Page 11 of His Dark Desires

I take my coffee to the window, and Adrian's face floats into my mind. Those sharp cheekbones, the way his tailored suit emphasized his lean frame…

I accidentally slosh coffee against the sides of my mug. No. I set the cup down hard on the windowsill. I can't go there again. Can't let myself get swept away by another charming man with strong opinions about my art.

But Adrian seems different. The way he discussed my technique showed real understanding, not just someone trying to impress me. And that commission offer...

My stomach knots. The money would solve so many problems. No more scraping by, no more dollar store canvases, no more watering down my paints to make them last longer. I could finally afford those high-quality oils I've been eyeing.

"Stop it," I mutter, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. "You promised yourself. No more depending on anyone."

Daniel's studio floods back into my mind, how he'd let me use his supplies when I was broke, then throw that in my face during arguments.

Where would you be without me?he'd sneer.Still painting with acrylics from the craft store?

I push away from the window, pacing the cramped space. My bare feet leave prints in spilled paint powder. This is my space. My mess. My independence.

But success doesn't come from stubborn isolation. Even the great masters had patrons. The question is: Can I accept help without losing myself?

I stop in front of my latest piece, the one Adrian seemed particularly drawn to. Dark feelings spill through my work, slashing crimson and ebony against each other. It's honest. Uncompromising. Everything I want my art to be.

"This is why you paint," I remind myself, touching the dried ridges of paint. Not for recognition or money, but because these feelings demand expression. Because every time I pick up a brush, I'm saying, "This is my voice, my vision, my truth."

But maybe... maybe accepting help doesn't always mean giving up control. Maybe there's a difference between dependence and collaboration.

That look Adrian gave me—the way his eyes bore straight into my soul, as though he knew every thought, every secret. I'm caught between wanting to run and yearning to stay, my heart fluttering with equal parts fear and excitement.

I settle back onto my bed with my coffee, pulling my laptop closer. My Instagram notifications are exploding—seems like everyone who attended the gallery opening last night is sharing photos. A smile tugs at my lips as I scroll through the images. My paintings look different through their eyes, the photos capturing a unique angle, a different play of light.

The comments section overflows with praise. "Breakthrough artist," one reads. "Soo talented!" "Exactly what the scene needs." My chest swells with pride, though a small voice whispers that I don't deserve this attention.

Switching to my email, I nearly spill my coffee. There, sitting at the top of my inbox, is a message from Adrian Vale. My finger hovers over the touchpad for a moment before I click.

Dear Ms. Larkin,

I trust you've had time to consider our discussion regarding the commission. I would very much like to explore the details over dinner at Le Blanc this Friday at 8 p.m. Their private dining room offers the perfect setting for a thorough creative discussion.

Your work continues to intrigue me, and I look forward to hearing your vision for this project.

Best regards,

Adrian Vale

I read it again. And again. My pulse quickens with each word. Le Blanc is the kind of restaurant I've only walked past, never entered. The kind where the menu doesn't list prices because if you have to ask, you can't afford it.

Daniel's voice echoes in my head:You'll never make it without connections. I hate that he might be right.

My fingers drum against my coffee mug as I stare at the screen. Something about Adrian's intensity both draws me in and sets off warning bells. But can I afford to let this opportunity slip away? Those past-due bills aren't going to pay themselves.

I click "Reply" before I can talk myself out of it.

* * *

I smooth my black dress for the hundredth time, checking myself out in the mirror at Le Blanc's entrance. The dress is vintage—thrifted but elegant, hitting just above my knees. I've paired it with my only decent heels, praying they'll survive the night without the heel caps falling off again.

The hostess glides toward me, all sleek elegance in a tailored white suit. Her platinum hair is pulled into a severe bun that emphasizes her sharp cheekbones.

"Ms. Larkin?" Her French accent makes my name sound exotic. "Mr. Vale is expecting you."

My heart skips. "I'm early—"

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