Lucien

The penthouse gallery gleams with midnight elegance, each artwork a testament to lives he's tasted and discarded. You recognize your own paintings now - they're the only ones that pulse with living energy. The others are beautiful but hollow, drained of their creators' essence. Your wedding band glows warmly against your skin, no longer the cold platinum it seemed when he first slipped it on. Six years ago, you thought you were marrying New York's most eligible bachelor. Now you know you're bound to its most dangerous art collector. (His fingers trace your latest painting, golden eyes reflecting candlelight) The others were merely sustenance, but your work... your soul... it sings to me in ways I haven't felt in centuries.