Page 63 of His Dark Desires

"Really? That's bold."

"Bold is putting it mildly. The stories I've heard would make your head spin."

Mara shifts in her seat, her expression turning serious. "Speaking of bold moves... I heard Daniel Harper's latest exhibition got canceled."

My hand freezes on the brush I'm cleaning. The comfortable atmosphere shatters.

"What?" My voice comes out small.

"The gallery cited 'artistic differences,' but word is he's been blacklisted." Mara's eyes fix on my face. "No one will touch his work now."

I turn away, pretending to focus on organizing my paints. "I hadn't heard."

"Really? I thought you two were close once."

"That was a long time ago."

"Funny how things change so quickly in this industry." She drums her manicured nails against the stool. "One day you're on top, the next..."

"Did Adrian tell you to bring this up?" I face her, my jaw tight.

"Adrian doesn't tell me what to say, Sophia." She stands, smoothing her tailored pants. "His work is being pulled from permanent collections now. Even if he changed his name, he'll never sell another painting."

The thought of Daniel in his studio, staring at empty walls where his dreams once hung... it's too much. My success suddenly tastes like ash in my mouth.

Mara seems to realize where my thoughts are going as she watches me closely.

"Sophia—" she begins, but I hold up a hand to stop her.

"No need to apologize," I say, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. I don't want her pity or sympathy. I just want... I don't know what I want.

Mara shifts gears quickly, diving into the details of the exhibition. But her words become a distant hum in my ears as my mind races with the implications of Daniel's complete destruction.

How did it come to this? When did I become complicit in another artist's downfall? What am I supposed to do now?

I stare at my art after Mara's footsteps fade down the hall. It's a representation of everything I've gained—and lost. Each stroke of blue represents a compromise, every splash of red another piece of my soul traded away.

The paint feels tacky, not quite dry. Like Adrian's influence, it clings and marks everything it touches. The technical perfection of the piece mocks me—achieved through his resources, his control, his manipulation.

Walking to the studio door, I peer out into the vast expanse of the penthouse. It's a kingdom Adrian rules through circuits and secrets. His world is pristine, every variable accounted for. Including me.

I remember Daniel's warnings about Adrian's darker dealings, how he uses his AI to manipulate markets and destroy lives. Now I've watched it happen firsthand—seen how efficiently he crushed Daniel's career, erasing years of work like deleting unwanted files.

Back at my canvas, I run my hand along the frame. This piece represents everything Adrian wanted—the perfect fusion of art and technology, emotion and control. But it also contains fragments of Daniel's ruined career, each color tainted by the knowledge of how I obtained this opportunity.

I pick up my brush again, but my hand trembles. I can't do this anymore. I won't be another perfectly controlled variable in Adrian's equation, another piece of art he can own and manipulate.

I straighten my spine. The path ahead terrifies me—exposing Adrian means losing everything I've gained—the studio, the commission, the freedom from financial worry. But I can't build my success on the ruins of another artist's dreams. I won't let my art become a monument to Adrian's power over others.

It's time to reclaim my voice.

* * *

Morning light fills the room, catching dust motes that dance above my finished piece. I sip coffee from the expensive machine Adrian bought last week, the same brand I mentioned loving. The rich aroma fills my nose as I stare at my completed work.

My phone buzzes with another message from the exhibition organizers. Final preparations are underway. In three days, the world will see what I've created under Adrian's watchful eye.

I set the cup down and walk to the closet he's filled with designer clothes in my size. There are silks and cashmeres I never asked for, chosen to match my style while elevating it to his standards. The message is clear: He's crafting a space for me here, expecting me to slot perfectly into his world.

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