And I thought about him.
Elliot Grayson.
The name alone carried weight, whispered in news headlines and business magazines like he was some kind of deity. Billionaire. Genius. Control freak. He was everything I wasn't: structured, calculated, untouchable. But there was one thing he didn't know, one thing that tied us together in a way I couldn't begin to explain.
He was in my dreams.
Not in the dreamy, romantic sense. No, he was there, standing in the middle of the wildflower field I'd painted over and over again. Watching me. Always silent, always distant. Until last week, when his name slipped from my lips as I woke, his image burning in my mind like a brand.
Elliot Grayson.
I had no idea what it meant, but I was here to find out.
"Miss Harper?"
I snapped out of my thoughts and turned to the woman who had approached me. She was sleek and professional, her sharp black suit perfectly tailored, her tone clipped.
"Yes?" I managed, my voice steadier than I felt.
"Mr. Grayson will see you now. Follow me."
I swallowed hard and followed her to the private elevator, my heart pounding louder with every step.
The elevator ride felt like an eternity. When the doors finally slid open, I was greeted by a sprawling office with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the London skyline. And there he was.
Elliot Grayson.
He stood with his back to me, gazing out at the city like he owned it, which, let's face it, he practically did. His broad shoulders filled out his perfectly tailored suit, his dark hair neatly combed back. When he turned to face me, I almost took a step back.
Those eyes.
Sharp, piercing, ice-blue. They locked onto mine with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
"Miss Harper," he said, his voice smooth but edged with impatience. "I don't usually entertain unannounced visitors. You have two minutes. Make it count."
So much for a warm welcome.
I stepped forward, my fingers trembling slightly as I set the canvas down and began unwrapping it. "I think you'll want to see this."
His gaze flickered to the painting as I revealed it, and for the first time, his mask of indifference slipped. His eyes widened, just a fraction, but it was enough.
"You've been there," I said quietly, watching his reaction.
He didn't answer. He just stared at the painting, the wildflower field, bathed in golden light, so vivid it looked like you could step into it.
"How do you know this place?" he finally asked, his voice low and controlled.
"I don't," I admitted. "Not really. But I've seen it. In my dreams. And..." I hesitated, my heart hammering in my chest. "You're there too."
His gaze snapped back to me, sharp and probing. "What are you talking about?"
"I've dreamed of this place for years," I said, forcing myself to hold his gaze. "And recently, you started showing up in those dreams. I didn't know who you were until last week, when your name came to me. I had to find you. I had to know if it meant something."
Elliot's jaw tightened, and I could see the wheels turning in his head. He didn't believe me. Not yet.
"Let me guess," he said, his tone dripping with skepticism. "You want money. A show of charity from the big bad billionaire."
I bristled. "I'm not here for your money. I'm here because of this."
I reached into my bag and pulled out the photograph, holding it out to him. His expression froze as he took it from me.
The picture was old, slightly faded, but the image was clear: a younger version of Elliot, standing in the middle of the same wildflower field.
His eyes snapped to mine, a storm brewing in their icy depths. "Where did you get this?"
"It was in a box of my mother's belongings," I said softly. "I don't know how or why, but you were there. In her past. In my dreams. And now..."
"And now you think this means something?" he interrupted, his voice rising slightly.
"I think it means everything," I shot back.
For a moment, the room was silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, his phone buzzed on the desk, breaking the spell.
He glanced at the screen, his expression darkening. "I have to take this."
"I'm not leaving," I said firmly.
He looked at me, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Stay if you want. But don't expect answers. Not from me."
As he answered the call, I turned back to the painting, my mind spinning. This was supposed to give me clarity, but instead, it was only raising more questions.
I heard snippets of his conversation, something about a breach, sensitive information, and...
"The Cumberland project," he said sharply. "Who leaked the files?"
My stomach dropped. The Cumberland project. That was the name of the folder I'd found the photograph in.
Elliot ended the call abruptly and turned back to me, his eyes blazing. "You said your mother owned that photo. Tell me her name."
I hesitated. "Eleanor Harper."
His face paled, and for the first time, I saw something crack in his carefully controlled exterior.
"Eleanor Harper," he repeated, almost to himself. Then his eyes locked onto mine, and the look in them sent a chill down my spine.
"Get out," he said quietly, his voice like steel.
"What?"
"Leave. Now."
I opened my mouth to argue, but the look on his face stopped me. Without another word, I grabbed the painting and walked out of his office, my heart pounding in my chest.
As the elevator doors closed, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just stepped into something far bigger, and far more dangerous, than I'd ever imagined.
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