapsed beside her, Seraphina wrapped her arms around his waist, her tears now mingling with love. “You wanted this,” she whispered. “You wanted *me.*” Lucian smirked. “Maybe.” --- **Scene 4: The Public Fall** Weeks later, the gallery was packed. Lucien’s new exhibit—a series of portraits each missing a limb—drew crowds. Seraphina stood beside him, her usually stoic expression soft, almost tender. "Your work’s changed," she said, her voice uncharacteristically sweet. "It’s *you*," he replied, his gaze never leaving hers. Behind them, a tabloid headline screamed: *“ARTIST Voss and CURATOR Kade REUNITE After Feudo”* Lucian’s chest tightened. He turned to Seraphina, his sudden vulnerability disarming her. “You ever think about what you’ve done to me?” She stepped closer, her hands resting on his shoulders. “You were always broken inside. I just showed it to you.” He cupped her face, his thumb grazing her cheek. “You’re the only one who ever did.” The gallery erupted into chaos when a news helicopter landed nearby, its lights slicing through the crowd. Reporters swarmed them, but Seraphina stood her ground. “Let them ask their questions,” she said, her voice steady. “But don’t interfere.” Lucian nodded, though his heart was a mess. He’d forgiven her. He’d loved her. But could he do that again? Then Seraphina kissed him. Slow. Sweet. And when Lucian returned it, she bit his lip, her nails leaving red marks. The reporters didn’t get a word in. --- **EPILOGUE:** Months later, Lucien and Seraphina owned an art studio in a quieter part of the city. Their relationship was a tapestry of arguments and make-up sex, of stolen moments and loud declarations of love. “You’re still an ass,” Seraphina said one evening, as they cuddled on his half-finished exhibition dummy. “And you’re still insufferable,” he replied, nipping her neck. “Prove it then,” she teased. He grinned. “Tonight.” They didn’t sleep that night. --- **THE END**