The embossed invitation felt like a summons to an execution, not a celebration. Leta traced the delicate filigree of the 'Sovany Grand Artisan's Gala' lettering, a tremor running through her hand. This was it. The mandatory industry event, the one where every struggling artist hoped to catch the eye of a patron, a gallery owner, or a grant committee member. For Leta, it was an unavoidable confrontation, a public arena where she would be forced to breathe the same rarefied air as Benek Toman. She’d spent three hours trying to make her single good dress — a midnight-blue silk from a grant celebration two years ago — look new again. It hung looser now, the fabric pooling at her collarbone after months of sparse meals. Kian had offered to help her with a new outfit, a casual suggestion that had still stung with its implication of her current state. She’d refused, her pride too brittle to accept such charity, especially from her accidental husband. Now, standing outside the opulent entrance of the Hotel Luxia, its gilded doors reflecting the twilight glow of Sovany, Leta took a deep, fortifying breath. The air, usually crisp with the scent of roasted street nuts and petrol, was now thick with expensive perfume and exhaust fumes from sleek luxury sedans. Inside, the Grand Solstice Ballroom was a dazzling kaleidoscope of light and sound. Chandeliers dripped crystal fire, illuminating a sea of tailored suits and shimmering gowns. The murmur of a hundred conversations, punctuated by polite laughter and the clink of glasses, filled the vast space. Leta felt a familiar, unwelcome tightness in her chest. This was Benek’s world now, the one he’d carved out for himself using the chisel of her talent. She spotted him almost immediately. He was a beacon of polished confidence near the central fountain, a sculptural piece crafted from gleaming obsidian. Benek wore a bespoke suit of deep forest green, a color that made his eyes seem impossibly vivid. And there, draped around the neck of a socialite whose laugh was a little too loud, was a necklace of her Lazurite designs. The flowing silver tendrils, the carefully chosen cuts of the deep blue stone, the way it caught the light – it was undeniably hers. Her signature ‘Azure Current’ collection, stolen, rebranded, and now celebrated under his name. Beside him, her former mentor, Magda Orlov, radiated an almost maternal pride. Magda, her silver hair pulled back in an elegant chignon, wore a knowing smile as she nodded along to Benek’s animated conversation. The sight twisted a knife in Leta’s gut. Magda, who had always preached integrity and the sanctity of an artist’s vision, now stood beaming as Benek paraded her stolen work. Leta forced herself to circulate, a plastic smile pasted on her face. She exchanged pleasantries, deflected thinly veiled questions about her ‘career break,’ and tried to avoid Benek’s orbit. But the ballroom, despite its size, felt like it was shrinking, pulling her inexorably towards him. “Leta Volos. Still gracing us with your… unique presence, I see.” The voice, smooth as river stone yet edged with something sharp, made her flinch. Benek. He had detached himself from Magda and his admirers, now standing directly in her path. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. Magda watched from a distance, her expression unreadable. “Benek,” Leta managed, her voice steadier than she felt. “Enjoying the fruits of… your labor?” The last two words were a delicate barb, but he only chuckled. “Indeed. The ‘Azure Current’ collection has been quite the triumph. Record sales, multiple awards. I suppose you’ve seen the coverage.” He gestured vaguely at the socialite, who was now posing for a photographer, her Lazurite necklace glinting under the flashes. “A shame you couldn’t quite make it work, isn’t it?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that still carried in the hushed corner they occupied. “Heard you’re living in that hovel on Briar Lane now. And that rather amusing little stunt at the city clerk’s office. A locksmith, was it? How utterly… quaint. I suppose you’re hoping he can pick the lock on your career from the inside?” His gaze raked over her dress, his sneer deepening. “Looks like you’re doing quite a lot of hoping these days, Leta. Though I doubt your new husband’s paltry earnings will cover your taste for this sort of affair.” The humiliation burned. It started in her cheeks, then spread, hot and stinging, through her entire body. Her fingers curled into fists. He wasn't just mocking her poverty; he was mocking her choice, her accidental life, her desperation. The faces around them blurred, their polite murmurs morphing into a mocking chorus. Just as Leta felt the first tremor of tears behind her eyes, a shadow fell over Benek. A presence, quiet but undeniably solid, materialized beside her. A hand, warm and firm, settled gently on her lower back. Kian. He stood there, not in the rumpled shirts he usually wore, but in a charcoal grey suit. It was simple, unadorned, but it fit him with an uncanny precision, the fabric moving like a second skin over his broad shoulders. His dark hair was combed neatly, and his eyes, usually a calm, steady grey, held a quiet intensity that Leta hadn’t seen before. Benek, momentarily startled, straightened. “And who is this?” he asked, a sneer already forming. “Your security detail, perhaps?” Before Kian could answer, a young waiter, balancing a tray of champagne flutes, stumbled near Benek’s feet. A single glass toppled, splashing sparkling wine onto Benek’s polished shoe. Benek recoiled as if stung, his face contorting in disgust. “You clumsy oaf!” Benek snapped, his voice rising. “Do you know how much this suit cost? Get out of my sight, you imbecile!” The server, pale and trembling, stammered apologies, bending to try and wipe the stain with his napkin. Kian stepped forward, his hand still on Leta’s back. He calmly intercepted the young man, placing a crisp, unmarked banknote – a hundred Sovany crowns, Leta realized – into the young man’s hand. “Don’t worry about it,” Kian said, his voice low and even, a soothing counterpoint to Benek’s fury. “Accidents happen. Go get yourself a fresh uniform.” The attendant stared down at the cash in disbelief, nodded wordlessly, and hurried away. Kian then turned his steady gaze to Benek. “There was no need for that display,” he said, his tone devoid of anger, yet carrying an unmistakable edge of authority. “Especially not for a spilled drink.” Benek’s face flushed. “Who are you to tell me what’s needed, locksmith?” he spat, trying to regain his footing. He glared at Kian, then at Leta. “Enjoying your last taste of the good life on her dime, pal? Because I assure you, it won’t last.” Kian’s lips curved into the slightest of smiles, a subtle shift that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He gently guided Leta away, his pace unhurried, his arm a solid presence around her. Without breaking stride, he replied, his voice a low, perfectly modulated rumble that cut through the surrounding chatter. “Actually, I own the restaurant. And the hotel it’s in.” Benek froze. Utterly, completely dumbfounded. His mouth fell open, his stare fixed on Kian’s retreating back. The sound of a dropped glass somewhere nearby went unnoticed. Leta, too, felt the world tilt on its axis. The air stuck in her lungs. She stumbled slightly, but Kian’s hand on her back kept her steady. He continued to lead her through the astonished murmurs, past bewildered faces, his grip on her unwavering as he led her towards the grand exit.

A Toast to Stolen Dreams