The brush left a trembling line across the canvas—just as Lara's hand jerked when someone appeared in the corridor.
"The light is wrong."
The voice cut through the silence so sharply that Lara's heart nearly leapt from her chest. When she turned, she saw him: Cem Kara, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying her canvas with those ice-cold green eyes.
"Excuse me?" Lara's voice came out harsher than intended. Good. She shouldn't show weakness.
"You're copying Vermeer. 1665, 'Girl with a Pearl Earring.' But you've captured the light incorrectly." Cem entered the studio, his footsteps on the wooden floor disturbingly confident. "Trying to imitate the old masters without understanding chiaroscuro technique is foolish."
*Damn it.* Lara's jaw tightened. He was right—which made her even more irritated.
"Maybe I'm not copying Vermeer," she said, dipping her brush into cleaning solution. "Maybe it's my own interpretation."
"No." Cem was right behind her now, so close she could smell his jacket's scent of tobacco and expensive cologne. "This is a copy. And quite a mediocre one. I'd expect better from a student your age."
Lara gritted her teeth. *Don't turn around. Don't react.*
But she turned.
And realized she'd made a mistake.
Cem Kara was handsome even in photographs—according to hallway gossip, many students took his class just to look at him. But this close, that sharp jawline, the mocking curve at the corner of his lips, and that dark depth in his eyes...
*No. No, no, no. This man is dangerous.*
Her father had warned her: "In the art world, everyone is either predator or prey. Never confuse the two."
"Have you made a habit of critiquing students during their breaks, Professor?" Lara asked without breaking eye contact.
Cem's lips—*God, those lips*—curved slightly. But the smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Talented students interest me. You're talented, Lara Özkan. But you're hiding something."
Lara's heart began pounding wildly in her chest. *What does he know? Could he know?*
"Everyone hides something," she said, her voice thankfully steady. "Even you, Professor."
For a moment—just one moment—Cem's mask slipped. Something flashed in his eyes. Danger. Recognition. Perhaps... excitement.
Then he returned to that frozen expression.
"Tomorrow, 3 PM. My office. I'm looking for an assistant for a special project." He stepped back, creating distance between them. "Students who refuse usually regret it by semester's end."
"Is that a threat?"
"Advice." He walked toward the door but turned for one last look. "And Lara? If you finish that painting, you'll regret it. Some copies... shouldn't be too convincing."
After the door closed, Lara's legs began trembling. She collapsed into a chair.
*What did he mean? Could he not know?*
She pulled out her phone. A message from her father: "New job. Thursday. Be ready."
*Damn.*
***
The next day, standing outside Cem Kara's office, Lara's instincts screamed at her to run. But her curiosity—and honestly, those damned green eyes that kept her half-awake last night—won.
She knocked.
"Come in."
The office was far more impressive than expected. Floor-to-ceiling books, original paintings on the walls—or at least they appeared original—and by the window, a massive desk overlooking the Bosphorus.
Cem sat at his desk, examining a file. He didn't look up.
"You're late."
"Three minutes," Lara said.
"In the art world, three minutes is the difference between missing a piece and acquiring it." Now he looked. And that gaze... God, why was it so compelling? "Sit."
Lara sat. The office smelled like him—dangerous, forbidden, and completely seductive.
"I'm going to offer you a job," Cem said, closing the file. "But first I need to know something. Why are you studying here, Lara?"
"I want to be an artist."
"Liar." He leaned forward. "Someone like you—with access to every resource, with your father's connections able to get into any gallery—why waste time at a small academy?"
Lara's blood froze. "What do you know about my father?"
Cem's smile was predatory. "Mehmet Özkan. Art restoration expert. At least, according to official records." He stood, slowly circling the desk. "But we both know the truth is far more... interesting."
*Run. Run now.*
But Lara didn't move.
"You know something about art theft too, don't you, Professor?" Her voice betrayed her, trembling slightly. "The Caravaggio that disappeared in London last year turning up in Istanbul was quite a coincidence. Especially at the exhibition you curated."
Cem laughed. A deep, rich sound. It ran down Lara's spine.
"Smart girl." Now he was right in front of her, leaning against his desk, looking down. "That's why I chose you."
"For what?"
"A partnership." He leaned in, his face incredibly close to hers. "You help me access places I can't reach. I teach you. Real art—not just creating it, but stealing it, hiding it, selling it."
"You're insane."
"I am." His voice dropped to a whisper, and Lara's breath caught. "But so are you. I see it, Lara. Your brushstrokes, your color choices, every detail on your canvas... You don't just understand art. You live it. You break laws for it."
Lara's heart pounded wildly. She should leave. This man was dangerous. Not just to her freedom, but to her heart.
But when she stood, she didn't retreat. Instead, she leaned forward.
"If I accept," she said, her voice low and challenging, "what are the rules?"
Something ignited in Cem's eyes. Desire? Passion? Both?
"Rule one: You trust me."
"No."
He raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"I don't trust anyone. Especially someone who knows my secrets."
His lips—*those damned lips*—curved. "Fair. Then rule one: We're honest with each other. Always."
"Agreed."
"Rule two: This is just business. Emotions complicate things."
Lara laughed, but the sound was bitter. "Don't worry about my emotions, Professor."
"Cem." He moved closer, the distance between them nearly vanishing. "Outside office hours, my name is Cem."
Lara's breath came hot and fast. *This is a mistake. A colossal mistake.*
"Alright, Cem." His name felt foreign, dangerous on her lips. "Third rule?"
His eyes dropped to her lips—just for a second, but enough to set Lara's entire body on fire.
"Rule three," he whispered, "we'll never fall in love with each other."
And Lara heard her heart whisper the lie: *Too late.*
"Deal." She extended her hand. "When do we start?"
Cem shook it—and Lara felt something like an electric shock. A harbinger of passion, danger, and inevitable destruction.
"Tomorrow night. There's a private exhibition at Dolmabahçe. And you're going to steal a painting for me."