Chapter 8
Adrian
I adjust my tie and check my mirror, satisfaction coursing through me. With Mara out of the way, I can focus on what matters—on who matters. My steps echo through the hallway as I head toward the studio, anticipation building with each stride.
The door is slightly ajar. Sophia hasn't noticed my approach, too absorbed in her work. I pause, drinking in the sight of her. She's perched on a stool, hair messily tied back, smudges of paint on her fingers.
My pulse quickens. The way she loses herself in her art, that passion, it's intoxicating. She belongs here, in my space, under my protection. My fingers curl into my palm as I watch her mix colors with complete abandon, her movements both graceful and decisive.
I step into the room, deliberately letting her hear my approach. She startles slightly, turning toward me. A small paint streak marks her cheek, and my hand itches to wipe it away.
"How's the work progressing?" I keep my voice soft, controlled, though inside I'm anything but.
"Oh! Adrian!" She sets down her brush and pushes hair out of her face, coating the strands with color. "I was just experimenting with some new techniques for the commission."
I move closer, studying what she was working on. This piece is coming together beautifully, exactly as I knew it would. My chest swells with pride. I chose well. She's everything I thought she'd be.
"Have you given any thought to my suggestion about the exhibition?" I ask, carefully positioning myself between her and the door. "I have connections with several prestigious galleries that would be perfect for showcasing your work."
I watch her face carefully. She's considering it, weighing the opportunity against her instincts. Perfect.
"I'm not sure I'm ready for something that big," she hesitates, but I can see the want in her eyes.
"You are," I state firmly, resting my hand on her shoulder. "Your talent deserves to be seen, Sophia. Let me help you make that happen." I let my hand linger on her shoulder, feeling her tension. "Tell me about your own studio space," I say, studying her reaction. "Where do you usually create your art?"
Sophia's shoulder tenses under my hand. She shifts away, putting distance between us. "It's just... my apartment. A studio apartment. That's all."
"And that serves as your workspace as well? That can't be enough space."
She busies herself with cleaning her brushes, jaw tight. "Yes. It's my personal studio. I make it work."
"I see." I move closer, watching her move. "And financially, are you... comfortable? With supplies, rent?"
Her hands still. She won't meet my eyes, and that tells me everything I need to know. My fingers curl against my palm as satisfaction and concern wash over me. She needs my help, whether she realizes it or not.
"Sophia," I start, but she cuts me off by dunking her brushes in water with more force than necessary.
"I manage," she says curtly, color rising in her cheeks. "I've always managed."
"You should put your energy into creating, not worrying about finances." I pause, calculating my next words carefully. "I've reviewed your situation, Sophia. The student loans, the credit card debt from your previous gallery showing—"
"How did you—"
"I have resources." I wave away her question. "The point is, these burdens are holding you back. Limiting your potential."
Her spine stiffens. "I don't need charity."
"This isn't charity." I rest my hip against her workbench, forcing her to look up at me. "Consider it an investment in your future. Your talent deserves proper nurturing, without the weight of debt crushing your creativity."
"I..." She swallows hard, and I watch the battle play out across her face—pride bumping against practicality.
"Let me handle your debts, Sophia. No strings attached." I soften my voice, letting genuine admiration seep through. "Your work moves me. This is simply my way of ensuring nothing stands between you and your artistic vision."
As she processes my offer, I wait patiently, knowing I've planted the seed. Sometimes the best way to tighten control is to appear to offer freedom.
"I'd need to think about it," she finally says, her voice small but not entirely resistant.
"Of course." I straighten, giving her space. "Take all the time you need. The offer stands."
"Thank you," Sophia says softly, her eyes meeting mine. "For caring. For wanting to help."
My pulse quickens at her vulnerability. I step closer, drawn by the paint streak still marking her cheek.
"Let me," I murmur, reaching up to wipe it away with my thumb. Her skin is warm under my touch.
She doesn't pull away. "You've been... incredibly generous. With everything."
"I see your potential, Sophia." My hand lingers near her face. "You deserve nurturing. Protection."
"Protection?" Her brow furrows slightly, but she leans almost imperceptibly into my touch.
"The art world can be cruel." I trace my fingers down her jaw. "People will try to take advantage, to reshape your vision into something marketable. I won't let that happen to you."
She shivers under my touch. "I can take care of myself."
"Of course you can." I smile, moving closer until we're sharing breath. "But you don't have to. Not anymore."
My other hand finds her waist, steadying her. The studio feels charged, intimate. Private. Just us, surrounded by her art, by the proof of what I saw in her two years ago.
"Adrian..." Her voice wavers. She places a hand on my chest, neither pushing me away nor pulling me closer.
"Let me help you, Sophia." I brush my thumb across her bottom lip. "Let me take care of everything."
Her lids grow heavy with desire, her breath catching. She's responding exactly as I knew she would, falling perfectly into place.
"I... yes." She swallows hard. "About the debts. And the exhibition. Yes."
Victory surges through me. I lean in, my lips nearly brushing hers. "You won't regret this. I'll make sure everything is perfect."
Her fingers curl into my shirt. "You're very... controlling, aren't you?"
"I prefer thorough." I tighten my grip on her waist. "I protect what's mine."
"Yours?"
The spell is broken. Sophia straightens, confusion in her expression. Then she laughs like I've made a joke.
Fuck, I moved too fast. I swallow down the quick surge of anger and force a self-deprecating smile, smoothing over my slip.
"What I meant is, I take my role as patron seriously. Your success reflects on my judgment, after all."
"Of course." Sophia's amusement lingers, softening her previous wariness. She's no longer as tense.
"Please," I say, taking a step back to give her space, "if anything comes up, any concerns, any obstacles, let me know immediately. Day or night. I want to ensure nothing impedes your work."
"Anything at all?" She raises an eyebrow, that playful glint still in her eyes.
"Whether it's supplies, space, or even just needing someone to bounce ideas off of." I pull out my business card, holding it between us. "My personal number is on the back. Use it."
She accepts the card, turning it over in her paint-stained fingers. "That's... very generous of you."
"It's practical," I correct, keeping my tone light. "The best art comes from a mind free of external pressures."
"I'll keep that in mind." She tucks the card into her pocket, still smiling like we're sharing an inside joke about me.
"Good." I nod, stepping toward the door. "I should let you get back to work."
The moment I turn my back, my expression drops. My face goes blank, muscles relaxing into their natural state of careful neutrality. I fucked up. Let my control slip for a moment. Rookie mistake.
I stride down the hallway, my footsteps silent now. Next time, I'll be more careful. More patient. She's already accepting my help, my presence in her life. There's no need to rush.
I just need to play the long game. After all, I've been doing it for two years already.