Time: 10:20 AM
Location:Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts
Milo had been watching Rohit closely, the other man's words lingering in the air between them like notes from a masterfully played violin...rich, layered, and resonant. He had been prepared to respond, to explore the thread of thought Rohit had unraveled about movement, about being trapped in a moment, about whether one could truly appreciate light without having drowned in darkness.
But then, the world moved.
It was a subtle shift at first...just the flicker of candlelight catching on deep crimson, the soft rustle of heavy fabric in motion...but then it all unraveled at once. A presence, sudden and striking, barreled into their space like an errant brushstroke disrupting the smooth canvas of conversation.
Milo turned in time to see her...dramatic in black and red, a vision of depth and contrast, like something conjured from one of his more impassioned nights at the easel. The woman had fallen, or nearly so, and Rohit had caught her with the grace of someone born to navigate the rhythm of life with effortless precision.
For a brief moment, it was all frozen...the scent of roses heavy in the air, the flicker of emotion in the woman’s eyes, the warmth of Rohit’s easy charm as he bowed in greeting.
Milo smiled at the duo in sheer amusement with a raised eyebrow before he addressed the woman.
“You certainly know how to make an entrance,” he remarked, intrigue curling at the edges of his lips. His hazel eyes, sharp with curiosity, swept over the woman Rohit had so gallantly steadied. "Are you alright?"
His voice was gentle, but there was something in his gaze that sought more than just an answer...he was already reading her, deciphering the story written in the tension of her shoulders, the flicker of something unspoken in her eyes.
Mina barely had time to register the sensation of falling before strong hands caught her, halting her descent with effortless grace. The scent of spice and sandalwood filled her senses, mingling with the lingering fragrance of roses from her own attire. She blinked, momentarily startled, before tilting her chin upward to meet the dark, smoldering gaze of the man who had saved her from utter disgrace.
How convenient.
A slow, knowing smile curved her lips as she steadied herself against him, allowing just a second longer than necessary before Rohit released her. As he bowed with the elegance befitting Alidasht nobility, Mina’s smirk deepened. Were all Alidasht men charming? She didn't allow the other accompanying thought to make an unwanted entrance into her mind.
With practiced ease, she returned the bow in the Alidasht style. "A pleasure, Bey Rohit Amar," she purred, the name rolling smoothly from her tongue. "You make quite the gallant first impression. I'm not sure if you were hoping to sweep me off my feet, but it was a fortunate accident if not. I’m Lady Mina Blackwood."
Milo’s lips twitched at that. A woman who met charm with charm, quick-witted enough to keep pace. How very refreshing.
With a carefree shrug, Rohit replied “My life is filled with fortunate accidents.”
Milo’s voice, warm with amusement, drew her attention. Mina turned, her stormy blue eyes meeting his hazel gaze, keen and observant. A man who studied people like they were canvases to be deciphered. How intriguing.
She took a deliberate step back, reclaiming her space with effortless poise, and let a soft, rueful laugh escape her lips. "An entrance, indeed," she mused, fingers brushing a stray curl from her face. "Though I must admit, I prefer to leave people breathless for different reasons." Her gaze flickered between the two men, playful yet measured. "But it seems fortune is on my side today. Two handsome gentlemen to catch me when I fall? Truly, the gods must be feeling generous."
Milo’s grin deepened, his gaze flickering toward Rohit briefly, before returning to Mina with playful appraisal. “Generous, or perhaps merely well-entertained. The gods have always been fond of a good story.”
Her smile lingered, teasing and inviting, as she met Milo’s gaze again. "As for whether I’m alright–well, I suppose that depends." She let her lashes lower briefly before lifting them again, her eyes alight with mischief as she glanced at both men. "Have I successfully recovered my dignity, or must I work a bit harder to make you both forget my momentary lapse in grace?”
“Was any dignity truly lost? I think, all anyone saw, was the lovely Lady Mina Blackwood make a flawless introduction to the two most handsome men in the room.” Rohit countered. He gave her name the same drawn-out and honey-dipped attention she’d given his.
“Your entrance may have even proved the point I was trying to make; life’s stumbles, the darker moments that make the light shine brighter, offer invaluable spontaneity. They make life more exciting, more worth living, and only add to life’s beauty. That is what I’ve found in Milo St. Claire’s works. But I’m interested to hear both your thoughts on that.” He glanced from Milo to Mina, and everything about the woman’s bold attire made him certain she’d have thoughts worth hearing as much as the artist himself.
Milo hummed, considering Rohit’s words as his gaze lingered on Mina, curious as to what she would say. But his answer came with an easy, confident cadence.
"Spontaneity is the artist’s greatest muse. The way light falls in an unexpected way, the way a moment unravels precisely because it wasn’t planned." His lips curled at the edges. "And in that sense, Mina, I’d say your entrance was a masterpiece of timing.” He reached out a gentle, introductory hand. “Milo St. Claire. It’s a privilege to witness the beauty of one such as you, Lady Blackwood. Welcome to my gallery. And as honored as I am to hear that my work has informed the good Bey’s philosophies…I too would like to hear your take on the matter, my Lady.”
Mina’s lips curled, amusement flickering in her dark eyes as she took Milo’s offered hand with a graceful dip of her head. “A masterpiece of timing?” she mused, voice smooth as the finest ink on parchment. “You’re far too kind, Lord St. Claire. But I do believe I must agree with both of you.”
Milo, whose grip was as light as a whisper, gave a soft chuckle—warm, rich, utterly amused. “Ah, but you wound me, Lady Blackwood. I must correct such a tragic misstep before it scandalizes the room—I am, regrettably, no Lord.” His hazel eyes gleamed with playful mischief as he released her hand. “I fear I was only blessed with talent, not title. Though, between you and me,” he leaned in slightly, as if conspiring, “I find the former far more useful at parties.” With a wink and a rather sweet smile, Milo directed his attention back to his art. “But please continue, your thoughts are far more interesting than any semantics could ever be.”
She turned her gaze to the paintings surrounding them, the light of the gallery casting shifting glows and shadows across each canvas. Her fingers absently trailed the fabric of her sleeve, as if resisting the urge to reach for a brush. “The unexpected, the unplanned—those moments breathe life into art, do they not? Some would call them mistakes, but I find they are often the very strokes that make a piece sing.” A knowing glint sparked in her eye. “After all, there are no true missteps in creation, only… fortunate little accidents.”
Her words were meant for Milo, but her gaze flickered toward Rohit as well, holding his for a lingering beat. He had been the first to frame the conversation in such a way, spinning her stumble into something meaningful, something beautiful. She wondered if he always carried that perspective, finding poetry in the imperfect, or if it was merely another layer of his effortless charm. Either way, she found herself intrigued.
“Fortunate little accidents.” Rohit quietly repeated the delightful phrase to himself. The words lingered, rolling around in his head. He needed more of that in his life.
Mina turned back to the artwork, allowing her thoughts to drift deeper into the pieces before her. One in particular caught her eye—darkness bleeding into light in stark, breathtaking contrast. Figures caught in motion, frozen in time at the precipice of something inevitable—tragedy or triumph, it was impossible to tell. And perhaps that was the point.
“They feel… honest,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “Not just reflections of life as it is seen, but as it is felt—the turmoil, the longing, the fragile beauty in every fleeting moment. They do not merely capture, they confess.”
Her lashes lifted, locking onto Milo once more, intrigue sparking beneath their shadowed depths. “Your use of chiaroscuro is masterful. The way you manipulate contrast, guiding the eye not just to what is illuminated, but to what lurks in shadow. I imagine achieving such depth required more than mere intuition. Did you glaze in layers, or do you work alla prima?”
The question was poised with deliberate intent, a subtle challenge woven between admiration. She was not just another noblewoman murmuring pleasantries over fine art. She understood it.
Milo’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile—one that held the warmth of summer’s first golden light. He had entertained countless admirers, endured tedious flattery, and waded through a sea of empty praises, but this—this was different. She truly recognized the depth of it.
Rohit nodded along, listening intently but understanding very little. Chiaroscuro. Alla prima. He liked the way the words sounded, the way Mina pronounced them so elegantly, but what they meant - he had not a clue.
“Yes!” He added with excitement. “What is the illustrious genius’s process.” Rohit continued, looking at Milo. It didn’t matter how well he understood all this artist's terminology, it was always exciting to listen to someone speak about something they were so passionate about.
The artist leaned forward ever so slightly, his hazel eyes aglow with delight. “Ah,” he exhaled, as if savoring the taste of the moment. “A question posed with precision—measured, deliberate, and oh-so dangerously perceptive. You do realize, my dears, that with such insight, you run the risk of truly seeing me?”
His fingers idly traced the rim of his wine glass, the gesture languid, almost meditative. “Yes, working in layers provides control—patience, prudence, the careful shaping of fate with every delicate glaze. An artist may stretch time itself, coaxing a piece into existence as one would a reluctant lover.” He paused, tilting his head, a rogue’s glint in his eye. “But I am—will always be—an alla prima man.”
His voice dipped, rich with something indulgent, like velvet sliding over bare skin. “Chaos, my darlings, is the lifeblood of my art. The unpredictability of oil meeting canvas, the thrill of a stroke that cannot be undone, the urgency of creation in its rawest form—now that is where the magic lives. To tame it would be a sin, wouldn’t you agree?”
Mina’s gaze lingered on Milo, a slow, appreciative smile curling her lips. “An alla prima man?” she mused, her tone dipping into something silky, almost sinful. “A man after my own heart.”
Her ocean eyes flicked toward Rohit, catching his gaze as if she had drawn an invisible thread between them. “I have to agree with Milo. Chaos, after all, holds a certain… undeniable allure. It ties in well with your comment on spontaneity from earlier.” Her tone deepened, her words laced with a knowing tease, as she looked between both men. “There’s something exhilarating in surrendering to what cannot be controlled, don’t you think? A brushstroke that defies precision, or perhaps… a moment of passion that dances on the edge of chaos.”
She let the air hang heavy with her suggestion, her gaze moving between them, daring either man to rise to the occasion. “After all, some of life’s most extraordinary masterpieces are painted in shadows.”
“Life is all about surrender, very little can be truly controlled. But chaos, I think it always wishes to return to order. Like a dance, a bit of spontaneity here and there, but in line with a rhythm. Everything exists in a delicate balance. Without light, there are no shadows, but to stare wide-eyed into the sun will leave you in darkness.” Rohit said with a shrug that simply said ‘what can you do.’ Nothing but surrender to whatever life throws, he supposed.
“I am curious about the Mirrors of Perception, shall I expect more spontaneity in there? A journey through the ever-changing nature of self awareness right? Certainly sounds promising.” Rohit rifled through his pockets for a small golden case and popped the small rectangular object open once he found it. Inside was a row of tightly rolled joints.
“I happen to have some of the finest herbs from home, guaranteed to alter perception and awareness just enough to really, spice up the exhibit. Any takers?” He offered.
Milo let out a wistful sigh, reclining just enough to make it look effortlessly elegant, yet brimming with mischief. His hazel eyes shimmered with the kind of longing reserved for poets and dreamers, a man utterly devastated by the cruel pull of responsibility.
“Ah, my darlings,” he purred, placing a hand over his heart as if genuinely mourning his own departure. “If only I could commit some manner of violent crime—truly, I’d murder with flair—just to linger in your company a moment longer. But alas, the weight of expectation presses down upon me like an overzealous lover, and I must tear myself away before the temptation to abandon it all becomes too great.”
A slow, teasing smile curved his lips as he let his gaze flicker between them, sharp as a blade yet warm as honey. “For if I were to remain even a moment longer, I fear I may do something positively reckless—like fall in love with one, or both, of you.”
With a smooth, unhurried motion, he reached for their hands, enveloping each in one of his own. A man well-versed in reverence, he pressed a lingering kiss to the back of Mina’s hand first, then Rohit’s, each as deliberate as a final brushstroke upon a masterpiece.
“Should you choose to step into the Mirrors of Perception under such,” a pointed glance toward the golden case of finely rolled indulgences, “augmented circumstances, I wish you only the most delicious revelations. Try not to lose yourselves entirely… or do, if the moment demands it.”
With that, he turned, moving with the practiced ease of a man who knew all eyes belonged to him. Yet just as he was about to slip away into the crowd, he hesitated. A flash of something wicked danced across his features as he reached into his jacket and retrieved two ivory cards, embossed with the faint shimmer of gold filigree.
He offered one to Mina, then the other to Rohit, his voice lowering to something almost conspiratorial.
“Should you ever feel the urge to experience the full extent of the gallery’s indulgences, these shall grant you access to the more… selective delights. But be warned—only those truly worthy may find themselves at home in such rarified company.”
A final smirk, a lingering glance, and then—like the final notes of a symphony fading into the night—Milo St. Claire was gone.
But not forgotten. Never forgotten. 
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