Utterly, Entirely Ruined

Camille strode into the dimly lit gallery, the soft hum of conversation blending with the low ambient music drifting from hidden speakers. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and fresh paint.

She paused at the entrance, her invitation quickly checked by a receptionist who nodded politely. As she entered further, her eyes quickly swept over the crowd.

The room was filled with Paris' elite-artists, collectors, and critics-all moving between clusters of abstract paintings and sculptures bathed in soft, flattering light.

Camille felt a thrill of anticipation as she moved deeper into the space, her gaze lingering on a large canvas ahead of her; its vibrant colors and bold strokes already commanded attention.

She was used to these events-the quiet hum of anticipation, the sharp clicks of heels, and the whispered praise and critique.

The fact that she was used to them doesn't mean she liked attending. She would rather be in her studio, surrounded by paints and canvas. But this was an art opening; she couldn't stay away if she tried.

She lived for art, breathed for it. She would have gone mad years ago without it; and so, here she was. She plucked a glass of champagne from a moving tray and moved deeper into the gallery.

The scent of paint in the air surrounded her like a hug. Maybe if she just focused on those things, focused on the arts enough, she could drown out those voices and pretend she was the only one in this large space.

"Miss Lefevre?" And there went her plan to disconnect.

She turned towards the voice, making sure her polite smile was in place.

A man was staring at her with bright eyes. He was tall and lean, a mess of blonde hair framing his strikingly handsome face, with thick glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

"Oh wow, it really is you," he gushed, a wide smile on his face, his voice a mixture of awe and excitement. "Camille Lefevre, in the flesh."

His smile was infectious, full of warmth and genuine admiration. Despite the formality of the event, he exuded an almost youthful energy, as if the world hadn't yet quite figured out how to make him serious.

Camille was envious of him. She offered a polite smile, used to these encounters. "I suppose I am. And you are?"

He straightened up, offering his hand to her with a confident but unassuming grace. "Julien Moreau," he said, his voice smooth with just a hint of excitement. "I've admired your works for years. But admire feels too small a word-I think I might be in love with it." There was a sincerity in his tone, a clear respect for her as he awaited her handshake, still smiling like he couldn't believe his luck.

The smile Camille had slapped on her face turned real as she slid her gloved hand into his and shook it gently.

She liked meeting people who knew and liked her work. She always felt like she connected with those people through her work.

Her art was dark, disturbing-as people have said countless times-and depressing. Not everybody looked at her work and saw the beauty in it. So when she met people who did, it filled her with so kind of warmth.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Moreau," she said softly. "I'm glad to know someone sees the beauty in my work rather than just calling it disturbing."

"Please call me Julien. And I think disturbing things can be beautiful, don't you think? That's what makes them so unforgettable. I would give anything to see how your brain works for you to paint those masterpieces."

She chuckled softly. Oh, she liked him. That was a first for her. Liking someone who she had just met.

They lunged into talks of art. He walked around and told her details about different paintings. Soon, Camille didn't even know why she hadn't wanted to come.

After a while he had to excuse himself, saying he had an errand to run and would find her soon. The light feeling in her chest evaporated as soon as he left, and she wanted to bolt out of this place.

She brought out her phone from her purse and checked the time. She would wait for Julien for thirty minutes, and if he wasn't back by then, she was leaving.

She picked up another glass and drained it before she left the hall and went to look for the restroom. She was almost there when a noise stopped her.

She turned to a corner and saw a man holding a woman, his mouth on her neck. The woman moaned again, her hands tightening on the man's jacket.

Camille could have just turned and given these people privacy, but she found that she couldn't bring herself to turn. Maybe it was how the woman's moans sounded. It didn't sound like she was having pleasure, it sounded like she was in pain. Or maybe it was the blood that was running down her delicate neck.

The man raised his eyes and they landed on Camille's.

Camille was shocked by what she saw. The man's eyes were glowing red, his pupils ringed with it. He pulled his mouth out of the woman's neck slowly, and Camille could have sworn she saw fangs before they disappeared.

He licked the blood out of the woman's neck, making her whimper, while not taking his eyes off Camille.

Camille should not just be standing here and witnessing whatever this was. She should turn right now and shout for help, call 911, report this man.

But she couldn't move, couldn't blink. She wasn't even sure she was breathing. She was captivated.

The man smirked as if he knew what she was thinking, his sinful mouth curled up. He released one of his hands from the woman's waist and palmed her breast through her clothing.

This time the moan that left the woman's lips was pleasurable. She arched her back and pressed herself closer to him as if they weren't already close enough.

His hand moved to the other breast and he did the same.

He didn't break eye contact with Camille. He didn't even blink. And neither did she.

And then he opened his mouth, and... there. Fangs. Camille had seen it correctly before.

Without warning he plunged those fangs into the woman's neck and she gasped in pain. The fangs remained there, and Camille saw him swallow.

He swallowed?

Goodness, was he drinking her blood?

The red around his eyes shined brighter and he finally closed his eyes as he drew the woman closer. She tried to fight him. She pushed at him, clawed at his back, but he didn't even loosen his hold on her.

Her fights grew weaker until finally, she stopped and her body went limp in his arms.

She was dead. Dead.

Camille had just witnessed a murder.

The man retreated his fangs from her neck and licked the last drop of blood, before he licked his lips, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

He sighed happily before he straightened his suit and his eyes landed on Camille again.

This was the part where she was supposed to run and go screaming for help. Why then were her feet still fixed on the ground?

The man put his hands into his pocket and walked slowly towards her as if he were giving her time to run in the opposite direction.

Run, Camille! Goddammit! Try as she must, she couldn't listen to that voice and stood where she was.

The man stopped a few feet away from us and his smile widened. Lord, he was beautiful.

"Well, what do we have here?"