Page 59 of The Devil's Canvas

Geneva shakes her head, amused, intrigued, and maybe a little frustrated. "I’ll be keeping an eye on you both."

"I’d be offended if you didn’t," I say easily.

She walks away, already setting her sights on her next target.

Ophelia turns to me, exhaling. "You are impossible."

"And yet," I murmur, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, "you’re still here."

She sighs, dramatic, exasperated—but she doesn’t pull away.

All attention shifts again as Dorian Castellano and Harrison Drake step onto the carpet.

I barely flick my gaze toward them.

Dorian, the director—pretentious, chaotic, all disheveled charm and artistic torment. Harrison, the producer—polished, calculating, probably already thinking about how this premiere translates into box office numbers.

They move like they expect the world to bow. And, to be fair, most of it does.

I don’t care. But I do notice when their attention flickers toward us. Interesting. I smirk, brushing my fingers over Ophelia’s back. Let them watch.

I don’t bother turning as the two start making their way toward us. Figures.

Dorian isn’t too bad. Annoying, sure. A little too self-important. But he’s an artist, which means at least half of his arrogance is earned. He makes films that people don’t forget, and he knows it.

Harrison, though? Harrison is worse. The kind of man who smiles just a little too long, stands just a little too close, touches just a little too easily. He plays power games in every room he enters—and in his mind, women are just another piece on the board.

And right now, his eyes are locked on Ophelia.

I already don’t like him.

"Ophelia," Dorian greets smoothly, his voice carrying the effortless charm of someone who expects to be listened to. "You clean up well."

Ophelia tilts her head, unimpressed. "You say that like I’m usually a disaster."

Dorian chuckles, unbothered. "No, darling. Just unseen."

Ophelia’s lips press together. I watch her fight the urge to roll her eyes.

"Dorian, you’re wasting time on pleasantries," Harrison drawls, his gaze dragging over Ophelia in a way that makes my fingers twitch. He steps closer, smiling in a way that shows he thinks he’s charming. He’s not.

"Ophelia Arden," he muses, slow and indulgent, like he’s tasting her name. "You know, I always wondered why you hid behind your sister’s shadow."

Ophelia doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shrink. "I wasn’t hiding," she says flatly. "I was avoiding people like you."

I grin. That’s my girl.

Dorian snorts, amused. Harrison, though—he smirks. "I see you’ve got a sharp tongue," he murmurs, taking another slow step forward. Too close. "I like that."

I move before I even think about it, shifting just slightly, stepping between them, my hand settling low on Ophelia’s waist. Not possessive. Just undeniable.

Harrison’s eyes flick to me, and his smirk falters.

"And you are?" he asks, mildly irritated.

I smile, slow and sharp. "Julian."

His brows lift slightly. "No last name?"

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