His Dark Desires (Dark Love Games #3)

Prologue

Adrian

The screens pulse with data streams, each one a digital heartbeat monitoring the lives unfolding beneath my tower. My AI system, ATLAS, processes terabytes of information through sophisticated algorithms I designed. Social media posts, financial transactions, phone records—all flowing through my fingertips like water.

A notification breaks my focus. The timestamp reads 2:37 a.m.

"Show me the latest analysis," I say, the words drifting through the empty room.

The memory hits without warning—Elliot's words, warm and encouraging, as we hunched over our first prototype.

This is groundbreaking, Adrian. We're going to change the world together.

I grip the edge of my desk, forcing the image away. But another surfaces: Elliot and I celebrating our first major contract, champagne flowing freely in this very room, his hand on my shoulder, steady and sure.

You're not just my brother, you're my legacy.

Lies. All of it.

The betrayal plays out like a corrupted file I can't delete. Board meeting documents. Stolen patents. My own brother, selling our secrets to our competitors. The evidence had been irrefutable—I'd gathered it myself, each damning piece cutting deeper than the last.

A soft chime pulls me back. ATLAS has flagged something: a new social media profile matching my parameters for emerging artists in Neon Heights.

"Sophia Larkin," I murmur, leaning closer.

Her latest post shows a canvas splashed with bold colors, raw emotion bleeding through every brushstroke. Unlike the derivative work cluttering galleries these days, her art pulses with life. With truth.

My fingers trace her image on the screen. In her profile photo, she's not posing or hiding behind filters. Paint smudges her cheek. Her eyes challenge the viewer, defiant yet vulnerable.

Through the screen, Sophia captivates me. Her dark hair falls in untamed waves past her shoulders, and paint marks her collarbone like a signature. The camera caught her mid-laugh, head tilted back, exposing the line of her throat. Her hazel eyes crinkle at the corners—not the practiced smile of socialites I deal with daily, but something real.

She's perched on a paint-splattered stool in what must be her studio, afternoon light streaming through industrial windows behind her. Her oversized sweater slips off one shoulder, revealing skin that's picked up the golden hour glow. More paint stains her hands, blues and greens embedded under her short nails. A silver pendant hangs from a leather cord around her neck, catching the light like a star.

Even through the digital barrier, I sense her energy. She radiates authenticity in a world of careful facades.

ATLAS compiles her digital footprint with lightning-fast speed. Student loans. Rejected grant applications. A small apartment in the arts district. Posts about upcoming shows at galleries that no one has ever heard of.

"Cross-reference her connections," I command. "Full spectrum analysis."

The AI obeys, weaving together a tapestry of her life. The threads draw me deeper. Her struggles. Her determination. Her refusal to compromise her vision despite mounting pressure.

A notification flashes. Another profile linked to Sophia's—Daniel Harper. Her ex-boyfriend. The timestamp on their photos together is from six months ago.

"Run a deep analysis on Harper," I command. Images populate the screen—Daniel and Sophia at gallery openings, intimate dinners, walks through the park.

For some reason, it makes me burn inside to see them together.

ATLAS burrows through encrypted cloud storage, revealing private photos buried in forgotten folders. They paint a picture of a relationship that started passionately and turned toxic. In some photos, Sophia's smile seems forced, her body language tense.

"I've located a video file from Harper's private archive," ATLAS announces.

"Download and play."

It starts with a birthday song, off-key and slightly slurred. Sophia's face, luminous with laughter, blushes as Daniel leans in.

"Tonight, it's all about you," he promises, lips only inches from hers.

In a bedroom, modest but cozy, there's a scattering of gifts, wine glasses, and a half-eaten cake, adding to the celebration. The camera pans to the bedside table, inadvertently capturing a glimpse of Sophia's naked body in the mirror.

My fingertips touch the screen, aching to trace the contours of her body. Her skin, like warm honey in the soft light, invites a touch it doesn't receive. Dark curls cascade over her shoulders, a silky contrast to her creamy skin. Her breasts rise and fall with each breath.

Daniel claims her with his eyes before his mouth attaches to hers in a brutish display. Her lips part willingly, but there's a hesitance in her body language, a tension that speaks of mixed signals and unresolved arguments.

His hands wander, exploring her body with a familiar ownership. Slowly, he works his way down. He knows her body well, knows the path to render her weak, and he takes it without hesitation.

Her breath quickens as he nears her pussy. Her thighs part slightly, a silent invitation, an offering. Daniel needs no further encouragement as he buries his face between her thighs, his tongue seeking, finding.

Her moans fill the room, vibrating through me, stirring a hunger I haven't known in years. Sophia arches, her body surrendering to the pleasure he's offering. Her hands thread through his hair, guiding, encouraging, surrendering to the pleasure.

The video abruptly ends, leaving me in darkness. Alone.

I clear my throat. "Run a full analysis on Daniel Harper. Download all photos of Sophia taken by Daniel."

Another memory comes: Elliot teaching me chess, explaining how to think three moves ahead.

Control the board, control the game.

The lesson that shaped my empire, delivered by the man who tried to destroy it.

I stand, moving to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Neon Heights spreads below, a glittering circuit board of lives and connections. Somewhere down there, she's probably painting, pouring her soul into her work while fighting to keep her dreams alive.

"ATLAS, establish full surveillance protocols on Sophia." My reflection watches me in the glass, eyes bright with purpose. "I want everything. Gallery openings, financial records, social circles. Flag any potential threats or opportunities."

I glance back as the system acknowledges with a soft pulse of light. Screens fill with data points, building a digital cage around Sophia Larkin's existence.

"I must know everything about you," I whisper to her image, frozen in pixels. "You belong in my world now."

The AI system churns through data, filling my monitors with countless fragments of Sophia's existence.

My hand presses against the cool glass. The emptiness of my penthouse echoes behind me, but for the first time in years, I feel something crack in my walls.