Page 44 of His Dark Desires

But now, sitting half-naked in his sterile studio, I barely recognize my life anymore. Three months ago, I was a struggling artist in a cramped apartment. Now I'm wearing thousand-dollar lingerie, making love to my billionaire patron on his custom desk.

Can I keep doing this? Let him blur the lines between benefactor and lover? His money has solved so many problems, given me freedom to create. But with each gift, each touch, each command, the walls close in a little tighter.

Even if I wanted to walk away, could I? The thought makes my stomach clench. Adrian's influence touches every part of my life now—my art, my finances, my body. The scariest part is how much I crave it.

No. This is all so fucked up. Now that he's out of the room, his explanation for stalking me makes less sense.

I slide off the desk, my legs trembling beneath me. Wrapping my arms around my torso, I wait for Adrian to return with the promised towel, his last words still ringing in my ears—Wait here—a command even in his attempt at aftercare.

My bare feet pad across the floor as I move through the space. Details I'd overlooked jump out at me now. A camera blinks red in the corner, its lens aimed directly at where Adrian just had me spread across his desk. Another one watches from the opposite wall. My stomach drops as I spot a third tucked discreetly behind a potted plant.

My own image catches me off guard. I stop, staring at the woman in the window glass. My dark hair is wild, tangled from Adrian's grip. Purple marks dot my neck and collarbone, disappearing beneath black lace. The lingerie cups my breasts and hugs my hips exactly as he intended when he chose it.

I touch one of the marks on my throat, pressing until it stings. The woman in the reflection does the same, her eyes wide and lips still swollen from his kisses. Is this really me? The struggling artist who swore she'd never compromise her independence?

But I can't deny the heat that coils in my belly as I take in my transformed appearance. My nipples tighten against the delicate lace, and I squeeze my thighs together, still sensitive from his attention. The marks he left brand me as his, just like everything else in this room.

I turn slowly, cataloging the cameras, the security measures, the furniture. It's all so obvious now. This studio was never really meant to be my creative space. It's his observatory, his way of keeping me where he wants me.

The realization should terrify me. Instead, I find myself pressing another bruise, savoring the sweet ache. My reflection shows a flush creeping across my chest, my breathing getting shallow. What does it say about me that knowing he's probably watching right now, through one of his cameras, makes me wet?

I approach the studio door silently. Adrian hasn't ever needed to say it—the studio is my space, the rest of the penthouse off limits unless he's with me. But he's been gone too long, and the chill raises goosebumps across my exposed skin.

Plus I already miss him.

I take a deep breath, then leave the room, plunging into the unknown. Past the living space, that hallway stretches before me, dark and imposing. I head straight for it. My fingers trail along the wall as I walk, passing the spot where I last saw Mara. She'd given me such a strange look that day, like she wanted to warn me about something.

My heart is beating hard as I spot that door, cracked open with light bleeding into the hallway. As I get closer, it feels like I'm crossing a boundary I shouldn't. I'm afraid Mara will pop up again. What will she say after seeing me like this, especially after our talk?

"Adrian?" I whisper as I step into the room, but only silence answers.

I push the door wider, expecting to find him caught up in work. Instead, my blood turns to ice. The room is filled with screens flickering with images that stop my breath.

There I am at my favorite coffee shop yesterday morning. Another screen shows my email inbox, not just recent messages, but threads going back months. My Instagram feed plays on loop, every post I've ever made cycling through.

My legs go weak as I take in more screens. A map tracks my daily routes through the city. Security footage from my apartment building. Bank statements. Medical records. Text messages. My whole life laid bare across these walls, documented and analyzed. This isn't just surveillance—it's obsession made digital.

I stumble backward, my hand pressed to my mouth. The cameras I spotted in the studio take on new meaning. They weren't just security measures. They were part of this, his digital web designed to capture every moment, every movement, every breath.

My stomach lurches as I spot a familiar email thread, the warning about Adrian's true nature. But it's open on his system, which means he knew about it all along. He's been watching me react to it, probably standing in this very room.

The screens continue their relentless display of my life, revealing another layer of Adrian's deception. I wrap my arms around myself, but I can't stop shaking. The cold isn't just external anymore. It's settled deep in my bones as I realize just how completely I've fallen into his trap.

My heart stops as my eyes lock onto images I never thought I'd see again—intimate photos Daniel took during our relationship years ago. They're displayed right there among the surveillance feeds, like pieces in Adrian's twisted collection. Those photos were private, meant for no one else's eyes. How did Adrian get them?

The central screen draws my attention, and I freeze. There I am, standing in this very room, wearing nothing but the black lace Adrian chose. I watch my own face transform as understanding crashes over me—the depth of his surveillance, the violation of my privacy, the calculated manipulation of my life. The camera captures every micro-expression as horror replaces confusion.

I stumble backward, nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste to escape. The lingerie that made me feel sexy and desired minutes ago now feels like chains against my skin.

My arms cross over my chest, a futile attempt at covering myself, but it's pointless. He's already seen everything, not just my body, but every aspect of my life. The private moments, the vulnerable ones, even parts of my past I thought were buried.

I sprint back to the studio, my bare feet slapping against the floor. My torn dress lies where Adrian left it, a reminder of how completely I surrendered to him. My fingers tremble as I snatch it up, along with my purse and phone.

I fumble to gather my things, and paint brushes clatter to the floor as I bump the easel. I leave them there—they're his anyway, like everything else in this fucking cage. My sketchbook falls open, revealing the studies I'd done of his hands, his face. I slam it shut and shove it in my bag.

The security cameras track my frantic movements. I clutch the dress against my chest, trying to cover what those unblinking eyes have already seen a thousand times.

I wrap the dress around myself, not caring that the tear exposes most of my thigh. The fabric hangs loose where Adrian ripped the buttons. I stumble toward the elevator, my heart thundering against my ribs.

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