Page 33 of Undisputed Chaos
You're holding back in everything else you share. Don't hold back with me.
I gasped. No one had ever spoken about my art that way before, seeing beyond technique to the emotion beneath.
No one had ever called me out so directly on the careful curation of my public persona.
Before I could reply, another message came in:
@AdrianCatalyst
You did well, following my instructions. Good girl.
Something molten and sweet pooled in my belly at those two simple words.
Good girl.They shouldn't have affected me the way they did, shouldn't have made me press my thighs together, shouldn't have sent heat crawling up my neck. But they did. Oh, they did.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I considered how to respond. Should I be flirtatious? Casual? Grateful? Nothing felt right.
Before I could decide, another message appeared:
@AdrianCatalyst
Tonight. 8 PM. Wear something that makes you feel beautiful, angel. Take a photo of yourself. Just for me.
Show me the real Isla, not @IslaBelleflower.
The directness of it made my heart race. This wasn't subtle flirtation; this was a man who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn't afraid to ask for it. The confidence behind his words washot.
I found myself nodding, though he couldn't see me. "Okay," I whispered to my empty apartment, then typed the same word.
Was I allowed to text him now? To respond?
@IslaBelleflower
Okay.
@AdrianCatalyst
That’s a good angel.
I floated through the rest of the day in a haze, my usual routines—filming content, editing photos, responding to comments, feeling distant and automatic.
None of it mattered compared to the countdown in my head, the approaching deadline he'd set.
By seven, I was standing in front of my closet, considering and discarding options. The dress I'd worn to the club was too obvious, and my usual outfits felt unworthy now.
I wanted something that revealed the truth, the girl who kissed strangers in clubs, who painted desire in secret, who thrilled at being called "good girl" by a man with tattooed hands and knowing eyes.
I found it in the back of my closet.
A simple slip dress in a deep midnight blue, the color of the shadows in my secret painting. I bought it on impulse months ago, but never wore it, never having found an occasion that felt right.
It draped over my curves like water, the thin straps revealing more of my freckled shoulders than I usually showed, the neckline dipping just low enough to show cleavage without being scandalous.
I left my hair down, applied minimal makeup, and stood barefoot on my balcony as the sun began to set.
No filters, no perfect lighting, no careful poses. Just me, silhouetted against the darkening sky, looking directly at the camera with all the want and curiosity I usually kept hidden.
My finger hesitated over the send button. This was more revealing than the painting somehow, moreme.
