Page 20 of His Dark Desires

I heard you've been making waves.

I can't get his words out of my head as I drop my bag on the kitchen counter. He used the same tone when critiquing my work during our relationship. But I can't let seeing him throw me off. I look around my studio apartment. Yeah, it's time for a little organizing.

I yank open drawers and cabinets, sorting brushes by size and type. My hands shake as I arrange them in their holders—the muscle memory of Daniel's critiques still lingers.

You thinkthatbrush works here?

"Screw you," I mutter, tossing a frayed brush into the trash. The metal tin hits the bottom with a satisfying clang.

I pull out my canvas stretchers, checking each for warping. The wood feels solid under my fingers as I stack them by size. At least Adrian is providing the space—no more paint fumes filling my tiny apartment.

My phone buzzes. Another email from Adrian's assistant with details about the studio space. I scan it while sorting through my paints, setting aside the ones running low. The studio has north-facing windows, perfect natural light.

The organizational frenzy helps quiet the anxious voices in my head. I lay out my palette knives, arrange reference materials, pack spare cloths and cleaning supplies. Each item represents a choice, my choice. Not Daniel's approval. Not Adrian's influence.

I pause my organizing frenzy as a crumpled paper flutters from between old receipts. My fingers smooth out the wrinkles, revealing a sales record from the local arts market where I used to sell my smaller pieces.

"A.V. Holdings."

The name jumps out at me. My breath catches as recognition clicks. That same buyer name appears on three other receipts I've kept.

I drop to my knees, rifling through the box of old paperwork. There—another receipt from six months later. And another from last winter. All signed by A.V. Holdings.

The dates span back almost two years. My hands tremble as I line up the receipts on my floor. They all claim a different piece at different prices but always that same buyer name.

"A.V." I whisper, the initials taking on new meaning. Adrian Vale. My stomach lurches.

I snatch my laptop, fingers flying over the keys as I pull up past sales records from various galleries and markets. The pattern emerges with terrifying clarity—A.V. Holdings has been collecting my work long before Adrian supposedly "discovered" me at the gallery.

I grab my phone, scrolling through recent texts from Adrian. And his detailed commentary on "Fractured Light" hits differently now—that piece sold eight months ago to A.V. Holdings at a small weekend market.

The way you captured isolation through fragmented reflections...

My fingers tighten around the phone. He'd described it exactly as I'd intended, down to the specific technique I'd used to create the fragmented mirror effect. At the time, I'd been impressed by his insight. Now it feels invasive.

The cryptic email pulses in my mind:Sometimes the ones who admire you most are the ones you see the least. They know more than you think.

But Daniel's smirk at the art store nags at me. The way he'd casually dropped Adrian's name, fishing for my reaction. His loaded comments about "making waves" and "careful who you trust."

Classic Daniel—always trying to position himself as the voice of reason while subtly undermining my confidence. He'd done it throughout our relationship, especially when my work started gaining attention.

I lean back in my chair, forcing myself to take deep breaths. The receipts blur before my eyes as exhaustion sets in. Am I jumping to conclusions?

"A.V. Holdings could be anyone," I say out loud to my empty apartment. "Lots of companies use initials."

I pull up my Instagram feed, scrolling through years of posts. Then I find it. There's "Fractured Light" in all its glory, complete with my lengthy caption about the mirror technique and what inspired the piece. My artist statement sits right there in my bio, explaining my fascination with isolation and technology.

The posts tell the whole story of my artistic journey. Anyone could piece together my influences, my techniques, my evolution as an artist. Adrian's insights during dinner weren't mystical—they were probably researched.

My shoulders relax slightly as logic takes hold. Daniel's timing was too perfect at the art store. He always did this—showed up when things were going well, dropped hints designed to make me doubt myself. The email's dramatic tone matches his flair for manipulation.

I gather the receipts, tucking them back into their folder. Daniel would love nothing more than to sabotage this opportunity. He never could handle my success outshining his.

"Not this time," I mutter, closing the folder with finality. I won't let his mind games derail the biggest commission of my career. I feel embarrassed for getting so worked up. For now, I'm putting Daniel back into the past.

And in the future, Adrian is waiting for me, my new patron.

Chapter 6

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