Page 16 of His Dark Desires

I spread my sketchbooks across the desk, pushing aside empty coffee mugs and dried-up paint tubes. The afternoon light streams through my window, catching dust motes dancing above fresh charcoal sketches.

Adrian's commission looms large in my mind as I flip through supplier catalogs. My fingers trace over listings for specialty paints. The budget he's offering means I can finally work with materials I've only dreamed of using.

"Technology and emotion," I mumble, scribbling notes.

The concept both thrills and intimidates me. My usual style leans organic. But there's something compelling about exploring how cold circuits connect to human hearts.

I never officially agreed to take on the project, but a silent understanding seems to have passed between us. With all my hesitation, I can't bring myself to say no. It feels like I'd be blowing a huge opportunity. So I'm throwing myself into my work.

I pick up a worn graphite pencil, letting my hand move freely across a blank page. Fractals emerge, both digital and natural. Like the patterns in my thoughts about Adrian.

The way he watched me at dinner, like he already knew every move I'd make before I made it.

My hand trembles slightly as I jot down "large-scale mixed media." His suggestions weren't exactly demands, but they carried weight, the same weight I feel when I'm around him.

I grab my phone, checking prices for the materials I'll need. Premium acrylics, specialized brushes, larger canvases than I've ever worked with. The numbers make me dizzy, but Adrian's advance payment sits untouched in my account.

That's what pushed me over the edge. He sent a payment before I even said I'd do it.

Picking up a half-used tube of cerulean blue, I squeeze out the last drops onto my palette. This cheap paint has served me well, helped create pieces that caught Adrian's eye. But why did he notice my work in the first place?

My pencil moves again, sketching interconnected nodes that morph into crying eyes. There's something about Adrian that makes me want to impress him. To prove I deserve this chance. But another part of me whispers warnings about strings attached to such generous offers.

I pull out my largest canvas, still tiny compared to what the commission requires. Running my fingers over its texture, I think about Adrian's strong hands, the way they moved when he spoke about my art, like he was already shaping it.

"Focus," I tell myself, returning to my supply list. But the moment his careful control slipped, something underneath was revealed—something I want to see more of.

My phone buzzes—a message from my art supply store about a sale on premium brushes. Perfect timing, almost too perfect. I shake off the paranoid thought. Not everything is a calculated move, even if Adrian makes me feel like it could be.

I push back from my desk, stretching muscles stiff from hours of sketching. The commission brief sits next to my laptop, its crisp pages covered in my scrawled notes.

"This is my chance," I whisper, but the words catch in my throat.

The sketches scattered across my workspace show promise, human figures dissolving into circuit boards, faces emerging from static. But each time I start to lose myself in the creative flow, I remember Adrian's "suggestions" at dinner.

Have you considered incorporating more surveillance elements?His voice had been silk-smooth, reasonable.The interplay between watching and being watched...

My hand clenches around my pencil. The theme isn't bad—it could work beautifully with my vision. That's what makes it so frustrating.

I pick up my favorite brush, its bristles frayed from overuse. Soon I'll replace it with top-quality materials. The freedom should feel exhilarating. Instead, there's this weight in my chest, like invisible hands trying to shape my work. Adrian's eyes follow me even here in my studio, measuring each creative decision against some hidden standard.

"It's still my art," I say firmly, pinning up a fresh sketch. The figure in it reaches through a tangle of wires, either being consumed or breaking free, I'm not sure which yet. Maybe that's the point.

I grab my phone to check the supply delivery status. Everything's falling into place, thanks to Adrian's generosity. Or his control.

My reflection in the window catches my eye—determination mixed with uncertainty. I've fought too hard to let anyone dictate my artistic voice again. Not after Daniel. But this opportunity...

I turn back to my sketches. I'll take Adrian's suggestions as exactly that—suggestions. I'll steer this project my way, defending each mark I make as my own.

A notification chimes from my laptop, cutting through my concentration. I glance over, expecting another supply chain update. Instead, there's a blank subject line from an unfamiliar address.

My cursor hovers over the message. After a moment's hesitation, I click.

Sometimes the ones who admire you most are the ones you see the least. They know more than you think.

I blink, re-reading the cryptic words. My throat tightens. The message carries weight beyond its simple phrasing, like a stone dropping into still water.

"This has to be spam," I mutter, but my finger trembles as I scroll through the email headers. No identifying information. Just those two loaded sentences floating in white space.

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