Page 45 of His Dark Desires

Each second feels like an eternity as I stab the down button. The hallway stretches behind me, dark and threatening. Any moment, Adrian could step out of the shadows. My finger jams the button again and again.

The elevator finally arrives with a soft ding that makes me jump. I practically fall inside, hitting the lobby button before I'm fully through the doors. As they slide closed, I see myself in the polished metal—mascara smeared, hair wild, dress barely covering my bra and panties.

My legs give out, and I sink to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. The dress pools around me, torn and useless like my illusions about Adrian. Above me, the floor numbers tick down with agonizing slowness.

I press my forehead against my knees, trying to steady my breathing. Every mark he left on my skin burns now. The commission paintings flood my mind. They captured some truth about human connection and technology that I never fully understood until now. They're his too—evidence of how deeply he wormed his way into my art, my life, my body.

The elevator continues its descent, carrying me away from the beautiful prison Adrian built just for me, away from the screens that recorded every moment of my fall, away from the man who turned my life into his own private exhibition.

There's no way I can ever see him again.

Chapter 14

Sophia

I stumble through my apartment door, fumbling with the sticky lock that always catches. The familiar squeak of hinges hits different now, like everything else in this room I once called home.

My footsteps are loud in the small space. Paint splatters mark the floor like battle scars—honest ones, unlike the pristine surfaces in Adrian's world. The cramped studio feels suffocating after so much time in his penthouse, walls pressing in where huge windows once opened to the city below.

My cheap coffee maker sits abandoned on the counter, a film of dust coating its plastic surface. The sight of it twists something in my chest. Not too long ago, I watched Adrian's chrome espresso machine hiss and steam, crafting the perfect morning brew. Now the contrast feels like a slap—my dollar store mugs next to his hand-painted ceramics, my salvaged furniture against his custom pieces.

The torn dress clings to my skin, damp with sweat and tears. I'd tried wrapping myself in my jacket for the trip home, but nothing could hide what I'd become in his world: a doll, dressed up and posed for his pleasure.

Tools are scattered exactly where I left them weeks ago. Half-finished canvases lean against walls, patient ghosts waiting for my return. The commission sketches mock me from my desk. All that potential, all those hours of work. But the images from that room flash through my mind: Screens upon screens tracking my life like I'm some specimen under glass. My Instagram posts. My credit card statements. My location, mapped in real-time.

And those photos. The ones Daniel took, private moments I thought were gone forever. How long had Adrian possessed them? How many times had he studied them, planned his approach, calculated the perfect moment to enter my life?

I tear at the dress, expensive fabric giving way under desperate fingers. The lingerie follows. I kick the pile away, standing naked in my own studio, reclaiming my skin.

But my hands shake as I gather supplies, sorting through what's mine and what came from him. All of it has to go. I can't keep anything he touched, anything that might give him another hold over me.

The commission sketches taunt me from my desk, hours of work, concepts that excited me, themes I wanted to explore. But now I see the manipulation behind his suggestions, every "creative discussion" that steered me toward his vision. The technology theme, the surveillance motifs, he wasn't just commissioning art. He was confessing, flaunting his control right in front of me.

My stomach churns at the memory of those screens, that shrine to his obsession. Every move I made, cataloged and analyzed. My whole life reduced to data points for him to possess. I can't forget, no matter what happens. No commission is worth that price. No amount of success can justify submitting to his obsession.

I stumble into the bathroom, and the shower sputters to life at my touch, pipes groaning. Steam fills the small space as I step under the spray, but the hot water can't burn away the memory of his hands on my skin.

Purple marks dot my shoulders, my hips, my thighs. Each one pulses with phantom sensation, his mouth, his touch, the way he made me beg. My body betrays me, warming at the memories even as my mind recoils. The sex was... I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the thought away. It doesn't matter how good it felt. He's insane. Dangerous.

I scrub until my skin turns red. But the cheap body wash can't mask the lingering scent of his cologne.

And I told him I was his. I completely submitted. That memory won't go down the drain, either.

After drying off, I pull on my oldest, most comfortable T-shirt. The worn cotton feels like a shield against everything that happened tonight. My bed welcomes me with familiar creaks and dips.

My phone sits dark and silent on the nightstand. I pick it up, then set it down again. I pick it up. What if I'm overreacting? Those screens could have been for security purposes. He's a tech billionaire after all…

No. I grab the phone again, staring at the blank screen. He hacked my whole life. My messages, my location, my private photos. Everything I do on this device, he can see. Tomorrow, I'll need to figure out how to unhack everything. Get a new phone maybe. New accounts.

Minutes tick by. No calls. No texts. No pounding at my door. Just silence and the weight of everything I discovered tonight.

My eyes grow heavy, but sleep stays out of reach. Every time I start to drift, I see those screens, see myself reduced to data points and surveillance feeds. Finally, exhaustion wins and I slip into darkness, my phone lying silent beside me like a time bomb.

But it never goes off.

I wait and wait. I wait for days, and they blur together in a haze of takeout and Netflix, my art supplies untouched in the corner, but nothing. So I let my guard down and just give in. Give in to what?

I'm not sure.

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