Page 39 of His Dark Desires

"He didn't mention that," I say woodenly, my mind spinning.

"No, he wouldn't." Mara's tone stays light, but her eyes sharpen. "Adrian prefers to... curate how information is shared."

"How long has he been following my work?" I ask, wanting to be absolutely clear.

Mara sets down her coffee. "Perhaps that's something you should ask him directly. Adrian does love to share his expertise, after all. When he finds something worth his attention."

I push my chai away, the spices too sharp against my churning stomach. "Why did you want to meet me here, Mara? What's the real reason?"

She takes her time answering, dabbing her lips with a napkin. The art students next to us pack up their supplies, their chatter and scraping chairs the only sound between us.

"Let's say I have a unique perspective on Adrian's... patterns." She folds the napkin neatly. "I've worked for him for six years. You're not the first artist he's taken an interest in."

"But I'm the one he's been watching for two years." The words taste sour.

"Yes." Her dark eyes meet mine. "Which makes you different."

I lean forward, lowering my voice. "Different how?"

"Adrian doesn't usually invest this much time. Or emotion." She smooths an invisible wrinkle from her sweater. "He's breaking his own rules with you."

"That doesn't answer my question about why you asked me here."

"Consider it professional courtesy." She picks up her coffee again. "Or perhaps I'm curious about the woman who's made Adrian Vale lose control."

The bell above the door chimes again, and cold air sweeps through the café. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling exposed in this dress that isn't really mine.

"I'm going to ask him about all of it," I tell her. "The art purchases, the surveillance—"

"Good." Mara's lips curve slightly. "You should. Just remember. Adrian's world operates on different rules than yours. The question isn't just what he's done but whether you're prepared for what knowing means."

* * *

I stand rigid before my latest piece, the black wrap dress Adrian bought me clinging like a serpent's skin. The setting sun paints Neon Heights in shades of amber and gold, but inside the penthouse studio, shadows creep along the pristine walls.

My hands shake as I try to steady my breathing. The conversation with Mara plays on repeat in my head, each revelation hitting harder than the last. Two years. He's been watching me for two years, collecting my art like trading cards, orchestrating every "chance" encounter.

The studio suddenly feels less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded cage. Every perfectly arranged brush, every carefully calibrated light, it's all part of his design. Even the air feels manufactured, filtered through systems I can't see but know are there, just like his surveillance.

I left Mara at that café, her knowing smile and half-finished coffee suggesting she had all the time in the world. But I couldn't stay there, couldn't keep absorbing her hints and warnings. The truth about Adrian's obsession sits in my stomach like a rock.

I touch the texture of the dried paint. This piece—was it ever really mine? Or was I just painting what he wanted all along, guided by his "suggestions" and subtle manipulations?

The dress feels too tight now, the fabric constricting around my ribs with each breath. I don't know what I've gotten myself into, but standing here in his space, surrounded by the evidence of his control, I know one thing: It ends now.

The sharp tap of Italian leather against marble makes me stiffen. Adrian's footsteps cross the studio, each click a countdown to confrontation.

"Not much progress today," he says, his voice carrying that teasing lilt that once charmed me. "All this time in my studio and not much to show for it today."

I spin around, my hands balled into fists. The words burst out before I can stop them.

"Two years. You've been stalking me for two years."

The playful smile drops from his face. His jaw tightens, those gray-blue eyes turning to steel. He takes a step closer. The last rays of sunlight catch his face, casting half in shadow, and I see it now—the predator beneath the patron's mask.

His shoulders square, his stance widening as if claiming the space around us. When he speaks again, his voice is low, stripped of its earlier warmth.

"Stalking is such an ugly word, Sophia."

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