C6 Faces of the Past
MAYA
A sharp knock on the door jolted me from my canvas. I glanced at the clock. Too early for James. Too polite for my landlord-usually.
"Maya!" came the familiar bark from the hallway. "Five days! That's all you've got left if you can't pay!"
Sighing, I opened the door to see Mr. Callahan, his brows knitted in frustration. His wiry frame seemed even more hunched than usual, but his voice was sharp as ever.
"I know, Mr. Callahan," I said, forcing calm into my voice. "I'm working on it."
"Working on it won't keep the roof over your head," he snapped. "You've had weeks. Either you find the money, or you find somewhere else to live."
I bit back a retort, instead nodding tightly. "I'll get it."
His eyes narrowed before he gave a reluctant grunt and went away. I closed the door and leaned against it, my chest tight. Five days.
---
Two days later, I stood in front of my mirror, smoothing the emerald green gown over my hips. James's words echoed in my head: "Dress to impress. Even if you're scared, look like you belong."
The gown hugged my figure, the soft satin draping perfectly. My auburn hair cascaded over my shoulders in loose waves, and I even dared a touch of red lipstick. It wasn't my usual look, but tonight wasn't a usual night.
The art gallery appeared as both an opportunity and a gamble. Selling even one painting could buy me time. But putting myself out there? That terrified me more than the eviction notice.
---
The gallery buzzed with energy when I arrived, and James was already waiting for me. His eyes widened when he saw me.
"Damn, girl," he said with a grin. "That dress was made for you."
"Stop," I said, laughing. "I already feel out of place."
"You're not out of place. Look around. They're here for the art, and you're part of it." He squeezed my arm. "Now, mingle. Oh, and Daniel's over by the wine table if you want to say hi."
As he disappeared into the crowd, I took a deep breath and wandered toward my section. My paintings hung like small beacons against the stark white walls, their bold colors drawing curious glances.
---
**Maya's POV**
I was adjusting a frame when I felt it-a prickle of awareness at the back of my neck. Turning, I froze.
Damian Greyson.
He was standing across the room, speaking with an older man who shared his sharp features. Damian's tailored suit emphasized his tall, lean frame and dark hair slicked back. When he gestured, I caught a glimpse of the tattoo on his left hand-a series of intricate lines running across the back of his palm and disappearing beneath his cuff.
I knew him immediately, though I doubted he'd remember me. The last time we met hadn't been a good encounter, my hands shaking as I tried to clean up the coffee I'd spilled on him, his icy words cutting deeper than I cared to admit.
But this wasn't the catering hall. This was my space-or so I told myself.
Still, I couldn't deny the magnetic pull of his presence. His chiseled jaw, the way a strand of his dark hair fell slightly across his forehead, and those piercing grey eyes-he was maddeningly attractive. My cheeks burned when I realized I'd been staring.
---
**Damian's POV**
My father had dragged me here, claiming he wanted to "support emerging artists." I wasn't interested. I had deals to finalize, board meetings to attend-real work. But then I saw her.
The woman in green.
She stood by a set of paintings, her auburn hair catching the light like fire. There was something familiar about her-the curve of her cheek, the freckles scattered across her nose. And then it hit me.
The coffee girl.
I hadn't thought about her since that afternoon, but now, seeing her in this setting, I couldn't look away. The way the dress hugged her figure, the confidence in her movements-it was a far cry from the flustered server I remembered.
"Damian, are you listening?" My father's voice broke through my thoughts.
"Yes," I said, though I hadn't heard a word he'd said.
He shook his head, gesturing toward the paintings. "This artist is remarkable. Look at the emotion in these pieces."
We approached, and I realized with a jolt that the paintings belonged to her.
---
**Maya's POV**
I stiffened as they walked toward me. The older man smiled warmly, but Damian's expression was unreadable.
"Is this your work?" the older man asked, his voice rich and kind.
"Yes," I managed. "I'm Maya Evans."
"Well, Ms. Hayes, I'm Richard Greyson. And this is my son, Damian."
Damian's gaze flicked to mine, his blue eyes cool and assessing. For a heartbeat, neither of us spoke.
"These are extraordinary," Richard said, gesturing to one of the paintings. "The emotion, the movement-it's captivating."
"Thank you," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I'll take these two," he said, pointing to *Eclipsed Dreams* and *Rising Phoenix.*
My breath hitched. "You'll... buy them?"
"Absolutely," he said, smiling. "You're incredibly talented."
I blinked rapidly, trying to process his words.
---
**Damian's POV**
I watched her struggle to contain her surprise. She looked different from the woman I'd fired-more composed, more vibrant. My father was right; her work was incredible.
But admitting that felt... complicated.
"She's talented, isn't she?" my father said, glancing at me.
"Yes," I said simply.
"Damian," he continued, "we should commission her for the mural at the office. What do you think?"
I hesitated, my gaze flicking back to Maya. She was talking to someone now, her smile lighting up her face.
"Fine," I said at last.
----
*Maya's Pov
*
The night wore on, and I stepped outside for air. The crisp breeze felt like a reprieve from the crowded room.
But then I heard footsteps behind me.
"Maya," a voice called.
I turned, expecting James. But it wasn't James.
It was Damian.
