Page 1 of Crimson Sin
1
NAOMI
The glass doors gleam like a challenge, sleek and spotless, reflecting the lights of downtown Chicago back at me. For a second, I see my own face in them, eyes too wide, lips pressed tight, auburn hair tucked into a bun that looks casual but took three tries to get right. I exhale, lift my chin, and try to channel the boldness Charlotte swears I have.
“Just go in,” I whisper under my breath, tightening my grip on the leather folder clutched to my chest. Inside are six neatly printed copies of my museum exhibit proposal, tabs marked in highlighter, and budget breakdowns color-coded to match the exhibit themes. Heritage Through the Eyes of the Forgotten. Cultural preservation with an inclusive lens. It matters. It matters so much, and tonight might be the chance to make someone else believe that, too.
The folder feels heavier than a few sheets of paper have any right to be. Inside those pages are months of research, late nights fueled by gas station coffee and stubborn determination. Every citation double-checked, every source verified. I've traced genealogies back centuries, tracked down descendants offorgotten artists, and spent my own grocery money on phone calls to elders who hold stories in their memories like treasures. This isn't just an exhibit proposal. It's my father's legacy wrapped in academic language and bound in hope.
I remember sitting on the floor of our tiny living room in Driggs, Idaho, the hum of the old space heater buzzing behind me while my dad graded papers on the kitchen table. He looked exhausted, eyes rimmed red from his second job at the hardware store. But when I showed him the rough sketch of my first exhibit idea, a collage of found objects representing stories from immigrant families, he smiled like I’d handed him the moon.“People forget too easily,”he said, his voice rough with pride.“What you’re doing matters, Nae. Make them remember.”That moment etched itself into my bones.
Charlotte had called this a date. But she also called it an opportunity. “He's hot and he's loaded,” she'd announced, flicking pink-tipped blonde hair over her shoulder while pouring wine into mismatched mugs. “Talk about your proposal. Flirt. Pitch it like it's your last chance on Earth.”
I'd rolled my eyes, but I took her advice.
Charlotte has this way of making the impossible sound inevitable. She'd met Adam at some networking event for young professionals, the kind she drags me to when I'm feeling particularly sorry for myself.“He asked about you specifically,”she'd insisted, waving her hands dramatically.“After I mentioned your museum work. He wants to know more about cultural preservation projects. This is fate, Naomi. Fate with a trust fund.”
I'd protested, of course. I told her I wasn't ready to date, that mixing business with pleasure was a recipe for disaster, and thatI barely had time to sleep between my museum internship and my part-time job at the bookstore. But Charlotte had already given him my number. Already suggested this restaurant. Already painted me as some fascinating curator-in-the-making who definitely wasn't surviving on ramen and sheer willpower.
So here I am, in my best navy dress, the one with the scoop neckline, a cinched waist, and a hem that whispers sophistication without screaming desperation. It's the same dress I wore for my graduate school interview. The one that makes me feel like I can conquer the world or at least fake it until I do. My heels are just high enough to make me stand tall, but not tall enough to trip over my own ambition. My lipstick is soft and intentional. Not a shade of red that begs for attention, but a quieter shade of pink.
The restaurant is all sleek lines and amber lighting, with wine lists that read like poetry and hostesses who glance at your shoes before your eyes. It smells faintly of truffle oil. Through the glass, I can already see curated couples tucked into velvet booths and men in tailored suits murmuring over tiny plates that probably cost more than my rent.
Dad would have hated this place. Too pretentious, too expensive, and focused on appearances over substance. He'd have taken one look at the menu and suggested we find a diner instead. But Dad isn't here to protect me from my own ambitious schemes, and I need to learn to navigate these waters on my own.
I smooth the front of my dress and step inside. The doorman offers a polite nod as I pass, and my heels click softly on the polished floor. The sound echoes in the entryway, mixing with the soft murmur of conversation and the gentle clinking of expensive glassware. My eyes scan the room until they land on the bar, where a man stands alone.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a black suit that fits too perfectly to be anything but custom. The fabric moves with him like liquid, tailored to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his frame. His dark hair is combed back with just enough precision to feel deliberate, and his jawline is sharp enough to etch glass. He lifts a short tumbler to his lips, whiskey, by the color, and beside it on the polished marble bar sits a glass of white wine.
I hesitate. Charlotte had described Adam as tall, serious, and dressed like an investment banker on vacation. Could that be this man? Something about the way he looks at me, steady, calm, and not quite curious but entirely aware, makes the air tighten in my lungs.
There's an intensity to him that's immediately apparent. He doesn't fidget, check his phone, or glance around the room like most people do when they're waiting. He simply exists in the space, commanding it without effort. His presence seems to bend the light around him, making everything else in the restaurant fade into soft focus.
“Hi,” I announce, walking toward him before my feet consult my brain. “You must be Adam, right?”
He doesn't answer. His mouth tips into a small smile. Up close, I can see his eyes are a startling shade of ice gray, the color of winter mornings and storm clouds. They study me with an intensity that makes my heart skip, taking in details I'm not sure I want him to notice.
“I'm Naomi Carter. Charlotte set this up. She mentioned you might be interested in cultural projects, especially ones with a strong preservation angle.” I smile, trying not to babble. “I brought the proposal with me. I know it's a date, technically, butI figured if there was even a small chance you'd be interested, I should be prepared.”
He watches me with a silent look. It throws me off, just a little. Most people feel compelled to fill the silence, to smooth over the uncomfortable pauses with small talk or nervous laughter. But he seems perfectly comfortable letting the moment linger.
“It's a traveling exhibit,” I continue, flipping open the folder. The pages rustle softly as I turn to the overview section, where I've included artist renderings and budget projections. “Heritage Through the Eyes of the Forgotten. Focused on underrepresented artists and historical artifacts often overlooked in traditional Western curation. I want to center Indigenous voices, immigrant stories, lost folk art traditions, and give them the space they deserve.”
As I speak, my passion overtakes my nervousness. This is what I do best. Discuss the work, the mission, and the stories that need to be told. My voice grows stronger, more confident. I've given this pitch dozens of times to professors, potential donors, and anyone who will listen.
“The current museum landscape is dominated by European perspectives,” I explain, turning to a page showing demographic breakdowns. “Visitors, especially young people from diverse backgrounds, often leave feeling like their histories don't matter. This exhibit would change that narrative.”
His gaze drops briefly to the folder, then returns to my face. I notice he has impossibly long eyelashes for a man, dark and thick, framing those striking eyes.
“You came here to pitch a museum exhibit?” His voice is low and rich. It’s laced with an accent. Not heavy, but with the echoof one. Russian, maybe, or Eastern European. The words roll off his tongue as if English is a language he's mastered but not claimed.
I straighten my shoulders. “Well, yes. I mean, Charlotte mentioned you might be interested in being an investor. And your background in finances seems like a good fit.”
He remains silent, just watching. The intensity of his attention is thrilling and unnerving. I'm used to people checking their phones while I'm talking or letting their eyes wander around the room. But this man listens with his whole body, as if every word I speak deserves consideration.
Heat rises in my cheeks. “I mean, obviously, I don't normally lead with a pitch. This isn't how I handle dates. It's just...this project means a lot. And if there's even a sliver of a chance it could get real backing, I have to try.”
There's a long moment where I think he might turn me down. Instead, he takes a step closer. Suddenly, I'm very aware of how he towers over me, and how his presence seems to fill the space between us.
