Chapter 5
Sophia
I wander through the aisles of Art Haven, running my fingers along shelves stocked with pristine supplies. The store stretches endlessly before me, a warehouse-sized temple to creativity with exposed industrial ceilings and polished concrete floors.
My cart's wheels squeak as I add another set of professional-grade acrylics. The price tag makes me wince. These colors cost more than my weekly grocery budget. But Adrian's commission demands quality, and I can't risk using inferior materials.
"Need any help finding something?" A clerk in an apron approaches.
"No, thanks." I turn away quickly, not wanting anyone to see me calculating prices in my head.
The massive canvas section looms ahead. Row after row of blank potential, from intimate sizes to wall-spanning monsters. I need several large ones for this project. My hands shake slightly as I check the prices, but I force myself to grab what I need.
A display of experimental mixed media supplies catches my eye, perfect for the technology elements Adrian wants. The metallic powders and synthetic resins would create amazing effects. I add them to my growing pile.
My mind drifts to last night's dream, and I knock over a jar of brushes. The clatter echoes through the cavernous space as I scramble to pick them up. Heat rises to my cheeks, both from embarrassment and from the memory of Adrian's hand around my throat. I shake my head, trying to focus on the supply list in my hand instead of how real his touch felt.
I'm still gathering scattered brushes when a pair of paint-stained boots stops in front of me. My stomach drops as I recognize those scuffed leather toes.
"Still clumsy as ever, Soph?" Daniel's warm, raspy voice carries that familiar hint of condescension beneath the amusement.
I keep my eyes down, taking in his worn jeans and the splashes of cobalt blue across his shoes. Some things never change. He's probably been in his studio all day, losing track of time like he always did.
"Daniel."
I straighten up slowly, clutching the brushes to my chest. He looks exactly as I remember—that perpetually messy light brown hair falling across his forehead, those calculating brown eyes that can switch from soulful to cold in an instant. His broad shoulders fill out a flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves, revealing forearms marked with paint smudges.
He shifts his weight, adopting that casual pose I used to find charming, one thumb hooked in his pocket, head tilted slightly. The ghost of a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth.
"I heard you've been making waves." He reaches down to pick up a brush I missed, turning it over in his hands. "Something about a big commission?"
I pluck the brush from his fingers, careful not to let our hands touch. "Just working on some new pieces." I keep my voice neutral, sliding the brushes back into their container.
"Come on, Soph. The whole art scene is buzzing about Adrian Vale taking an interest in your work." His eyes narrow slightly, studying my reaction.
I busy myself with arranging the brushes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled. Inside, my heart is racing. How does he know about Adrian already?
"It's a small project," I lie, turning back to my cart. The metallic powders mock me from their perch atop my supplies. Nothing about this commission is small.
"Funny, I heard differently." Daniel steps closer, forcing me to look up at him. "Vale doesn't do small projects. Word, is he bought half your pieces at the gallery showing."
My fingers tighten around the handle of my cart. Of course, Daniel would know about the sales. He still has connections throughout the local art scene. I start walking down the aisle, but he keeps pace.
"I'm happy for you, really." His voice carries that patronizing tone I remember too well. "Though I'm surprised you'd work with someone like Vale. Didn't you always say art should be pure, untainted by corporate influence?"
"People change." I grab a pack of brushes without checking the price, just to keep moving.
"Do they?" He reaches past me to grab a tube of paint, his arm brushing mine. "Or do they just get better at compromising their principles?"
I jerk away from his touch. "I need to get going."
"Come on, Soph. We should catch up properly. Get coffee, talk about old times—"
"No," I spit out, unable to mask my annoyance. "I'm busy with the commission."
"Right. The commission." He offers me a dead smile. "Well, don't let me keep you from your corporate patron. Just be careful. Guys like Vale always have ulterior motives."
I abandon my cart and head for the exit, my cheeks burning. Behind me, I hear Daniel's low chuckle, and it follows me all the way to the street.
I lean against the brick wall outside Art Haven, taking deep breaths of the crisp morning air. My hands are still shaking. Trust Daniel to show up at exactly the wrong moment, acting like he knows what's best for me. Again.
The supply run can wait. I'll come back later tonight, when there's less chance of running into him. The store stays open until 10, plenty of time to get what I need without dealing with unwanted opinions about my choices.
His words about Adrian nag at me, though. How did Daniel know so much about the gallery sales? And that comment about ulterior motives...
The anonymous email flashes through my mind. Its warnings about Adrian's long-term interest in my work suddenly feel less like paranoid ramblings and more like something Daniel would write. He always did have a flair for the dramatic, especially when trying to "protect" me from myself.
I pull out my phone and reread the email. The writing style could be his, that mix of concern and condescension I know so well. But why wouldn't he just sign it? Daniel never had trouble expressing his opinions to my face before.
Unless he's trying to drive a wedge between me and Adrian without directly involving himself. That would be just like him, manipulating from the shadows while maintaining plausible deniability.
My finger hovers over the delete button, but I save the email instead. Whether Daniel sent it or not, something about this situation doesn't feel right. I just need to figure out what.
* * *
I slam the apartment door behind me, my empty hands giving away my cowardice at the store. Daniel's smug face keeps flashing in my mind, that familiar twist of his lips when he's trying to appear supportive while actually judging.
I heard you've been making waves.
I can't get his words out of my head as I drop my bag on the kitchen counter. He used the same tone when critiquing my work during our relationship. But I can't let seeing him throw me off. I look around my studio apartment. Yeah, it's time for a little organizing.
I yank open drawers and cabinets, sorting brushes by size and type. My hands shake as I arrange them in their holders—the muscle memory of Daniel's critiques still lingers.
You think that brush works here?
"Screw you," I mutter, tossing a frayed brush into the trash. The metal tin hits the bottom with a satisfying clang.
I pull out my canvas stretchers, checking each for warping. The wood feels solid under my fingers as I stack them by size. At least Adrian is providing the space—no more paint fumes filling my tiny apartment.
My phone buzzes. Another email from Adrian's assistant with details about the studio space. I scan it while sorting through my paints, setting aside the ones running low. The studio has north-facing windows, perfect natural light.
The organizational frenzy helps quiet the anxious voices in my head. I lay out my palette knives, arrange reference materials, pack spare cloths and cleaning supplies. Each item represents a choice, my choice. Not Daniel's approval. Not Adrian's influence.
I pause my organizing frenzy as a crumpled paper flutters from between old receipts. My fingers smooth out the wrinkles, revealing a sales record from the local arts market where I used to sell my smaller pieces.
"A.V. Holdings."
The name jumps out at me. My breath catches as recognition clicks. That same buyer name appears on three other receipts I've kept.
I drop to my knees, rifling through the box of old paperwork. There—another receipt from six months later. And another from last winter. All signed by A.V. Holdings.
The dates span back almost two years. My hands tremble as I line up the receipts on my floor. They all claim a different piece at different prices but always that same buyer name.
"A.V." I whisper, the initials taking on new meaning. Adrian Vale. My stomach lurches.
I snatch my laptop, fingers flying over the keys as I pull up past sales records from various galleries and markets. The pattern emerges with terrifying clarity—A.V. Holdings has been collecting my work long before Adrian supposedly "discovered" me at the gallery.
I grab my phone, scrolling through recent texts from Adrian. And his detailed commentary on "Fractured Light" hits differently now—that piece sold eight months ago to A.V. Holdings at a small weekend market.
The way you captured isolation through fragmented reflections...
My fingers tighten around the phone. He'd described it exactly as I'd intended, down to the specific technique I'd used to create the fragmented mirror effect. At the time, I'd been impressed by his insight. Now it feels invasive.
The cryptic email pulses in my mind: Sometimes the ones who admire you most are the ones you see the least. They know more than you think.
But Daniel's smirk at the art store nags at me. The way he'd casually dropped Adrian's name, fishing for my reaction. His loaded comments about "making waves" and "careful who you trust."
Classic Daniel—always trying to position himself as the voice of reason while subtly undermining my confidence. He'd done it throughout our relationship, especially when my work started gaining attention.
I lean back in my chair, forcing myself to take deep breaths. The receipts blur before my eyes as exhaustion sets in. Am I jumping to conclusions?
"A.V. Holdings could be anyone," I say out loud to my empty apartment. "Lots of companies use initials."
I pull up my Instagram feed, scrolling through years of posts. Then I find it. There's "Fractured Light" in all its glory, complete with my lengthy caption about the mirror technique and what inspired the piece. My artist statement sits right there in my bio, explaining my fascination with isolation and technology.
The posts tell the whole story of my artistic journey. Anyone could piece together my influences, my techniques, my evolution as an artist. Adrian's insights during dinner weren't mystical—they were probably researched.
My shoulders relax slightly as logic takes hold. Daniel's timing was too perfect at the art store. He always did this—showed up when things were going well, dropped hints designed to make me doubt myself. The email's dramatic tone matches his flair for manipulation.
I gather the receipts, tucking them back into their folder. Daniel would love nothing more than to sabotage this opportunity. He never could handle my success outshining his.
"Not this time," I mutter, closing the folder with finality. I won't let his mind games derail the biggest commission of my career. I feel embarrassed for getting so worked up. For now, I'm putting Daniel back into the past.
And in the future, Adrian is waiting for me, my new patron.