His silver-rimmed glasses were perfectly clean.

His dark hair was brushed back, untouched by the damp Chicago fog.

He didn’t look angry; he looked amused.

“Well, Emily,” he said, his voice echoing in the empty studio. “You always did prefer the slums of the South Side.”

He didn’t wait for an invite.

He walked slowly into the room, his leather shoes clicking on the wooden floor.

He stopped in front of the first painting.

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses.

“I see you’ve been busy,” he said.

“You’re early, Daniel,” I said, keeping my voice level.

“I wanted to see the collection before your little friends arrive,” he said, turning to face me.

He took a slow step forward, his eyes locking onto mine with a cold, familiar intensity.

“I didn’t invite you at all,” I said.

My hand rested on the edge of the wooden work table.

The surface was rough, stained with blue cobalt pigment and turpentine.

Daniel smiled, a thin, bloodless line.

He adjusted his cuffs.

The gold links caught the dim light from the skylight above.