obsessed hearts

Walking down the streets of Monroe, I feel lighter than I have in weeks. The city is peaceful in a way that feels intentional, as though it has collectively agreed to move slower today. Sunlight spills over the sidewalks, and no one seems to be in a hurry. For once, neither am I.

My camera rests securely in my sling bag, the familiar weight reassuring me that this time I followed through. Between deadlines and obligations, I had finally made time for this visit and with that a quiet sense of fulfillment rested in my chest. Monroe has a way of making you notice things. The hum of conversation drifting from cafés, the uneven rhythm of footsteps on the pavement, the soft coexistence of people simply being. I admire it as I walk, letting the calm seep into me. That calm is promptly tested. I find myself trapped behind a slow, corny couple, strolling as if the rest of the world has graciously paused for their romantic performance. Oblivious, completely. I tolerate their pace, though my mind is far less generous. My thoughts sharpen; love has always looked that way to me careless and convinced of its own importance. it’s quite depressing actually surrendering one’s awareness just to feel accompanied.

The couple finally turns to a different path and the museum finally comes to view. Inside the air shifts, it’s a lot cooler and the atmosphere is quiet. I slowly approach the front desk “hello my name is Maya Sanders I have a booking for a visit today.” The receptionist looks up with a gentle smile

“First time visiting?”

“Yes.”

He checks me in quickly and after confirming the details he gestures me in “enjoy your tour.”

I return a smile and slowly walk further inside. The world narrows, with me in a room whose walls adorned with different paintings and pieces of artwork. I move through them slowly observing the details, the brushstrokes, the shadows but most importantly the emotion. I take out my camera and take a few pictures capturing the pieces I feel most drawn to.

At last, I got to the last painting “the fallen angel” by Alexandre Cabanel. I positioned my camera to zooming onto his face. “Too close,” the voice came from behind me steady, cold, unembarrassed. I froze, annoyance sparking in first I moved my camera a bit back without turning around. “you’re cutting the contradiction.”

“How would you know?” I asked.

“Because the painter wanted discomfort crop it like that and he’s just another villain.”

That made me turn. I lingered my gaze on him for a moment taking note of his features. He was tall probably around 6’3, I was fast to notice his eyes a unique color like that of a dead rose, his skin was slightly tan blending well with his jet-black hair that was neatly combed back, a loose strand resting on his forehead. We held each other’s gaze for a moment before we simultaneously turned back to the painting. I cleared my throat to wade off the awkwardness “you assume that Lucifer was the villain.”

“I assume that he was misunderstood.” I turned to him raising an eyebrow. “How so?” I asked.

“Looking into his eyes you can see the anguish, that has to mean something that which we will never know since his story was told without his consent.” I raised my camera and took another photo.

“Do you always correct strangers in museums?”

“Only when they’re about to miss the most important part.”

“And what’s that?”

“The truth is rarely where we’re told to look.”

I felt an uncomfortable tightening in my chest. I didn’t like strangers who sounded like they knew me.

“Maya,” I said, offering my name without warmth.

Alex pov

“Maya,” she said whilst stretching out her hand. She expected a handshake I could tell by the slight tension of her fingers. Instead, I took her hand in mine and slowly raised it to my lips keeping my eyes locked on hers. She blushed almost immediately though she held my gaze with stubborn determination. “Does that move work on every girl you’ve been with,” she asked.

“Sometimes,” I answered.

I released her hand slowly almost reluctantly. I had noticed her minutes after entering the museum and was instantly drawn to her. The way she moved through the paintings as though she was oblivious of everything and everyone that was around her made even more alluring added to her soft feminine features, she looked like a character from a fantasy novel.

“I’m Alex.” I hesitated, then added, “Alexandre Moraile.”

“I feel like I’ve heard your name,” she is suddenly cut short by Bruce…... “monsieur Moraile,” Bruce said softly behind my shoulder “Forgive the interruption its urgent.” Of course it was. For the first time in a long while I hated being what I was. I turned back to her “I apologize,” I said gently “duty insists.”

“Oh, please it’s not a problem,” she said offering a forced smile.

I began to walk away before I changed my mind. There was a strange reluctance that pulled at me, as if I were leaving something unfinished. When I reached the gallery entrance I stopped and looked back. She was already looking at me. For a second neither of us pretended otherwise. She lifted her hand in a small wave. I found myself smiling, something I hadn’t done naturally in years. I waved back and slowly forced myself to leave. My romantic fanatic was short lived when I stepped outside the night air being a bit colder than I expected. My limousine waited at the curb, engine idling softly. Another car trailed behind it security. Always security.

The driver opened the door. I entered and just like that, the world changed.

The soft museum silence vanished, replaced by leather seats, dim interior lighting, the faint scent of expensive cologne, and responsibility. My personal assistant, Claire, didn’t even greet me. She was already holding a tablet. “Sir, the board contacted us again. The Marseilles

shipment has been held at customs.”

I closed my eyes briefly, leaning my head back onto the chair ... I could already sense a headache coming.

“Reason?”

“Inspection request filed anonymously. However,” she hesitated, “this is the third interference this month. Someone is targeting Moraile Exports.” Bruce entered the front passenger seat, speaking into a low radio channel. Security protocol activated. A few minutes ago, I had been discussing art and fallen angels with a woman who didn’t care who I was.

Now I was back to being Alexandre Moraile; a name, a company, a target.

Claire continued, “We may need your physical presence tomorrow morning.”

I looked out the tinted window. The museum was fading behind us and without meaning to, I searched the entrance half expecting to see her come out. I didn’t even have her number.

“Maya,” I said quietly to myself. For the first time business was not what occupied my mind.