Page 36 of His Dark Desires

The warmth of his body distracts me from the technical lesson he's delivering. His cologne fills my lungs. But there's an edge to him today, a frustration that won't let me relax.

"See?" His voice drops lower, right by my ear. "Simple once you understand the principles."

I nod, though the demonstration has left me more confused than before. The pattern on screen now flows perfectly, exactly as he wanted. But it doesn't feel like my art anymore. His fingers continue their impatient rhythm on the desk.

"Try it again."

"I'm not going to get this. Have you seen Marina Chen's new series?" I ask, trying to mask my insecurity. "Her digital paintings are incredible. She just—"

"Lost the Hawthorne grant," Adrian cuts in. "Quite unfortunate."

I turn in my chair to face him. His hand still rests near mine on the desk, but I no longer sense the warmth from before.

"Lost it? But everyone said she was guaranteed to—"

"Technical difficulties with her submission," he says, lips curving into a smile. "The file was corrupted. Deadlines are unforgiving."

His tone makes my skin prickle. He sounds almost... pleased.

"You won't need to concern yourself with competition anymore," he adds. "Your talent deserves recognition. The right people will see to that."

The way he says it, like he's already arranged everything, makes my stomach twist. His certainty should be comforting, but instead, it feels wrong.

"I should still push myself," I say. "Other artists—"

"Are irrelevant." His hand settles on my shoulder, heavy and possessive. "Focus on your work. That's all that matters now."

He's like a teacher scolding a struggling student. I hate feeling this incompetent. The tablet might as well be written in hieroglyphics.

Marina Chen losing the Hawthorne grant... my stomach sinks deeper. She's been a pillar in our local art scene, mentoring younger artists and pushing boundaries with her digital work. This loss will ripple through the whole community. Several galleries were counting on her upcoming shows to draw serious collectors.

The way Adrian dismissed her, like she was nothing... Does he expect me to step into that void? I can barely make this software create basic shapes, let alone the intricate pieces Marina produces.

"Technical difficulties," he'd said, but something feels off about it. The timing is too convenient. And the way his eyes lit up describing her failure...

I stare at the mess of parameters on my screen. Who am I kidding? I'm nowhere near Marina's level with digital art. My strength is in oils and canvas, in texture you can touch. Yet here Adrian is, steering me toward something that feels increasingly wrong, like trying to force a square peg into a round hole.

His fingers dig slightly into my shoulder as I fumble with another setting. The pattern warps again, nothing like the flowing piece he demonstrated. My mistakes seem to piss him off.

But when I look up at him, anticipating another scolding, he's looking down at my clothes, eyes lingering on the frayed hem of my jeans and the paint splatters decorating my sweater.

"This isn't how a serious artist presents herself," Adrian says at once, distaste clear in his voice. "Look at you."

I shrink under his scrutiny, suddenly aware of every imperfection—the loose thread dangling from my sleeve, the scuff marks on my boots.

"Marina Chen, for instance," he continues, circling me like a shark. "She understands that presentation is part of the package. Tailored blazers, designer shoes. People take her seriously because she takes herself seriously."

The irony of him praising Marina after revealing her grant rejection isn't lost on me. My cheeks burn as he picks apart my appearance.

"These jeans belong in a dumpster." As he comes nearer, his fingers pinch the worn denim at my knee. "And this sweater... it's not artistic charm, it's unprofessional. You're not some kid anymore, dabbling in watercolors. You're meant to be establishing yourself in the industry."

I bristle at his judgment. "These clothes are practical for painting. I'm not going to ruin expensive—"

"Mara," Adrian calls out, cutting me off mid-sentence. His voice carries that note of command that brooks no argument.

The door opens before his voice even fades. Mara strides in, arms laden with shopping bags bearing designer labels I've only seen in magazines. Was she waiting outside the door?

"Perfect timing," Adrian says, though something tells me this entrance was orchestrated down to the second. "Show Ms. Larkin what proper attire looks like."

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