Page 46 of His Dark Desires

I'm sprawled on my worn couch, half-watching some mindless reality show while picking at a bowl of cereal. Every time my phone buzzes, my heart jumps—but it's never him.

Part of me expected black vans to screech up outside my building or Mara to appear at my door with that knowing look. But there's been nothing. Just silence. The quiet should be comforting, but it feels like the calm before a storm.

Then, my phone lights up with an unknown number. My spoon clatters into the bowl as I grab it, hands shaking slightly. It's the gallery director's voice on the other end, pleasant but firm.

"Ms. Larkin, I'm calling about your upcoming exhibition."

My stomach drops before she even finishes. I know what she's going to say before she says it. My commission with Adrian has been cancelled. That isn't a surprise—I'd already packed away the commission sketches. But then she continues, her voice cooling several degrees.

"Additionally, I regret to inform you that we won't be able to consider any of your work for future shows. We're facing some... financial adjustments."

"Financial adjustments?" I sit up straight, milk souring in my mouth. "But my other pieces were selling well. The opening night—"

"I understand your confusion." She cuts me off. "Unfortunately, the decision has been made. There are certain... pressures we need to consider."

"Pressures?" The word catches in my throat. "What kind of pressures?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss the details. I wish you the best with your future endeavors."

The line goes dead before I can respond. I stare at my phone, the reality sinking in. The gallery was my biggest connection to the art world, my chance at building a real career. He's making his move.

He's cutting off my opportunities.

I dial the number back, but it goes straight to voicemail. My hands are shaking harder now as I type out an email, pleading for a chance to discuss this in person. The response is immediate and automated: "Your message could not be delivered."

"Fuck!" I scream out, suddenly remembering Marina Chen and how she lost her grant, just like that. "Fuck," I whisper to myself, eyes growing wide. What's even going on with her? She must have been devastated.

I didn't even bother to check. Not that she's my friend or anything but I didn't so much as look at her Instagram. Feeling I should at least get a glimpse at where my life is heading, I grab my laptop and jerk it open.

My fingers shake as I type Marina's name into Instagram. The first post steals my breath—a long, detailed exposé about "fake artists" who "sleep their way to success." She doesn't name me directly, but the timing and details make it crystal clear who she means.

I scroll through her feed, my chest tightening with each swipe. Post after post drips with veiled accusations. "Some people will do anything for a grant," reads one caption. The comments section explodes with speculation, each theory worse than the last.

"Did you see how fast she got that commission?"

"I heard she blackmailed someone."

"No way she earned that spot fairly!"

My cereal sits forgotten as I dive deeper into the rabbit hole. I find even worse—screenshots of my sales records, questions about my "sudden rise," side-by-side comparisons of Marina's work and mine. Someone even dug up old photos of me and Daniel, spinning wild theories about my relationships.

The room spins as I connect the dots. The gallery's "pressures" weren't just about Adrian's direct influence—he's orchestrating a full takedown of my reputation. Every comment, every accusation, feels like another nail in my career's coffin.

I slam the laptop shut, but the damage is done. I can still see those comments burned into my vision. Marina's anger, her followers' judgment, the whispers spreading through the art community—it's all part of his plan.

He doesn't need to call. He doesn't need to text. The message comes through loud and clear:

Cross Adrian Vale, and watch your world crumble, piece by piece.

* * *

A sharp knock breaks through my spiral of dark thoughts. I take one last look around my tiny apartment—it's as clean as it's going to get. The vanilla candles cast a warm glow that almost makes the place seem inviting. Almost.

My hand trembles on the doorknob. I shouldn't have reached out to him. But with my career imploding and Adrian's shadow looming over everything, I needed someone who knew me before all this. Someone real.

I pull open the door, and there's Daniel. His wavy brown hair is artfully messy, and he's wearing that old flannel shirt I used to steal—the blue one that brings out the warmth in his eyes. Paint streaks his worn jeans, and his boots are scuffed from his studio. A bottle of red wine dangles from his fingers, and that familiar crooked grin spreads across his face.

My stomach twists. That smile used to make my heart flutter. Now it just reminds me of all the reasons we fell apart. But with my world crashing down around me, even Daniel's complicated presence feels like an anchor to normality.

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