32

32
Johan
The little attention I had was stolen instantly.
Halo froze.
I should have known. Of course Lucian would like this artist too. Halo was predictable in the softest, most tragic way. His favorite artist had to be Lucian’s favorite artist. Everything about Halo bent toward my brother like gravity.
I had not even expected to see Lucian here. I knew he liked art, yes, but this? The same gallery, the same exhibition, the same damn artist. It almost felt like fate laughing in my face.
I followed Halo’s gaze and there he was.
Lucian stood a few meters away, calm and composed as always, dressed in dark clothes that made him look carved rather than dressed. Beside him was Damas himself, the artist, smiling warmly as he spoke. Billionaire patron at the artist’s own gallery. Of course.
Halo shifted immediately, shoulders curling in, eyes darting around as if he could disappear into the white walls. He stepped half a pace back, like a child caught staring too long.
Too late.
Lucian’s eyes flicked over.
Just once.
But it was enough. His stare burned, sharp and assessing, lingering on Halo longer than it should have. Halo pretended not to notice, suddenly very interested in the floor, the ceiling, anything but him.
I knew my brother too well. He tried to look uninterested, but curiosity always betrayed him. The slight tilt of his head. The pause in his conversation with Damas. He was watching.
A wicked idea bloomed instantly.
I reached out and looped my arm through Halo’s before he could react.
He stiffened.
“Cooperate,” I whispered, close to his ear.
He inhaled sharply, then surprised me by locking in immediately. He lifted his head and smiled, bright and effortless, like Lucian did not exist at all. His hand rested against my arm, fingers curling just enough to look natural.
Too natural.
He leaned closer, and suddenly he was everywhere. The warmth of his body. The soft press of his side against mine. His scent hit me fully this time. Sweet, light, almost floral. Something delicate. Something people would expect on a woman, yet on Halo it just worked. His masculinity was not loud or aggressive. It was quiet. Unbreakable.
I hated how possessive that made me feel.
He clung to me like a koala, his head tilting slightly toward my shoulder, laughing softly at something I said without even hearing the words. Anyone watching would think we were close. Comfortable. Chosen.
I knew Lucian was watching. I felt it like heat on my skin.
Halo’s eyes shone as he spoke, animated now, pointing at a nearby painting and whispering excitedly. He forgot himself when it came to art. Forgot where he was. Who was watching.
God, he was pretty.
Genuinely, painfully pretty.
Then suddenly the air shifted.
Halo straightened. His hand slipped from my arm. The warmth vanished.
I looked up just in time to see Lucian walking away with Damas, his back straight, his face unreadable.
Halo pulled back completely, cold as winter.
The loss of his closeness hit harder than I expected. 
I just want to fuck this boy, I repeated to myself.
That was all. Just sex. Nothing complicated.
Who was I kidding.
You don’t carry feelings like this for years because of a photograph. You don’t remember a face that clearly, the tilt of a smile, the softness that somehow survived time. And yet nothing had changed. Not really. The pull was the same, sharp and humiliating.
He looked at me the way people looked at vultures. Like I circled too close, like I didn’t belong anywhere near him.
Fine.
If I had to be the villain to make him like me, I would be. If I had to prove myself better than Lucian, then I would. I would fix everything Lucian had failed at, every crack he had left behind.
Halo was still whispering, rambling about how unnatural he looked, how obvious we must seem, how Lucian definitely saw through our bullshit. I cut him off mid sentence.
I reached up and pushed a soft curl behind his ear.
“Let’s have dinner,” I said.
“What?” He blinked at me, startled, lifting his hand like he might slap mine away, even as I kept playing with his wavy hair.
That was when Lucian’s presence hit the space between us.
“Johan.”
His voice made my teeth grind.
“I didn’t know you liked art too,” Lucian said easily, already owning the moment.
“Wait,” Damas cut in, clearly delighted. “Your brother is here?”
I was teetering on the edge of actually punching Lucian for exposing me like that.
Instead, I smiled.
I told Damas I’d always admired his work, mentioned a few older collections just convincingly enough to pass. I talked smoothly, confidently, like I belonged here. The only person who could tell I was lying kept his mouth shut.
Lucian ignored Halo, exactly like I hoped he would.
Then he ruined it.
“That’s Halo,” Lucian said casually, gesturing toward him. “My foster kid. He likes your work.”
Shock flickered across Halo’s face.
Mine burned hotter.
I wasn’t surprised so much as furious. I wanted that moment. I wanted to be the one to place Halo in front of his hero, to watch his expression change because of me.
Lucian had stolen it right out of my hands.
And I didn’t forget things like that.
“Oh? Is that so?” Damas said, interest sharpening just a little.
That was all it took.
Halo lit up.
It was instant and almost embarrassing, his earlier stiffness evaporating as he stepped closer, hands moving as he spoke, words tumbling over each other. He asked about brush techniques, about the symbolism behind a series that had never been publicly explained, about a canceled exhibition from years ago that only real fans remembered. His voice shifted too, brighter, faster, alive.
Damas smiled, indulgent now, clearly more engaged because Halo was connected to us, but even he couldn’t hide his surprise. Halo wasn’t pretending. This wasn’t strategy. This was real.