Chapter 1
Adrian
I lean back in my chair, eyes fixed on the center screen where Sophia moves through her morning routine. Two years of watching, learning, memorizing every detail of her life, and still she captivates me with every subtle gesture.
My study has evolved into a shrine to her existence. The wall of screens bathes the room in a soft blue glow, the monitors tracking a different aspect of her life. The main display shows her current location—her small studio apartment where she's preparing coffee. Smaller screens flank it, cycling through security feeds, social media activity, and financial data.
To my left, a holographic display projects her latest artwork in three dimensions, allowing me to study every detail. The AI analyzes her technique, comparing it to historical masters, but numbers can't capture what she pours out.
My desk, a seamless piece of black glass, responds to my touch as I swipe through reports. Beneath its surface, processors crunch data, predicting her movements, analyzing patterns, flagging anomalies. The desk itself cost more than most homes, but it's worth every penny for the processing power it provides.
Behind me, panel windows offer a view of the city, but I've dimmed them to better see my screens. The room embodies minimalism—every surface serves a purpose. Brushed steel cabinets house servers. Hidden panels conceal additional monitors. Even the abstract art on the walls doubles as thermal regulators for the equipment.
"ATLAS, enhance sector three."
The AI responds instantly, zooming in as Sophia adds cream to her coffee. The facial recognition software maps her expression, noting elevated stress markers.
My chair adjusts automatically, sensing my tension. To my right, a small bar holds a collection of single-malt scotch I haven't touched in months. Who needs artificial warmth when every screen pulses with her presence?
The air is cool and filtered. Recessed lighting shifts subtly with the time of day, but I've overridden it to maintain optimal viewing conditions. Everything in this room serves one purpose: to keep me connected to her world.
A subtle alert chimes—her heart rate has increased slightly. I lean forward, fingers splaying across the glass surface.
"Cross-reference recent communications. Show me what's troubling her."
Data streams across my peripheral screens while I keep my eyes locked on her face. She rubs at her forehead—a gesture I know means she's worried. My hand twitches, wanting to reach through the screen and smooth away her concerns.
The click of Mara's heels against the polished floor breaks my concentration. I don't need to look up—the image on my screen shows her stalking toward my desk, tablet in hand. Her fitted charcoal pantsuit cuts a sharp silhouette in the dim light, the fabric probably worth more than most people's monthly salary. But Mara wears it like armor, not decoration.
"Still on this, Adrian?"
I tap the screen, freezing Sophia's image mid-sip.
"She's been receiving concerning messages from her ex. I need to ensure he doesn't cause problems."
"Concerning messages?" Mara circles to my side of the desk. The subtle scent of her signature perfume—something expensive and understated—mingles with the sterile air. Her black bob swings forward as she leans in to study the displays. "Or messages that concern you?"
"There's a difference?"
"There usually is." She sets the tablet down. A single platinum bracelet catches the blue light from the screens. "What's the endgame here? Two years of... surveillance. That's what we're calling it, right?"
I catch the edge in her voice. Mara's dark eyes reflect the scrolling data, her expression a mask of professional detachment. But I know her well enough to see the tension in her jaw, the slight furrow between her perfectly groomed brows.
"I'm protecting her."
"From?"
"Everything." I gesture at the screens. "Look at her world, Mara. She's talented, pure, untouched by the ugliness we deal with daily. She deserves to be preserved, protected."
"Under glass? Like one of her paintings?" Mara straightens, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her tailored slacks. Her manicured nails—short, practical, but gleaming with a subtle polish—tap against the desk's surface. "You can't curate someone's entire existence."
The irony of her statement isn't lost on me. Mara herself is a study in careful curation—from her perfectly applied makeup that enhances without overwhelming to the way she carries herself with grace. Every detail serves a purpose, projects an image. The only difference is she curates herself.
I study her as she stands beside me. Light catches on the delicate silver chain at her neck—the only personal touch in her otherwise utilitarian presentation. I note her footwear—designer brand, but selected for practicality rather than show. The modest lift of the soles wouldn't slow her down, engineered to let her step without a sound whenever the situation demands it.
"I can try." I turn back to the screens. "That's why I have you, isn't it? To help manage the... curation."
"I manage your empire, Adrian. Managing your obsessions is a generous bonus that I offer." She takes a step back, standing just behind my chair. "But you're right. That's why you have me. To help. And to question when help becomes harm."
I look away from Mara's questioning eyes on the screen. "Your concerns are noted, but this is the only way. The art world would eat her alive without proper guidance."
The screens in front of me flicker with Sophia's daily routines—her morning coffee, afternoon visits to art supply stores, evening painting sessions. Each pixel tells a story I've memorized by heart.
"The gallery opening needs to appear organic," I continue, my fingers tracing the edge of my desk. "We've laid the groundwork for months. The 'chance' meeting will happen by the west wall, where her centerpiece hangs."
"I've ensured that it will appear organic," Mara replies pointedly. "You don't think she'll find it suspicious that a tech billionaire just happens to be interested in emerging artists?"
Mara moves from behind me, calling my attention. Her hip rests against my desk as she faces me, her slim figure casting a shadow across my screens. The tailored cut of her pantsuit accentuates her athletic frame, and I notice how the soft lighting catches the sharp angles of her collarbones peeking from her silk blouse.
"I've ensured my attendance will seem natural. The press release mentions my company's new arts initiative." I drag my attention back to the surveillance feeds. "Every detail has been considered. The guest list, the timing, even the wine selection matches her preferences from her social media history."
Mara crosses her arms. "You've thought of everything except how she might feel about being manipulated."
I swivel my chair to face Mara fully, letting the screens fade to a soft glow behind me. Her words hit closer to home than I'd like to admit, but I keep my expression neutral.
"Manipulation implies malicious intent." My fingers drum against my desk. "Everything I've done—everything I will do—is to protect her potential. To give her the recognition she deserves."
"And the fact that you've orchestrated every detail of your first meeting? The way you'll 'discover' her art? That's protection?" Mara's eyebrow arches, her skepticism evident in the slight tilt of her head.
I stand, my height forcing her to look up at me. Once again, we're two figures locked in a familiar dance of question and justification.
"You've seen her work, Mara. The talent, the untapped brilliance." I gesture to the holographic display of Sophia's latest piece. "In this world, talent isn't enough. She needs someone who understands both art and power. Someone who can shield her from those who would exploit her gift."
"Someone like you?" Mara's voice carries a sharp edge.
"No. Not someone like me." I turn back to the main screen that shows Sophia sitting at her easel. "I'm the man she needs."
* * *
I adjust my tie as I step out of the Bentley, the crisp evening air carrying hints of rain. My tailored Brioni suit fits me like a glove. The white dress shirt underneath catches the glow of the gallery's exterior lights.
Mara emerges behind me in her dove-gray pantsuit and black stilettos. A single pearl pendant rests at her throat—understated yet elegant, exactly as I expect from her.
"Remember," Mara's voice drops low, "you're just another patron tonight."
I shoot her a cold look. "I know how to play my part. Focus on playing yours."
The gallery occupies a converted industrial space in the arts district, its brick exterior softened by modern glass additions. Inside, exposed steel beams stretch across the ceiling, intertwined with track lighting that casts pools of illumination on each piece.
White walls divide the space into intimate alcoves, creating a journey through Sophia's work. The polished concrete floors reflect the lighting, and the faint scent of paint lingers beneath the perfumes of the city's elite who mill about with wine glasses in hand.
"They did well with the layout," Mara comments.
I scan the room, taking in the strategic placement of each painting. Of course, they did—I had overseen every detail through my proxies.
"The turnout's impressive." Mara accepts two glasses of champagne from a passing server, holding one out to me. "Though I suspect your guest list helped."
I ignore her pointed comment, my attention caught by Sophia's centerpiece: It's dominated by swirling blues and violent reds. I'd watched her create it through my surveillance feeds. She spent sleepless nights painting until her hands shook.
"Where is she?" My eyes continue their sweep of the room.
"Patience." Mara sips her champagne. "You've waited two years. Another few minutes won't kill you."
The space fills with the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses. Everything is going exactly as planned, every detail orchestrated to ensure Sophia's success. My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass as I continue to search the crowd.
"There." Mara's subtle nod directs my attention to a corner where a small group has gathered.
And then I see her.
Sophia stands before one of her smaller pieces, a study of shadows and light. Her dark hair falls loose tonight, a departure from her usual messy bun. She's wearing a simple black dress that skims her curves, more elegant than her usual paint-splattered attire. Even from here, I can see the nervous energy in her movements as she gestures while explaining her work.
"She cleans up well," Mara murmurs.
"She's perfect as she is."
Mara's eyebrow arches. "And here I thought this was just about 'protecting' her career."
I ignore the jab, tracking Sophia's movements through the crowd. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture I've seen countless times through my screens. But here, in person, it strikes something deep in my chest.
"Shall we?" Mara's voice carries a hint of amusement.
I adjust my cuffs and center my thoughts. "Not yet. Let her finish with the current group."
"Of course. Heaven forbid we disturb your choreographed moment."
Sophia navigates the space between her paintings. Her smile remains genuine despite the hours of small talk, though I notice the slight strain around her eyes. She needs a break but won't allow herself one. Always pushing herself too hard.
"The critic from the Times is heading her way," Mara notes.
"Right on schedule."
"You really did think of everything."
"Almost everything." I take a slow sip of champagne. "She's more... luminous in person."
Mara's sharp intake of breath makes me realize I've said too much. But before she can comment, Sophia turns in our direction. For a fraction of a second, our eyes meet across the room.
The air leaves my lungs. All my planning, none of it prepared me for the impact of her looking straight at me. In that brief moment, I'm stripped bare.
She offers a polite smile—the kind gallery artists give to potential buyers—before returning her attention to the critic. But that fleeting connection has shattered something in me. The distance I've maintained through screens and surveillance feeds evaporates.
"Adrian?" Mara sounds concerned. I've rarely heard her like this.
I drain my champagne glass. "It's time."
As we make our way through the crowd, I feel the weight of two years of watching, waiting, and manipulating circumstances press against my chest. In moments, I'll speak to her for the first time. Not through digital interactions or proxy conversations but face-to-face.
My hands are steady as we approach, but my pulse thunders in my ears. The critic is wrapping up his questions. Sophia's shoulders relax slightly as he moves away—a detail I recognize from countless hours of observation.
Now. Before another patron can claim her attention.
I step forward, Mara a half-step behind me, playing her role. Everything is proceeding according to plan.
Except for the way my heart seems to stutter when Sophia turns to face us fully, her hazel eyes bright under the gallery lights.
"Adrian Vale." I extend my hand, feeling the slight tremor in her fingers as she accepts it. Her skin is warm. "Your use of negative space in this piece is remarkable."
"Thank you, Mr. Vale." Sophia withdraws her hand quickly, but her eyes light up at the mention of her technique. "Most people focus on the bolder elements."
"What isn't there tells the story just as powerfully as what is." I gesture to the shadowed corners. "The void draws you in, makes you question what's hidden."
A slight furrow appears between her brows. "That's... exactly what I was trying to convey."
Mara clears her throat softly behind me. Right. I'm staring too intently.
"I've recently begun collecting emerging artists," I say, getting down to business. "Your work stands out."
"Oh." Sophia shifts her weight, looking a little uncomfortable. "I'm flattered, but—"
"No pressure." I offer a practiced smile. "I'm here to appreciate the art."
Her shoulders relax slightly, but wariness lingers in her eyes, like a bird poised for flight.
"What draws you to these themes of isolation and connection?" I gesture toward another of her pieces, where human figures reach through digital static. My voice remains measured despite the thrill of finally hearing her thoughts directly.
"Technology connects us but also separates us." Sophia's hands animate her words. "We're all reaching through screens, trying to touch something real."
"The irony being that the screen itself becomes the only tangible thing."
Her eyes snap to mine, something sharp and curious in their depths. "Exactly."
The gallery lights catch the gold flecks in her hazel eyes as she gestures toward her largest piece. I've watched her wrestle with the composition for weeks.
"The city's energy feeds into this one," Sophia explains, her fingers tracing along a particularly vibrant streak of red. "The way everything moves so fast, but there are these moments of stillness..."
"Like being alone in a crowd," I say, recognizing the isolation captured in the darker elements.
"Yes!" Her face lights up. "Most people miss that part."
"The contrast is striking." I step closer, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo—lavender, just as I'd noted from her shopping data. "The way the darkness frames the light, making it more intense."
"That's what fascinates me," she says. "How shadows define the brightness."
"Your use of texture adds another dimension." I resist the urge to touch where I know she layered the paint thickest. "The physicality of it draws you in."
"I like art you can feel." Her fingers hover near the surface. "Sometimes I think we're too afraid to touch things, to really experience them."
"We hide behind screens," I echo her earlier point, watching her reaction.
"Exactly. Everything's filtered through something else." She turns to face me fully. "Sometimes I wonder if we even know how to be direct anymore."
The irony of her words hits me like a physical blow. Mara shifts behind me—a subtle warning.
"Your work suggests otherwise," I say, modulating my tone. "There's nothing filtered about it."
"That's kind of you to say." A slight flush colors her cheeks. "Though honestly, sometimes I worry it's too much emotion."
"Never worry about that," I say firmly.
Her eyes widen slightly. "You sound like you speak from experience."
"In my field, passion drives innovation." I smooth over the moment with practiced ease. "Without it, we'd never push boundaries."
"And what boundaries are you pushing, Mr. Vale?"
The question catches me off guard—she's more direct than I anticipated. Before I can respond, Mara shifts beside me, a subtle reminder to stay on script. I clear my throat.
"I'm glad you asked. I have a proposition for you, Ms. Larkin. My company is exploring the intersection of humanity and artificial intelligence. Your perspective would be... invaluable."
"A commission?" Her fingers twist together.
"A series exploring emotional landscapes through both traditional and technological elements. You'd have complete creative freedom, of course." I keep my tone casual, though my heart pounds. "The compensation would be substantial."
Sophia glances at her surrounding work. I know she's struggling to make rent this month. I've watched her check her bank balance repeatedly.
"I... I'd need to know more details."
"Of course." I withdraw my card—matte black, embossed with just my name and number. "Take time to consider it. Though I should mention the anonymous buyer who purchased your three largest pieces tonight is also quite interested in your future work."
Her eyes widen slightly. I fight back a smile.
"I'll think about it," she says, accepting my card with slightly trembling fingers.
"That's all I ask."
I step back, relishing how her eyes track my movements, and with a last lingering look, I turn and walk away.
I stride through the gallery, Mara behind me as I weave between clusters of patrons. My fingers still tingle from where they brushed Sophia's hand.
"That went well," Mara says once we're out of earshot.
I pause before a smaller piece—one I watched Sophia paint at 3 in the morning last Tuesday. The brushstrokes are almost violent, revealing the frustration she felt that night.
"She's more..." I search for the right word.
"Real?"
I shoot Mara a sharp look.
"Just saying. Screens don't capture everything," she explains.
The exit beckons, but I can't resist one last glance over my shoulder. Sophia stands exactly where we left her, studying my business card with an intensity I've seen her direct at blank canvases. She bites her lower lip—a habit I've documented countless times through surveillance feeds but never truly appreciated until now.
"She'll call," I say, pushing through the gallery doors. "She has no choice."