Page 14 of His Dark Desires

"I was thinking of focusing more on emotional intimacy," I venture. "How technology creates distance even as it connects us."

"Interesting." He leans forward, his knee bumping mine under the table. "But consider this: What if we explored surveillance instead? The way we perform under observation, the digital footprints we leave behind."

A chill runs down my spine despite the warmth of the room. "That seems... invasive."

"All art is invasive. It forces viewers to confront uncomfortable truths." His fingers drum once on the table. "'Fragmentation' already touches on these themes. The way the central figure dissolves into pixelated fragments—"

"How do you know about that piece?" The words burst out before I can stop them. "It's still in my studio. I haven't shown it to anyone."

Adrian's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. "You posted progress shots on your Instagram."

"No," I say slowly. "I didn't."

Silence stretches between us. Adrian breaks it with a slight laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. "The wine must be affecting your memory."

He smoothly shifts the conversation to upcoming gallery trends, but unease coils in my stomach. I find myself watching his hands as he talks—elegant, controlled movements that remind me of a conductor directing an orchestra. Every gesture seems designed to guide my attention exactly where he wants it.

"Your use of negative space," he says, "it's powerful. But have you considered incorporating more technological elements? Circuit patterns, perhaps? Binary code as texture?"

"I prefer organic forms."

"The market is shifting toward tech-influenced art." His tone stays pleasant, but there's an undercurrent of insistence. "Buyers want commentary on our digital age. Your talent combined with the right direction..." He trails off meaningfully.

Direction. The word echoes in my head. Everything about this dinner, about Adrian, seems orchestrated. Each suggestion feels like a gentle push down a predetermined path.

My wine glass is empty again. Adrian signals for a refill, though I don't remember drinking that much. The sommelier appears and disappears like a ghost.

"Your color choices in recent works show evolution," Adrian continues. "Though I think bolder contrasts would serve the commission's themes better. Perhaps we could review some reference materials I've prepared?"

The way he says it—we could review—implies partnership, but I hear the subtle command beneath. Each suggestion comes gift-wrapped in praise and possibility, making it harder to refuse without seeming ungrateful or unprofessional.

I find myself nodding along, even as part of me rebels against his cage of recommendations. His enthusiasm is infectious, his knowledge impressive, but there's something almost mechanical about how perfectly he anticipates my artistic interests. Like he's reading from a script written specifically for me.

"You have such potential," he murmurs, reaching across to touch my hand. His fingers are warm, the contact sending sparks up my arm despite my unease. "Let me help you realize it."

The touch lingers, and I'm caught between wanting to pull away and wanting to lean into his warmth. The weight of him crowds every corner, making me feel both drunk on the sensation and desperate for fresh air.

His fingers still rest on my hand, and I gently slide mine away, straightening my spine. "Mr. Vale—"

"Adrian, please."

"Adrian. While I appreciate your suggestions, I have my own vision for exploring the relationship between technology and humanity." I reach for my wine glass, using it as a shield. "I'd like to focus on connection rather than surveillance. The way screens become windows into other lives, how we reach through digital barriers to touch each other."

A muscle twitches in his jaw. His fingers curl slightly against the tablecloth, and something cold flashes across his face—gone so fast I almost think I imagined it.

"That's a rather... optimistic interpretation." His voice carries an edge that wasn't there before.

"Art doesn't always need to explore darker themes to be meaningful."

He leans back, his shoulders tensing beneath that perfect suit. For a split second, he reminds me of a predator whose prey has suddenly shown teeth.

Then Adrian's expression softens, and he shifts closer. I feel his knee on the outside of mine under the table.

"You're right. Some things are beautiful without darkness." His eyes lock onto mine. "Like the way your face lights up when you talk about your work."

My cheeks warm at the sudden shift. "I thought we were discussing art theory."

"I'd rather discuss you." He takes a slow sip of wine. "Tell me, what makes Sophia Larkin smile when she's not wielding a paintbrush?"

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