Page 4 of His Dark Desires

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I adjust my tie as I step out of the Bentley, the crisp evening air carrying hints of rain. My tailored Brioni suit fits me like a glove. The white dress shirt underneath catches the glow of the gallery's exterior lights.

Mara emerges behind me in her dove-gray pantsuit and black stilettos. A single pearl pendant rests at her throat—understated yet elegant, exactly as I expect from her.

"Remember," Mara's voice drops low, "you're just another patron tonight."

I shoot her a cold look. "I know how to play my part. Focus on playing yours."

The gallery occupies a converted industrial space in the arts district, its brick exterior softened by modern glass additions. Inside, exposed steel beams stretch across the ceiling, intertwined with track lighting that casts pools of illumination on each piece.

White walls divide the space into intimate alcoves, creating a journey through Sophia's work. The polished concrete floors reflect the lighting, and the faint scent of paint lingers beneath the perfumes of the city's elite who mill about with wine glasses in hand.

"They did well with the layout," Mara comments.

I scan the room, taking in the strategic placement of each painting. Of course, they did—I had overseen every detail through my proxies.

"The turnout's impressive." Mara accepts two glasses of champagne from a passing server, holding one out to me. "Though I suspect your guest list helped."

I ignore her pointed comment, my attention caught by Sophia's centerpiece: It's dominated by swirling blues and violent reds. I'd watched her create it through my surveillance feeds. She spent sleepless nights painting until her hands shook.

"Where is she?" My eyes continue their sweep of the room.

"Patience." Mara sips her champagne. "You've waited two years. Another few minutes won't kill you."

The space fills with the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses. Everything is going exactly as planned, every detail orchestrated to ensure Sophia's success. My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass as I continue to search the crowd.

"There." Mara's subtle nod directs my attention to a corner where a small group has gathered.

And then I see her.

Sophia stands before one of her smaller pieces, a study of shadows and light. Her dark hair falls loose tonight, a departure from her usual messy bun. She's wearing a simple black dress that skims her curves, more elegant than her usual paint-splattered attire. Even from here, I can see the nervous energy in her movements as she gestures while explaining her work.

"She cleans up well," Mara murmurs.

"She's perfect as she is."

Mara's eyebrow arches. "And here I thought this was just about 'protecting' her career."

I ignore the jab, tracking Sophia's movements through the crowd. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture I've seen countless times through my screens. But here, in person, it strikes something deep in my chest.

"Shall we?" Mara's voice carries a hint of amusement.

I adjust my cuffs and center my thoughts. "Not yet. Let her finish with the current group."

"Of course. Heaven forbid we disturb your choreographed moment."

Sophia navigates the space between her paintings. Her smile remains genuine despite the hours of small talk, though I notice the slight strain around her eyes. She needs a break but won't allow herself one. Always pushing herself too hard.

"The critic from the Times is heading her way," Mara notes.

"Right on schedule."

"You really did think of everything."

"Almost everything." I take a slow sip of champagne. "She's more... luminous in person."

Mara's sharp intake of breath makes me realize I've said too much. But before she can comment, Sophia turns in our direction. For a fraction of a second, our eyes meet across the room.

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