Chapter One:
The first thing Brielle Monroe learned about the wealthy was that they knew how to make a room feel like another world.
The second was that they knew how to make that world disappear before sunrise.
She stood near the eastern gallery of the private exhibition, holding a glass of sparkling water she had forgotten to drink.
Around her, conversations drifted between collectors, academics, artists, corporate representatives and people whose names she recognized from magazines.
She recognized very few faces.
That was intentional.
Tonight, she wasn't supposed to be important.
She was a twenty-one-year-old Fine Arts student who had been recommended by her professor for a curatorial internship.
A scholarship student.
An ambitious one.
The opportunity was almost too valuable to waste.
She had spent weeks researching the collection, helping with cataloguing, preparing notes and observing the senior curators.
Tonight was different.
Tonight, she had been allowed to assist during the private preview.
It meant exposure.
Connections.
Research.
A stronger portfolio.
Perhaps, if she was good enough, it could eventually become a recommendation for something larger.
Brielle intended to be good enough.
She looked across the gallery.
The collection was beautiful.
Some of it was breathtaking.
Some of it was simply expensive.
There was a difference.
She had been thinking that for the past five minutes when she heard a voice beside her.
"You don't like it."
She turned.
A man stood beside her.
He was tall, dressed in a dark suit, with neatly styled black hair and the kind of composed expression that made it difficult to tell what he was thinking.
Brielle looked at the painting.
Then at him.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
She smiled faintly.
"You're making assumptions."
"So are you."
"About what?"
"That I was talking about the painting."
She looked at him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she laughed.
"You're annoying."
"I've been told."
"Frequently?"
"Often enough."
She looked back at the artwork.
"Fine. I don't dislike it."
"But?"
"It's technically impressive."
He waited.
She sighed.
"But it feels like it's trying too hard to tell me what I'm supposed to feel."
He glanced at the painting.
"And that's a problem?"
"Not necessarily."
"Then why say it?"
"Because art should leave room for the person looking at it."
He looked at her.
"You're an artist?"
"Student."
"What do you study?"
"Fine Arts."
"Planning to become an artist?"
"Maybe."
She paused.
"Curator."
That seemed to interest him.
"Why?"
Brielle considered the question.
Because she had heard it before.
From lecturers.
From relatives.
From people who thought studying art meant she hadn't figured out what she wanted to do with her life.
She had an answer ready.
"I like stories."
He glanced at her.
"Stories?"
"People leave stories behind without realizing it."
She gestured toward the room.
"Art preserves pieces of people. A curator gets to decide what conversations continue after the artist is gone."
"And you want that responsibility?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because somebody has to care enough to look closely."
Something in his expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for Brielle to notice.
"You really believe that."
"Yes."
He looked at her for another moment.
"What's your name?"
She hesitated.
"Brielle."
He waited.
She didn't add anything.
After a moment, he nodded.
"Brielle."
She looked at him.
"And you?"
He glanced toward the crowd.
A few people had begun looking in their direction.
His expression tightened for half a second.
Then he turned back to her.
"Benedict."
"Benedict?"
"Yes."
"No surname?"
"No."
She smiled.
"Secretive."
"Careful."
"About what?"
"Assuming I'm the only one keeping secrets."
Brielle laughed.
"I'm not."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You haven't told me your full name."
"You didn't ask."
"I asked your name."
"And I gave it to you."
He smiled.
"Fair."
A silence settled between them.
It wasn't awkward.
If anything, it felt strangely comfortable.
Brielle noticed that he wasn't asking the usual questions.
What university?
Who were her parents?
Where did she live?
What did she do?
He didn't seem interested in the things that normally allowed people to place one another socially.
And she realized she wasn't asking either.
She didn't know his occupation.
She didn't know his family.
She didn't know whether he was a collector, investor, guest or someone who simply belonged here.
For the first time that evening, she liked not knowing.
---
Later, they found themselves away from the main gallery.
The rain had started outside.
The exhibition continued behind them, but the noise had faded.
They talked.
About art.
About family.
About ambition.
About whether people could ever truly separate themselves from where they came from.
Brielle told him why she had chosen Fine Arts.
She told him about being a scholarship student.
She didn't tell him everything.
He didn't ask for everything.
She spoke about the pressure of knowing that someone else had believed she deserved the opportunity enough to fund it.
She spoke about wanting to build something of her own.
He listened.
Actually listened.
At one point, the conversation turned to faith.
Brielle touched the small cross resting against her collarbone.
"Do you believe in God?" she asked.
He was quiet for a moment.
"Yes."
"That's a surprisingly quick answer."
"I didn't say I understand Him."
Brielle smiled.
"Neither do I."
"Then why believe?"
She looked toward the rain-covered windows.
"Because not understanding God doesn't make Him less real."
He considered that.
"And what does your faith ask of you?"
She looked at him.
"More than I sometimes want to give."
That made him smile.
"What does that mean?"
"That feelings aren't always instructions."
The words hung between them.
Something about them made the conversation quieter.
Neither of them said anything for several seconds.
Then Benedict looked away.
"You're very serious."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I laugh."
"That isn't proof."
She laughed.
And he did too.
The distance between them seemed to disappear without either of them deciding to close it.
The night became later.
The exhibition became quieter.
The rain became heavier.
And eventually, neither of them was thinking about the exhibition anymore.
They knew almost nothing about each other.
That should have been enough reason to leave.
Instead, it became part of the reason they stayed.
There were no promises.
No surnames.
No histories.
No expectations.
Only two adults who had met by chance and found themselves unwilling to end the night.
When they finally left the exhibition together, Brielle knew she was making a decision she would have to live with.
She prayed silently for wisdom.
But she did not walk away.
And neither did he.
The rest of the night belonged only to them.
Fade to black.
---
Morning arrived without asking permission.
Brielle woke to pale sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains.
For several seconds, she didn't move.
Then memory returned.
The exhibition.
The rain.
The conversation.
Benedict.
She sat up slowly.
He was already awake.
He stood near the window, dressed again, looking out over the city.
When he turned, their eyes met.
Neither smiled immediately.
There was something different about the morning.
Last night had been suspended from reality.
Morning brought reality back.
Brielle pulled the sheet closer around herself.
"So..."
"So."
She almost laughed.
"We're terrible at conversations after the fact."
"I've noticed."
She looked at him.
"You don't regret it?"
He was silent.
Then:
"No."
Her heart gave an inconvenient little flutter.
She looked away.
"Neither do I."
For a moment, neither knew what came next.
There shouldn't have been a next.
That was the point.
This had been one night.
Nothing more.
Benedict picked up his watch from the table.
Brielle noticed that he was wearing it again.
"You really won't tell me your last name?"
He looked at her.
"No."
She smiled.
"Then I won't tell you mine."
"I never asked."
"Exactly."
His expression softened.
He understood.
They had both chosen the same boundary.
No surnames.
No numbers.
No addresses.
No promises.
Nothing that could turn one night into an obligation.
Brielle got dressed.
Before she left, she paused at the door.
She looked back at him.
"Benedict."
"Yes?"
"I don't know if I'll ever see you again."
"You probably won't."
She laughed softly.
"That's reassuring."
"It's honest."
She studied him.
Then smiled.
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Brielle."
She left.
Neither of them knew the other's surname.
Neither of them knew the other's family.
Neither knew what the other did for a living.
Neither knew where the other lived.
And neither knew that the decision to remain strangers would eventually become the greatest complication of their lives.
---
Three weeks later, Brielle stared at two pink lines.
Her hands went cold.
She sat on the edge of her bed, unable to breathe properly.
Her eyes filled with tears.
She looked down.
Then up.
Then down again.
"No."
The word came out as a whisper.
She had made mistakes before.
She would make mistakes again.
But this was different.
This had a heartbeat somewhere beyond her imagination.
A life.
A person.
Her mind went immediately to the only man who could possibly be the father.
Benedict.
She closed her eyes.
She didn't know his surname.
She didn't know where he lived.
She didn't know his phone number.
She didn't know what company he worked for.
She didn't even know whether Benedict was his real first name.
She only knew his face.
His voice.
His hands.
The way he had listened when she spoke about art.
The way he had answered when she asked about God.
And the one name he had given her.
Benedict.
She opened her eyes.
She would find him.
Somehow.
She had to.
---