Haustus, page 4
She turned to me slowly, like an actress preparing for her grand monologue.
“Sarah. Josephina. Bennett.” She pronounced my full name with the dramatic seriousness of someone about to save a life. “You are going to shake off that gray cloud you’ve been carrying around. You’re with me now. Which means—” she lifted a brow with her most dangerous smile—“I am not letting you go to your first official outing in London looking like a wandering soul.”
With a single tug, she ripped the blanket away as if she were exorcising a demon.
“Come on! Get up. We’re going to make you gorgeous. I want every British man who sees you to lose his breath. To think: Who is that mysterious woman who just arrived?”
“Oh my God…” I groaned, pressing a hand to my forehead with mock dramatics. “Does this include heels?”
“This includes everything. Heels, eyeliner, and attitude. And I accept no complaints. Come on. Today is not a day for being sad. Today is a day for rebirth.”
I sighed, but couldn’t help a small smile. Kaylie had that ridiculous talent for dragging you out of your misery like it was an ugly dress—without asking permission and with extra sparkle.
“Now that you’re here, in this country full of seductive accents, tea, and tall men who look like they walked out of an autumn fashion spread…” she began, crossing her legs, “I have to ask you an important question.”
“How important?” I asked, raising a brow.
“‘Little sister with free access to birth control’ important. Are you being safe?”
“What do you mean am I being safe?”
“You know. Pills, condoms, patches, rings, talismans—whatever.”
“Kaylie…”
“I’m serious! Don’t look at me like that.”
I flopped back onto the bed and covered my face with a pillow.
“No need.”
“What do you mean ‘no need’? You’re not planning to go out? You’re just going to—”
“No need because I’ve never done it. I’ve never been with anyone. Ever. There. I said it. You can close your mouth now.”
The silence that followed was so abrupt I thought for a second she’d collapsed from the shock.
I peeked out from under the pillow and, sure enough, Kaylie was staring at me wide-eyed, completely still, as if she’d just witnessed an emotional earthquake.
“You’re a virgin!?” she blurted, loud enough to make me wince, hands thrown in the air.
“Shhh, keep your voice down. God, Kaylie.”
“No, sorry, it’s just… really? Wow! I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it, okay? But wow. Wow, Sarah! You’re twenty-five.”
“You’ve said that three times.”
“I’m processing!”
“It just… didn’t happen. I never felt like it was the right moment. And… I don’t know.”
Kaylie was quiet for a few seconds. Then she lay down beside me, turning her head so she could look at me with a softness that held no trace of teasing.
“Hey. That’s fine. More than fine. There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing shameful. It’s not too late, it’s not weird, it’s just… yours. Your story, okay? And you get to decide when, how, and with who. If you ever want to.”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who hasn’t. Like the whole world’s living something I just… haven’t.”
“So what? Who cares? Love, sex, all of it—it’s not a race. It’s a feeling. And if you haven’t felt it yet, good. You haven’t missed anything. You’ve just gained time to know yourself better.”
I stayed quiet, letting her words settle. Kaylie reached over and pulled me into her side, wrapping her arm around me.
“And besides,” she added with a conspiratorial smile, “when it happens, you’re going to live it fully.”
I laughed under my breath, resting my head on her shoulder.
“And you’ll be there the next day with awkward questions.”
“Exactly. It’s part of the little sister package. I help you dress sexy, make sure you’re safe, and when it happens, you give me a full report. With ratings.”
Chapter Ten
A few hours later—after nearly losing my patience thanks to my sister, who made me try on half the store’s clothing as if we were preparing for a royal gala—she finally left me in peace, handing me a dress she claimed she’d bought on impulse and never worn.
I won’t lie: the dress was a work of art.
Crimson red, fitted in all the right places, with a soft fall that brushed against my legs as I walked, as if it were doing it on purpose. Elegant. Sexy. But without tipping into the obvious. The kind of dress that turns heads without revealing too much. And although I’m not one to say things like this… yes, I looked fucking elegant, but sexy.
I paired it with heels—crimson as well, intimidating in their height. Kaylie also lent me gold jewelry: a pair of long earrings that grazed my collarbones and an antique bracelet that, according to her, had belonged to our grandmother.
Kaylie, of course, had been ready long before I was. She wore a black satin dress with a straight neckline, thin straps, and a side slit so strategic it made me frown. Her eyeliner was flawless, her lips a deep wine-red, and she wore that smile that says yes, I know exactly what I’m doing.
The museum rose before us like a modern, dark castle—minimalist, with black marble columns that gleamed under dim lights as though polished by centuries of secrets. The main entrance was an immense arch of smoked glass that reflected London’s gray sky, and the gold lettering on the façade read Roowelth Collection with a sobriety that demanded respect… or fear. I wasn’t sure which.
A man in a suit, his jaw as tight as his perfectly knotted bun, greeted us with a slight bow and asked for our tickets. He opened the door as if his sole purpose in life was to measure, with his eyes, those who crossed it.
And then, I stepped inside.
The light within was warm yet dim, as if the place refused to be fully illuminated. Every corner smelled of expensive wine and something else… like history sealed in glass. The ceilings towered high, the walls dressed in dark paintings, unsettling sculptures, and display cases holding priceless ancient objects, each with small plaques reading things like Pre-Roowelthian Period or Private Collection, No Public Access.
The guests already inside looked as though they’d been pulled from the pages of an editorial fashion spread—men in perfectly tailored suits, women in gowns that likely cost more than my yearly rent, all with champagne flutes in hand and that expression that says, you couldn’t reach me even if you tried.
I noticed a man with slicked-back white hair speaking French to a woman with red lips, an emerald-green gown, and gloves that reached her elbows. Beyond them, a small group laughed under a crystal chandelier as if sharing an ancient secret. No one raised their voice. No one moved quickly. Everything felt slowed, refined… and carefully watched.
Kaylie, naturally, moved among them like a fish in champagne. She waved to a couple of acquaintances, and I followed her like a trembling-heeled shadow, trying not to look too impressed—though I was.
There was something hypnotic about the place. As if the art didn’t just hang on the walls but breathed from within them, watching each guest with invisible eyes.
I swallowed, adjusted my dress strap, and forced myself to keep walking.
It was just another night.
An art exhibition.
A normal night.
With normal people.
In a normal museum.
I focused on the paintings along the walls. Most were dark, intense, difficult to interpret. I couldn’t say exactly what they were trying to convey, but something in them seemed to speak from the silence.
One in particular caught my attention.
Without realizing it, I drifted away from Kaylie, who was chatting animatedly with a woman she’d introduced me to minutes earlier. Honestly, I couldn’t recall her name or her face. I’d faked courtesy, nodded a couple of times… and then slipped away, drawn by something stronger than small talk.
My steps carried me straight to the painting that had hooked my gaze.
And then, everything else disappeared.
I stood frozen before it, as if it had called to me. Not because of its color or technique, but because of a strange sensation in my chest. Like the moment before you remember something you’ve never lived.
The female figure seemed to emerge from the darkness, born of it. Her red hair poured like liquid—blood or fire—flowing toward the man she embraced. Or perhaps consumed. I couldn’t tell. Was she holding him tenderly… or devouring him?
Her face was tilted, hidden, but her intent… her intent was in her hands. One curved over his back, the other gripped harder, almost as if she wouldn’t let go. As if he no longer had a choice.
I moved closer without thinking, the echo of my heels on polished marble trailing behind me. No one else seemed to notice. No one looked at this painting the way I did. They all went for the gold, the pristine. The expensive.
But this… this was something else.
She looked like death, but also like desire.
He looked lost, surrendered. Or perhaps resigned.
A shiver ran across my shoulders.
Because that image—so dark, so intimate—felt real. Like a warning dressed as beauty.
For a second, I saw myself in it. I didn’t know why.
I swallowed hard. I didn’t understand art, but something told me this painting wasn’t hung to decorate. It was hung to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.
“Intriguing, isn’t it?” said a male voice beside me, his British accent so precise it sounded almost choreographed.
I startled—not at the words, but at the fact that I hadn’t heard him approach. I quite literally hadn’t seen him coming.
And when I turned, I knew instantly.
I can’t believe it.
It was him.
The man from the airport.
The one with eyes as clear as ice, who had spoken to me with a refined arrogance that almost passed for courtesy.
He stood beside me, gazing at the same painting as if he knew it. As if he’d seen it before—somewhere else… or in another life.
He didn’t look at me. Not once. His eyes stayed fixed on the canvas, as though deciphering it from within.
“Excuse me?” I asked, feigning indifference while glancing at him from the corner of my eye. My body, of course, didn’t share that indifference. Every cell was on alert. Or worse: expectant.
“How many secrets a painting can hide,” he replied, the curve of his mouth faint, as if savoring the line. He still didn’t look at me. As if I were simply an extension of the art.
I crossed my arms—more to hold myself together than out of comfort.
“That depends on who’s looking,” I countered. “Sometimes the secrets belong to the one projecting them, not the art itself.”
He let out a low, almost imperceptible chuckle—definitely mocking.
“Interesting theory. Though sometimes,” he added, finally turning his head toward me in deliberate slowness, “art simply reflects what one refuses to accept.”
His eyes met mine, and I swear, for a second, the air in my lungs turned heavy. As if I were breathing not oxygen… but warning.
I was about to answer when he simply turned and walked away.
No goodbye. No glance back.
As if our brief exchange had meant absolutely nothing.
Perfect. His arrogance and lack of manners remain intact. Impeccable, even.
I stood there, alone before the painting, the echo of his voice still suspended in the air, my heart beating faster than I cared to admit. Not because of what he said, but how he said it. That damned way he had of speaking.
Then Kaylie appeared at my side like a rush of expensive perfume and overflowing excitement.
“You’re joking, right? Do you realize who just spoke to you?” she asked, with the thrill of someone who’s just seen a celebrity in pajamas on the street.
“Yes,” I said, keeping my eyes on the hallway where he’d vanished. “The arrogant idiot from the airport.”
“What? That was him? Sarah! That’s Heath Ashwyck!” she blurted, as if I’d just told her I’d seen a shooting star and I’d answered that it was just a plane.
I blinked at her, dripping sarcasm.
“I have absolutely no idea who that is.”
“SARAH!” she nearly shrieked, scandalized, as though I’d just blasphemed in front of a priest. Her eyes went wide, as if she couldn’t believe we inhabited the same planet.
“Heath Ashwyck,” she repeated with dramatic emphasis, “is the British diplomat. He has connections all over Europe, has been at the United Nations, in Parliament, on some international commission about… something—and now he’s involved in internal UK politics! He’s young, rich, mysterious, and according to every magazine, impossible to read. Though honestly, I think they forgot to add that he also looks like a Greek sculpture.”
I shot her a skeptical look.
“You read diplomatic magazines now?”
“No, but my friend Daphne does. And she once showed me an entire article about him. He even had a nickname… what was it?... Oh, right: The Son of Silence. Because he almost never gives interviews and always appears at high-level events wearing the same expression—impassive, elegant, and with an air of ‘don’t talk to me unless you have something interesting to say.’”
“Charming,” I said dryly, crossing my arms.
“No, Sarah. Lethally charming. The kind who can ruin you emotionally without even touching you.”
“Well, then, I guess I’m lucky he just ignored me,” I replied with a wry smile.
Kaylie sighed dramatically, still staring at the spot where he’d disappeared.
“I can’t believe Heath Ashwyck spoke to you and you called him an idiot.”
I turned slowly, scanning the crowd for him.
I didn’t know why I was doing it. Pride, maybe. Or just plain curiosity.
And then I saw him.
He was a few meters away, speaking with another man. Tall. Imposing. Wearing a perfectly tailored dark gray suit, his white hair slicked back with almost unnatural precision. He didn’t look much older—forty-five, maybe. His posture was rigid, elegant. The kind of man who doesn’t need to speak to be noticed. Just to be.
Their conversation was low, discreet, but charged with something I couldn’t name. As if they were discussing matters that didn’t belong in this room. Then, both the white-haired man and Heath began scanning the crowd—slowly, deliberately—examining people as though classifying them. It wasn’t a casual sweep. It was an assessment. Precise. Cold.
That’s when Heath’s gaze locked on mine.
A jolt went through me, visceral—like I’d been caught spying on something I shouldn’t have seen. I turned away instantly, pretending to admire a vase behind me. As if that could erase the fact that he’d caught me looking.
God. How embarrassing.
I felt my cheeks burn, my heart pounding in my chest as if it wanted to escape before I did. I counted to three, took a deep breath, and turned back.
He was still looking at me.
Not casually. Not like someone who merely notices another presence. He looked at me as if he knew me. Or worse… as if he knew something about me that I didn’t know myself.
His pale, near-transparent eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t move.
They cut right through me.
And in that instant, something twisted in my stomach. It wasn’t butterflies. It wasn’t adrenaline. It was… something else. Dense. Viscous. Like something invisible had slid beneath my skin.
Fear?
No. It couldn’t be fear.
It was irrational.
And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling there was something very wrong about that gaze. As if he weren’t just a man, but a silent vault of secrets too dark for this world.
I wanted to look away.
But I couldn’t.
Chapter Eleven
I spent the rest of the night pretending I understood art—smiling at the right moments and greeting people that Kaylie—and, to my surprise, Jacob, when he joined us later—seemed to know as if they were part of their natural world. I, on the other hand, felt like a badly cast actress in a play far too lavish for me.
Every so often, I pretended to be interested in the paintings, though to be honest, after the first emotional blow I’d felt from that painting—the painting—everything else struck me as a more polished variation of the same thing: darkness in a gilded frame. Contained beauty. Silent mystery.
I didn’t see Heath again.
It was as if he had evaporated. As if his appearance had been nothing more than a blink of fate—one of those seemingly meaningless encounters that later feel important without knowing why. He had vanished without a trace, without a sound, without a farewell. Which, considering his ghostlike diplomat aura and Greek-god face, felt entirely in character.
At some point during the evening, Kaylie approached me while I was examining what looked like an abstract sculpture made of twisted metal (though it could just as easily have been a very modern coat rack) and whispered, almost conspiratorially: “I found out who the man Heath was talking to is.”
I shot her a weary glance, though deep down, I wanted to know. “Oh, yeah?”
“Philip Roowelth,” she said, as if speaking the name of a legend.
“And who’s that? Some elegant king’s cousin?”
Kaylie rolled her eyes, smiling.
“He’s the owner of the museum. And the artist. Well… one of them. This gallery is literally his. Every single piece in this exhibition was personally selected by him, and several are his own work. He’s a billionaire, a philanthropist, an art collector—and according to Vanity Fair, a ‘man of silent power.’ He was born in England but lived in Paris, Vienna, and Budapest. Some say he holds noble titles, others that he simply knows how to dress to look like it. No one’s quite sure of his age, but…”
“Let me guess,” I cut in, lowering my voice. “No one really knows who he is. Mysterious. Enigmatic. Owns a castle. Does he also have a raven and a secret chamber in the basement?”
