Page 57 of His Dark Desires

"Were they?" I enlarge a series of transfers. "Or did someone merely make them appear settled?" My fingers race across the interface, peeling back layers of financial camouflage. "Look deeper. The money trail leads to shell companies owned by his current debtors. They're still collecting interest."

Mara's sharp intake of breath tells me she sees it, too. "And the student?"

"Emma Kay." I bring up surveillance photos, emails, text messages. "She was 20 when he taught her Advanced Studio Art. Their relationship lasted six months before she transferred schools." The evidence materializes in neat columns, hotel receipts, private messages, desperate pleas when he ended things.

"The statute of limitations—"

"Doesn't matter." I wave away her concern. "The court of public opinion has no limitations. Besides, there's more."

I pull up tax records next to gallery sales data. "Notice these discrepancies?" Eight paintings sold through private dealers, payments in cash. "Nearly $200,000 in unreported income."

"The IRS would be very interested in this detail," Mara murmurs.

"Among others." I lean back, studying the web of Daniel's indiscretions spread across my screens. "Anonymous tips to the right parties. Evidence leaked at strategic moments. His reputation will crumble piece by piece."

"The timing matters," Mara says. "Too fast raises suspicion. Too slow loses impact."

"We start with whispers about the student. Let that simmer while we alert his creditors to his improving financial situation." I highlight key dates on a timeline. "The tax fraud comes last, after his defenders are already exhausted."

Mara is quiet for a moment, absorbing the plan. Then, carefully: "And Sophia?"

Her name cuts through my cold calculation. I feel my expression shift before I can stop it, though I keep my voice steady.

"What about her?"

"How does she factor into this?"

The muscles in my jaw work as I consider my response. Sophia's face appears unbidden in my mind—her talent, her vulnerability. All the things that drew me to her in the first place.

"She needs to understand something fundamental," I say, turning back to my desk. The satisfaction of a well-crafted plan settles into my bones as I adjust my cuffs. "I'm the only one who can truly protect her. Daniel's fall from grace will reinforce that lesson."

I watch Mara's silent nod, noting the subtle tension in her shoulders. The dynamic between us has shifted since Sophia moved in—the easy rapport we built over years of working together now carries an undercurrent of strain.

I consider how Mara's defiance revealed her true nature. The punishment session exposed her motivations, stripped away the professional veneer she maintained. Now she knows her place, understands that her attempts to interfere with Sophia were futile.

The signs are there in the way she carries herself, the distance she maintains. Her eyes no longer meet mine with that spark of challenge. She's realized that her power play backfired, that she can't drive a wedge between Sophia and me.

But she'll think of some new angle to attack from. The woman is addicted to the punishment I give her. I can manage Mara on the side when she "slips up."

All that matters is Sophia is finally where she belongs.

* * *

I savor the tender wagyu as I scroll through the latest headlines about Daniel's spectacular fall from grace. The private dining room at Le Ciel wraps around me like a cocoon of luxury, the mahogany panels gleaming in the warm light of Murano glass chandeliers. Wide windows offer a godlike view of Neon Heights spread out below, the city's lights twinkling like fallen stars.

"Another gallery just pulled his upcoming exhibition," Mara murmurs, her voice barely carrying over the subtle classical music piped through hidden speakers. She stands at attention beside my table.

I take another bite of the wagyu, letting the rich flavors bloom on my tongue while scanning the growing list of cancellations. "Which one?"

"The Morrison Gallery. They cited 'artistic differences,' but I'm certain it's the allegations."

A smile tugs at my lips. The Morrison had been particularly eager to distance themselves after those conveniently leaked photos of Daniel's drunken tirade at their charity gala last month. ATLAS had ensured maximum visibility among key industry players.

"His social media engagement metrics are dropping by the hour," Mara continues, swiping through analytics. "The algorithm is amplifying all the right conversations."

I dab my lips with the crisp linen napkin, pleased by how smoothly everything is unfolding. The restaurant's understated opulence, from the hand-painted silk wallpaper to the antique Persian carpet underfoot, feels appropriate for orchestrating Daniel's downfall.

"Show me the latest coverage," I say, setting down my fork.

---