Chapter 3
Sophia
I blink awake to sunlight filtering through paint-splattered windows. My small bedroom swims into focus—paintings lean against every wall, some complete, others abandoned. Paint tubes and brushes litter the floor in organized chaos, a rainbow trail leading to my easel in the corner.
Rolling onto my side, my oversized T-shirt twisted around me, I take in the familiar mess. Half-finished sketches paper the walls, held up by bits of masking tape. A stack of art books teeters precariously on my nightstand next to an empty wine glass from last night's celebration.
Last night. The gallery opening. My heart flutters at the memory. The crowd, the praise, the sales. It still feels surreal, like a dream I might wake from at any moment. And him—Adrian. My new patron. I think I knew I'd accept his offer before he even left.
The way he looked at my work...
I realize with a little smile that my apartment reflects my current state of mind—chaotic but alive with possibility. Paint-stained drop cloths protect the worn hardwood floors. My coffee table doubles as a palette, its surface thick with dried layers of color. Even my tiny kitchenette hasn't escaped: Brushes soak in jars by the sink, and reference photos cover the fridge.
"This is real," I whisper to myself, running my hands over my face. "This actually happened."
But uncertainty creeps in with the morning light. Can I live up to these expectations? Do I deserve this chance? The questions swirl as I stretch my arms overhead, joints popping.
My bare feet touch the cool floor. A half-finished piece catches my eye. Broad strokes of deep blues and purples swirling into darkness. Something about it reminds me of Adrian's penetrating stare.
I pad across the floor, careful to avoid stepping on any stray tools. My reflection in the paint-flecked mirror shows sleep-mussed hair and wide eyes still holding last night's wonder. I'm wearing my favorite sleep shirt, which is covered in abstract paint splatters from countless late-night sessions.
Somewhere outside, a car horn honks, reminding me the rest of the world exists beyond these walls. But in here, in my cluttered sanctuary, last night's triumph lingers around me, as tangible as fresh varnish.
"Time to wake up!" I sing to myself, walking over to the kitchenette to prepare coffee.
Only when the coffee pot spurts to life do I feel a sense of normalcy return to my bones. I grab my chipped "Art Is Life" mug from the cabinet and breathe in the rich aroma of brewing coffee. The morning light dances through wisps of vapor floating up from the coffee maker, and my mind wanders back to how Adrian examined my work yesterday evening, his eyes lingering on each piece.
No one's ever looked at my work like that before. Like he could see straight through the canvas and into my soul. Most people nod politely, make vague comments about the "interesting use of color." But Adrian... he understood. He picked up on the shifts in texture, the hidden meanings.
My eyes drift to the pile of bills on my counter, their red "PAST DUE" stamps glaring at me. The sight used to make my stomach clench, but today feels different. Adrian's commission could change everything. No more choosing between art supplies and groceries. No more lying awake at night wondering if I'll have to give up my dreams and get a "real job."
The coffee maker gurgles its last drops. I pour myself a cup, letting the warmth seep into my hands. The bitter taste brings back memories of late nights in Daniel's studio, back when I thought we were building something real together.
God, Daniel. My shoulders tense at the thought of him. He started out so supportive, always praising my "potential." But as my work started getting noticed, something changed. The compliments turned backhanded. Interesting choice , he'd say in that condescending tone. Though maybe a bit derivative?
Every success of mine became a threat to him.
I take another sip of coffee, trying to wash away the bitter taste of those memories. The day I finally left, he'd "accidentally" knocked over my latest piece, the one the local arts magazine had praised. It toppled into some of his paint cans he'd left open. His face showed no remorse, just that smug satisfaction I'd grown to hate.
Daniel would have hated my recent paintings, called them "uncontrolled." But Adrian... Adrian saw exactly what I was trying to say. His eyes lit up with genuine understanding, not jealousy.
I take my coffee to the window, and Adrian's face floats into my mind. Those sharp cheekbones, the way his tailored suit emphasized his lean frame…
I accidentally slosh coffee against the sides of my mug. No. I set the cup down hard on the windowsill. I can't go there again. Can't let myself get swept away by another charming man with strong opinions about my art.
But Adrian seems different. The way he discussed my technique showed real understanding, not just someone trying to impress me. And that commission offer...
My stomach knots. The money would solve so many problems. No more scraping by, no more dollar store canvases, no more watering down my paints to make them last longer. I could finally afford those high-quality oils I've been eyeing.
"Stop it," I mutter, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. "You promised yourself. No more depending on anyone."
Daniel's studio floods back into my mind, how he'd let me use his supplies when I was broke, then throw that in my face during arguments.
Where would you be without me? he'd sneer. Still painting with acrylics from the craft store?
I push away from the window, pacing the cramped space. My bare feet leave prints in spilled paint powder. This is my space. My mess. My independence.
But success doesn't come from stubborn isolation. Even the great masters had patrons. The question is: Can I accept help without losing myself?
I stop in front of my latest piece, the one Adrian seemed particularly drawn to. Dark feelings spill through my work, slashing crimson and ebony against each other. It's honest. Uncompromising. Everything I want my art to be.
"This is why you paint," I remind myself, touching the dried ridges of paint. Not for recognition or money, but because these feelings demand expression. Because every time I pick up a brush, I'm saying, "This is my voice, my vision, my truth."
But maybe... maybe accepting help doesn't always mean giving up control. Maybe there's a difference between dependence and collaboration.
That look Adrian gave me—the way his eyes bore straight into my soul, as though he knew every thought, every secret. I'm caught between wanting to run and yearning to stay, my heart fluttering with equal parts fear and excitement.
I settle back onto my bed with my coffee, pulling my laptop closer. My Instagram notifications are exploding—seems like everyone who attended the gallery opening last night is sharing photos. A smile tugs at my lips as I scroll through the images. My paintings look different through their eyes, the photos capturing a unique angle, a different play of light.
The comments section overflows with praise. " Breakthrough artist ," one reads. " Soo talented !" " Exactly what the scene needs ." My chest swells with pride, though a small voice whispers that I don't deserve this attention.
Switching to my email, I nearly spill my coffee. There, sitting at the top of my inbox, is a message from Adrian Vale. My finger hovers over the touchpad for a moment before I click.
Dear Ms. Larkin,
I trust you've had time to consider our discussion regarding the commission. I would very much like to explore the details over dinner at Le Blanc this Friday at 8 p.m. Their private dining room offers the perfect setting for a thorough creative discussion.
Your work continues to intrigue me, and I look forward to hearing your vision for this project.
Best regards,
Adrian Vale
I read it again. And again. My pulse quickens with each word. Le Blanc is the kind of restaurant I've only walked past, never entered. The kind where the menu doesn't list prices because if you have to ask, you can't afford it.
Daniel's voice echoes in my head: You'll never make it without connections . I hate that he might be right.
My fingers drum against my coffee mug as I stare at the screen. Something about Adrian's intensity both draws me in and sets off warning bells. But can I afford to let this opportunity slip away? Those past-due bills aren't going to pay themselves.
I click "Reply" before I can talk myself out of it.
* * *
I smooth my black dress for the hundredth time, checking myself out in the mirror at Le Blanc's entrance. The dress is vintage—thrifted but elegant, hitting just above my knees. I've paired it with my only decent heels, praying they'll survive the night without the heel caps falling off again.
The hostess glides toward me, all sleek elegance in a tailored white suit. Her platinum hair is pulled into a severe bun that emphasizes her sharp cheekbones.
"Ms. Larkin?" Her French accent makes my name sound exotic. "Mr. Vale is expecting you."
My heart skips. "I'm early—"
"Monsieur Vale arrived earlier." She gestures for me to follow.
Le Blanc lives up to its name. White orchids spill from crystal vases. Ivory tablecloths drape like liquid silk. Champagne bubbles sparkle in perfect crystal flutes. My lungs fill with what feels like a million-dollar breath, perfumed with subtle notes of vanilla and fresh flowers.
We pass the main dining room where diamonds wink and murmured conversations blend with the soft notes of a piano. My steps sink into plush carpeting as we climb a curved staircase to the private dining level.
The hostess's steps are soundless, practiced. Her posture remains perfect, like a ballet dancer. She leads me down a hallway lined with original artwork—I recognize a Rothko, my breath catching at the sight of it.
"Here we are." She opens a door to a private dining room.
Adrian rises from his seat, his presence filling the intimate space. I feel myself falter under his attention, just as potent as when we first met. I force myself to breathe. This is just dinner. Just business. But as I step into the room, I can't shake the feeling that I'm walking into something I'm not prepared for.
"Ms. Larkin."
Adrian's hand envelops mine. His palm radiates warmth through my skin, and I fight the urge to hold on longer than appropriate. His fingers are strong yet gentle. Artist's hands , I think, though I doubt he's ever held a paintbrush.
"Mr. Vale." I'm proud my voice stays steady. "Thank you for the invitation."
He guides me to my seat, his other hand hovering near the small of my back without quite touching. The chair slides soundlessly as he helps me in.
Adrian takes his seat, and a sommelier materializes at his subtle gesture.
"The Chateau Margaux, 1982," Adrian says, not even glancing at the wine list. The sommelier bows slightly and disappears. "I hope you enjoy red wine." Adrian's eyes catch mine, that stormy mix of gray and blue. "The '82 is exceptional."
"I usually buy whatever's on sale at the corner store," I blurt out. Heat creeps up my neck.
But Adrian's lips curve up. "Honesty. Refreshing." He leans back, loosening his tie just slightly. "Though I hope you'll let me expand your palate tonight."
The sommelier returns with the wine, performing the ritual gracefully. Adrian takes the first taste, nodding his approval. As my glass is filled, the deep ruby liquid catches the light like liquid garnets.
"To new beginnings," Adrian raises his glass.
I mirror his gesture, taking a small sip. The wine explodes across my tongue—complex layers of dark fruit and something earthy I can't name.
"It's amazing," I gush.
"Like your art." His eyes haven't left my face. "Your latest pieces show remarkable evolution. The way you layer color, it's almost architectural."
My fingers tighten around the stem of my wine glass. How closely has he studied my work?
"I've been experimenting with new techniques."
"Tell me about your process."
I launch into an explanation of my latest series, hands moving as I describe the interplay of light and shadow. Adrian watches me intently, asking questions that reveal genuine understanding of artistic theory. His attention is absolute—like I'm the only person in the world worth listening to.
But beneath his polished surface, something else simmers. I catch it in the way his fingers trace the rim of his wine glass, in how his eyes follow my smallest movements. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
I take another sip of wine to wet my suddenly dry throat. Adrian mirrors the action, and I find myself watching his throat move as he swallows.
"You seem tense," he observes. "Are you uncomfortable?"
"No, I—" I stop, searching for words that won't reveal too much. "This is all very new to me. The restaurant, the wine, discussing commissions with someone like…" I gesture vaguely at him.
"Someone like me?" His voice drops lower, and my skin prickles with awareness.
"Someone so..." I trail off, unable to find a word that encompasses everything Adrian Vale represents without sounding either sycophantic or terrified. "Someone powerful," I finish lamely, reaching for my wine glass.
Adrian's lips quirk. "Power is relative. Your art has its own kind of power. The way you capture emotion, that's what drew me to your work."
The wine warms my chest, loosening my tongue. "So what exactly did you have in mind for the commission?"
"I want a series exploring the intersection of humanity and technology." Adrian leans forward, his sleeve brushing my hand on the table. That brief contact sends tingles up my arm. "How emotions translate through the digital age."
"That's... broad." I pull back my hands and twist my napkin in my lap.
"Think of it as a conversation between the organic and synthetic. Your style already hints at these themes. The way you layer texture, how you build depth, it's almost like coding, creating something complex from basic elements."
My breath catches. He's describing my technique with unsettling accuracy.
"I'd love to see you incorporate more technological elements. Perhaps AI-generated patterns woven into traditional techniques?" His hand moves closer toward me, in my space. "My company has resources you could explore."
"I usually work alone." The words come out defensively, but I don't know why.
"Of course." Adrian pulls back slightly, but his eyes hold mine. "The vision would be entirely yours. I'm merely offering tools to enhance your natural talent."
The server arrives with our appetizers—delicate arrangements I barely notice. Adrian makes it hard to focus on anything else.
"Your piece 'Fractured Light'? The way you captured isolation through fragmented reflections. Brilliant." His praise feels genuine, but there's something else in his tone. "Though I wondered if you'd considered using mirrors as a medium?"
I blink. I'd been sketching mirror installation concepts just last week.
"Actually, I have been—"
"The symbolism would be perfect. Surveillance, the ways we see ourselves through technology's lens." His fingers brush mine as we both reach for the bread basket. This time, the contact lingers. "You could create something revolutionary."
My skin hums where he touched me. His suggestions align eerily well with my own half-formed ideas, yet there's an undertone that makes me uneasy. Like he's reading a map of my mind I didn't know existed.
"You seem to have given this a lot of thought," I say carefully.
"I believe in investing fully in projects that interest me." Adrian's eyes roam my face. "And you, Sophia, are fascinating."
Heat blooms across my cheeks. The way he says my name feels intimate, like a secret between us.
"Tell me more about your vision," he prompts, and I find myself sharing concepts I've never voiced aloud. He listens intently, offering suggestions that somehow expand my ideas while subtly reshaping them.
Our conversation flows, punctuated by moments when our hands nearly touch or our eyes lock for a beat too long. Each time, electricity crackles between us, making it harder to remember this is supposed to be about business.
The main course arrives—something French I can't pronounce. Adrian ordered for both of us earlier, a detail that only now strikes me as presumptuous. But it's all delicious, so I can't really complain.
"The studio space I mentioned would give you room to experiment," he says, cutting into his steak. "The lighting alone would transform your work."
I push a roasted carrot around my plate. "My current studio has character."
"Character won't help you achieve your full potential." He's almost dismissive, and there's steel in his tone. "You need proper resources, proper guidance."
"I appreciate the offer, but I like working from home." The words catch in my throat as his eyes narrow slightly.
"Your apartment barely has adequate ventilation for oil paints. The fumes alone—" He stops himself, taking a sip of wine.
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. How does he know about my ventilation?
"I researched similar artist spaces," he adds smoothly. "The common issues they face."
The explanation makes sense, but something feels off. Like watching a familiar movie dubbed in another language—the lips don't quite match the words.
"The commission theme I proposed," he continues, "it needs space for large-scale works. Multiple pieces displayed together, creating an immersive experience."
His vision sounds compelling. Too compelling. Like he's already mapped out every detail, leaving just enough room for my input to feel like collaboration.
"I was thinking of focusing more on emotional intimacy," I venture. "How technology creates distance even as it connects us."
"Interesting." He leans forward, his knee bumping mine under the table. "But consider this: What if we explored surveillance instead? The way we perform under observation, the digital footprints we leave behind."
A chill runs down my spine despite the warmth of the room. "That seems... invasive."
"All art is invasive. It forces viewers to confront uncomfortable truths." His fingers drum once on the table. "'Fragmentation' already touches on these themes. The way the central figure dissolves into pixelated fragments—"
"How do you know about that piece?" The words burst out before I can stop them. "It's still in my studio. I haven't shown it to anyone."
Adrian's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. "You posted progress shots on your Instagram."
"No," I say slowly. "I didn't."
Silence stretches between us. Adrian breaks it with a slight laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. "The wine must be affecting your memory."
He smoothly shifts the conversation to upcoming gallery trends, but unease coils in my stomach. I find myself watching his hands as he talks—elegant, controlled movements that remind me of a conductor directing an orchestra. Every gesture seems designed to guide my attention exactly where he wants it.
"Your use of negative space," he says, "it's powerful. But have you considered incorporating more technological elements? Circuit patterns, perhaps? Binary code as texture?"
"I prefer organic forms."
"The market is shifting toward tech-influenced art." His tone stays pleasant, but there's an undercurrent of insistence. "Buyers want commentary on our digital age. Your talent combined with the right direction..." He trails off meaningfully.
Direction . The word echoes in my head. Everything about this dinner, about Adrian, seems orchestrated. Each suggestion feels like a gentle push down a predetermined path.
My wine glass is empty again. Adrian signals for a refill, though I don't remember drinking that much. The sommelier appears and disappears like a ghost.
"Your color choices in recent works show evolution," Adrian continues. "Though I think bolder contrasts would serve the commission's themes better. Perhaps we could review some reference materials I've prepared?"
The way he says it— we could review —implies partnership, but I hear the subtle command beneath. Each suggestion comes gift-wrapped in praise and possibility, making it harder to refuse without seeming ungrateful or unprofessional.
I find myself nodding along, even as part of me rebels against his cage of recommendations. His enthusiasm is infectious, his knowledge impressive, but there's something almost mechanical about how perfectly he anticipates my artistic interests. Like he's reading from a script written specifically for me.
"You have such potential," he murmurs, reaching across to touch my hand. His fingers are warm, the contact sending sparks up my arm despite my unease. "Let me help you realize it."
The touch lingers, and I'm caught between wanting to pull away and wanting to lean into his warmth. The weight of him crowds every corner, making me feel both drunk on the sensation and desperate for fresh air.
His fingers still rest on my hand, and I gently slide mine away, straightening my spine. "Mr. Vale—"
"Adrian, please."
"Adrian. While I appreciate your suggestions, I have my own vision for exploring the relationship between technology and humanity." I reach for my wine glass, using it as a shield. "I'd like to focus on connection rather than surveillance. The way screens become windows into other lives, how we reach through digital barriers to touch each other."
A muscle twitches in his jaw. His fingers curl slightly against the tablecloth, and something cold flashes across his face—gone so fast I almost think I imagined it.
"That's a rather... optimistic interpretation." His voice carries an edge that wasn't there before.
"Art doesn't always need to explore darker themes to be meaningful."
He leans back, his shoulders tensing beneath that perfect suit. For a split second, he reminds me of a predator whose prey has suddenly shown teeth.
Then Adrian's expression softens, and he shifts closer. I feel his knee on the outside of mine under the table.
"You're right. Some things are beautiful without darkness." His eyes lock onto mine. "Like the way your face lights up when you talk about your work."
My cheeks warm at the sudden shift. "I thought we were discussing art theory."
"I'd rather discuss you." He takes a slow sip of wine. "Tell me, what makes Sophia Larkin smile when she's not wielding a paintbrush?"
"That's quite a pivot." I fidget with my napkin, caught off guard by his directness.
"I find you far more fascinating than theoretical discussions." His voice drops lower. "Though I enjoy watching you challenge my opinions."
"Most people don't."
"I'm not most people." He leans forward. "And you're not most artists."
I try to maintain my composure, not exactly hating that he's inching deeper into my personal space. "You barely know me."
"I'd like to change that. You have this way of seeing through pretense. It's... a nice change from what I'm used to."
"Is that why you keep watching me? To catch glimpses of honesty?"
"Among other things." The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Like how you scrunch your nose when you're skeptical. Like now."
I immediately try to relax my face, which makes him laugh—a genuine sound that transforms his features. But I've seen it now—that brief glimpse behind his walls. It makes him seem suddenly, startlingly human.
The waiter clears our plates, and Adrian settles the check without even glancing at the total. My stomach flips when I catch a glimpse of the wine price alone.
"We made good progress today. Let me arrange a car for you," Adrian says, standing. His fingers wrap around my elbow as he helps me up.
"I can take the subway—"
"Absolutely not." That steel edge returns to his voice.
Outside, a sleek black car idles at the curb, though I never saw Adrian make a call.
"I enjoyed our discussion."
He extends his hand. When I take it, his grip is warm and firm, fingers seeming to caress me. "I look forward to seeing your vision come to life."
Our eyes meet, and the world narrows to this point of contact between us. His thumb traces an almost imperceptible circle on my palm. One heartbeat. Two. Three.
I pull away first, but the phantom pressure of his touch lingers.
The car door opens silently. As I slide into the plush leather interior, I see Adrian through the window. His expression is unreadable in the dark glass. The car pulls away from the curb as he offers a small wave.
As soon as I'm alone, it's like I can think again. I couldn't quite access any of my usual agency. What happened?
I press my forehead against the cool window, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions this evening has stirred up.
Adrian's knowledge of my work was uncanny. The way he described pieces no one has seen, how he anticipated artistic directions I've barely begun to explore. It's like he's been reading my diary; except I don't keep one.
But there was that moment, when he laughed, when something real cracked through his polished surface.
The commission could change everything for me. But Adrian's suggestions felt less like guidance and more like gentle commands, each one crafted to appeal to my artistic sensibilities while nudging me down a predetermined path.
I close my eyes, remembering how it felt when Adrian looked at me, the way he moved. The brief moments when something else showed through—something hungry and almost desperate.
The wine's warmth starts to fade, leaving me unsure. This opportunity could be everything I've worked for, or it could be another cage, just bigger and more beautifully gilded than the last.
The car glides to a stop outside my building. As I reach for the door handle, I catch the driver watching me in the rearview mirror. He looks away too quickly, and something cold settles in my stomach.
I hurry inside, Adrian's business card burning a hole in my pocket, while my mind spins with equal parts possibility and warning.