Chapter 10
Sophia
I wipe paint from my hands with a damp cloth, the smears of crimson and gold refusing to budge from my skin. The studio feels different now—emptier without Adrian. My finished piece dominates the far wall, still wet and gleaming under the lighting he installed.
The painting speaks of everything I couldn't say out loud. Digital streams of data intertwine with human forms, their bodies arching toward each other in desperate need. Binary code wraps around bare limbs like chains, while circuits pulse with an almost organic warmth. At the center, a woman reaches for an ethereal figure made of light and shadow—their fingertips nearly touching in a way that makes my chest tight.
My hands still tingle where Adrian gripped them earlier. I flex my fingers, remembering how he took control, how his breath felt against my neck.
I should pack up, leave. But my feet won't move toward the door. Instead, I circle the studio again, straightening things that don't need straightening, hoping to hear his footsteps returning.
The painting mocks me with its honesty—desire laid bare in oil and canvas. I'd started it to explore the intersection of technology and humanity, but somewhere along the way, it became about hunger, about submission and control. About the way Adrian makes me feel when he watches me paint, his eyes following each movement like he's claiming it as his own.
My phone sits silent. No messages. No explanation for his absence. Just the quiet hum of the ventilation system and my own racing thoughts. I rub at my forehead, staring at the studio door. Adrian has been gone all day. What if I leave without seeing him again today?
My feet carry me to the doorway before I can talk myself out of it. The penthouse stretches before me, all clean lines and polished surfaces. I've never ventured beyond the studio and living room before.
"Adrian?" My voice sounds small in the vast space.
No answer.
This is probably inappropriate. I should wait in the studio. But something pulls me forward.
His office must be nearby. I could claim I got lost looking for the bathroom if anyone asks. My heart pounds as I edge further into the hallway, my fingers touching the cool wall for balance.
The living space stretches out like a museum after hours—all clean lines and perfect angles. Moonlight spills through floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on chrome fixtures and glass surfaces. Everything gleams with the cold precision of a surgeon's tools.
My feet sink into plush carpet as I move deeper into the room. No family photos on the walls, no books left carelessly on tables. Even the throw pillows on the leather couch sit at exact right angles, untouched by human comfort.
On the other side of the room and at the far end of another hallway, a faint red glow bleeds from beneath a door, pulling me forward like a moth to flame. The carpet muffles my steps, but my heart pounds so loud I'm sure someone must hear it. That part of the penthouse feels different. The sterile museum quality gives way to something else.
I pause, listening to the alarm bells ringing in my mind. Behind me is the safety of the studio. But if I go forward, I'll plunge deeper into shadow, toward that beckoning light. My fingers twist in the hem of my shirt.
"Just turn around," I whisper to myself. But my feet are already moving, drawn by an inner restlessness.
It feels like the hallway narrows to a single point as I creep closer. The walls close in, painted a deep black that absorbs what little light remains. My shoulder bumps against the wall, and I jerk away, suddenly aware of how far I've strayed from where I'm supposed to be.
But that door... something about it makes my skin prickle. It's different from the others—heavier, with a gleaming handle. The metal looks warm to the touch, inviting.
My hand lifts of its own accord. The handle is inches away. One touch and I'll know what lies beyond.
I take a deep breath. I want to know—what else is there to Adrian Vale?
A sudden movement makes me jump back with a strangled gasp. Mara stands there, materializing like a ghost from the right hallway I hadn't even noticed. She positions herself between me and that red-lit door, her stance casual but unmistakably blocking my path. Her dark eyes pin me in place, but I catch the dark circles under her eyes. She looks tired, like she's been awake way too long.
"Looking for something?" Mara's voice carries its usual professional polish, but underneath runs a current of steel.
"I—" My mouth goes dry. "I needed to ask Adrian about..." The words trail off as my mind blanks. Heat crawls up my neck.
Mara's eyebrow lifts slightly. "Yes? What did you need to ask him?"
"Just..." I twist my fingers together. "About the commission." Even to my own ears, the excuse sounds pathetic.
Her expression doesn't change, but somehow, she seems more intimidating than before. "I can help with any questions about the commission," Mara says, her voice smooth as silk. "Adrian shares everything with me. We work very closely together." She takes a step forward, and I instinctively back up. "What specifically did you want to know?"
My mouth opens and closes. The way she says "everything" makes my stomach twist. How close are they really? I try to conjure up a legitimate question about the project, but my mind is filled only with that red glow behind the door and the possessive way Mara guards it.
"I..." My voice comes out small. "It's not important. I should go back to the studio."
Mara's lips curve into something between a smile and a smirk. "Are you sure? I know all of Adrian's preferences. His vision. His... requirements."
I feel hot as I realize how foolish I must look, wandering where I shouldn't be, unable to even fabricate a proper excuse. The confidence I felt while painting earlier evaporates under her knowing stare.
"No, really, it's fine." I take another step back, my shoulder bumping the wall. "I'll just ask him another time."
Mara's eyes dissect me like a scientist studying a particularly disappointing specimen. I press myself against the wall, wishing I could melt into it. The silence stretches until I'm ready to bolt—
"We should get coffee sometime."
I blink. Hard. Did Mara—ice queen extraordinaire and keeper of mysterious red-lit doors—just ask me to coffee? My brain short-circuits, trying to process this whiplash-inducing turn.
"Coffee?" I squeak.
"Yes. Just us girls." Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Talk about art. Life. Adrian."
My imagination runs wild despite my better judgment. I picture us at some cutesy café, sharing gossip over lattes. Maybe she'll braid my hair while we swap stories about our first kisses. We could become besties, have slumber parties in the penthouse, paint each other's nails while dishing about—
Mara clears her throat, snapping me back to reality. Her expression makes it clear she can read every ridiculous thought crossing my face. So much for my brief fantasy of friendship bracelets and secret handshakes.
"I'd like that," I hear myself say, though my throat feels tight. Something about Mara's invitation feels less like a friendly gesture and more like a command.
She pulls out her phone, fingers tapping efficiently. My own phone buzzes in my pocket a moment later.
"There. Now you have my number." Mara's hand settles on my shoulder, steering me away from the mysterious door. Her touch is light but insistent, like a dance partner leading without appearing to lead at all. "I know this charming little place downtown. Very private."
We move through the hallway, back toward the familiar territory of Adrian's living room. Each step puts more distance between us and that red glow, but I can't shake the feeling it's still there, pulsing behind us like a heartbeat.
"Tuesday at 2?" Mara suggests, her hand still on my shoulder until we reach the main area. "I'm sure we'll have plenty to discuss."
"Tuesday sounds perfect," I manage, trying to match Mara's professional tone. My voice wavers slightly, betraying my nerves.
"Wonderful." Mara's stance shifts, her sharp edges softening just a fraction. "Though I should point out," she says as she checks her watch elegantly, "it's getting quite late. You must be exhausted from all that painting."
I glance at my own phone. 11:47 p.m. How did it get so late? The hours always blur when I'm working, but tonight feels different, like I've crossed some invisible boundary I can't uncross.
"You're right," I say. "I should head home."
Mara walks beside me back to the studio, each step echoing through the empty penthouse, making me hyper-aware of how alone we are.
"Don't forget your coat," she says, reaching for it before I can. The gesture seems helpful, but the look in her eyes makes my skin prickle. As she holds it out, her smile carries an edge that wasn't there before. "We wouldn't want you catching cold before our coffee date."
I slip my arms into the sleeves, very conscious of how close she stands. That smile—it's not quite threatening, but it reminds me of a teacher who's caught a student somewhere they shouldn't be.
As I gather my supplies with trembling fingers, my mind keeps circling back to that door and its strange red glow. What lies behind it? And why does Mara guard it so fiercely? The questions tangle with new ones about her sudden interest in coffee with me.
My things clatter against each other as I stuff them into my bag. Everything feels off-kilter now—the studio I'd grown comfortable in, Mara's unexpected invitation, even the penthouse itself seems filled with unspoken warnings.
I zip my bag closed, my earlier confidence replaced by a gnawing uncertainty. What kind of game is Mara playing? And how does Adrian fit into all of this?
* * *
You'd think Adrian didn't have a mouthful of my pussy a few days ago by the way he's behaving around me.
"That's not how it works," Adrian says, his shadow falling across my screen. "You're approaching it all wrong."
I bite back a retort, my fingers hovering over the tablet. The software feels alien. Numbers and parameters fill the screen, a digital maze I can't seem to navigate. I'm completely lost.
"I'm trying," I mutter, adjusting a value that makes the pattern shift and warp. Not at all what I wanted.
His fingers drum against the desk, each tap like a tiny accusation.
"Here." He reaches around me, his chest pressing against my back as he takes control of the tablet. "Watch carefully."
The warmth of his body distracts me from the technical lesson he's delivering. His cologne fills my lungs. But there's an edge to him today, a frustration that won't let me relax.
"See?" His voice drops lower, right by my ear. "Simple once you understand the principles."
I nod, though the demonstration has left me more confused than before. The pattern on screen now flows perfectly, exactly as he wanted. But it doesn't feel like my art anymore. His fingers continue their impatient rhythm on the desk.
"Try it again."
"I'm not going to get this. Have you seen Marina Chen's new series?" I ask, trying to mask my insecurity. "Her digital paintings are incredible. She just—"
"Lost the Hawthorne grant," Adrian cuts in. "Quite unfortunate."
I turn in my chair to face him. His hand still rests near mine on the desk, but I no longer sense the warmth from before.
"Lost it? But everyone said she was guaranteed to—"
"Technical difficulties with her submission," he says, lips curving into a smile. "The file was corrupted. Deadlines are unforgiving."
His tone makes my skin prickle. He sounds almost... pleased.
"You won't need to concern yourself with competition anymore," he adds. "Your talent deserves recognition. The right people will see to that."
The way he says it, like he's already arranged everything, makes my stomach twist. His certainty should be comforting, but instead, it feels wrong.
"I should still push myself," I say. "Other artists—"
"Are irrelevant." His hand settles on my shoulder, heavy and possessive. "Focus on your work. That's all that matters now."
He's like a teacher scolding a struggling student. I hate feeling this incompetent. The tablet might as well be written in hieroglyphics.
Marina Chen losing the Hawthorne grant... my stomach sinks deeper. She's been a pillar in our local art scene, mentoring younger artists and pushing boundaries with her digital work. This loss will ripple through the whole community. Several galleries were counting on her upcoming shows to draw serious collectors.
The way Adrian dismissed her, like she was nothing... Does he expect me to step into that void? I can barely make this software create basic shapes, let alone the intricate pieces Marina produces.
"Technical difficulties," he'd said, but something feels off about it. The timing is too convenient. And the way his eyes lit up describing her failure...
I stare at the mess of parameters on my screen. Who am I kidding? I'm nowhere near Marina's level with digital art. My strength is in oils and canvas, in texture you can touch. Yet here Adrian is, steering me toward something that feels increasingly wrong, like trying to force a square peg into a round hole.
His fingers dig slightly into my shoulder as I fumble with another setting. The pattern warps again, nothing like the flowing piece he demonstrated. My mistakes seem to piss him off.
But when I look up at him, anticipating another scolding, he's looking down at my clothes, eyes lingering on the frayed hem of my jeans and the paint splatters decorating my sweater.
"This isn't how a serious artist presents herself," Adrian says at once, distaste clear in his voice. "Look at you."
I shrink under his scrutiny, suddenly aware of every imperfection—the loose thread dangling from my sleeve, the scuff marks on my boots.
"Marina Chen, for instance," he continues, circling me like a shark. "She understands that presentation is part of the package. Tailored blazers, designer shoes. People take her seriously because she takes herself seriously."
The irony of him praising Marina after revealing her grant rejection isn't lost on me. My cheeks burn as he picks apart my appearance.
"These jeans belong in a dumpster." As he comes nearer, his fingers pinch the worn denim at my knee. "And this sweater... it's not artistic charm, it's unprofessional. You're not some kid anymore, dabbling in watercolors. You're meant to be establishing yourself in the industry."
I bristle at his judgment. "These clothes are practical for painting. I'm not going to ruin expensive—"
"Mara," Adrian calls out, cutting me off mid-sentence. His voice carries that note of command that brooks no argument.
The door opens before his voice even fades. Mara strides in, arms laden with shopping bags bearing designer labels I've only seen in magazines. Was she waiting outside the door?
"Perfect timing," Adrian says, though something tells me this entrance was orchestrated down to the second. "Show Ms. Larkin what proper attire looks like."
Mara's dark eyes meet mine, and I catch a flicker of... sympathy? Amusement? It's gone before I can parse it. She sets the bags on a nearby table, tissue paper crinkling as she begins removing items.
"These should be more suitable," she says, laying out some pieces. The tags are still attached, and I deliberately avoid looking at the prices.
My stained sweater suddenly feels like a child's security blanket. I wrap my arms around myself, acutely aware of both their stares.
"I didn't ask for—" I start to say, but Adrian's hand lands on my shoulder again, silencing me.
A silk blouse slithers across the table as Mara unfolds it. My fingers twitch, wanting to touch it but afraid of leaving smudges. The neckline plunges deep—deeper than anything I'd dare wear to a gallery opening. Next comes the pants, their crisp lines and high waist speaking of boardrooms and champagne parties, not my usual haunts of coffee shops and dusty studios. They'd show every curve, leave nowhere to hide. The burgundy blazer steals my breath. It's the color of mulled wine. Together, these pieces paint a picture of someone else entirely—a woman who commands attention, who doesn't apologize for taking up space.
Adrian's hand still rests heavy on my shoulder while Mara continues arranging outfits. Each new item she reveals feels like another brick in a wall I'm being asked to build around myself. I open my mouth to protest, to ask about Marina's grant, but Adrian's fingers flex slightly against my collarbone. The questions die in my throat as Mara holds up a pair of stilettos.
This isn't me. But maybe that's exactly the point.
"I trust these will help you feel more... secure," Adrian says, voice honeyed. "After all, with your student loans and gallery fees taken care of, you can focus on presenting yourself properly."
A wave of nausea sweeps through me. The reminder of his generosity—the mountain of debt he erased with a single transaction—hits me like a punch to the gut. The memory of watching years of financial burden disappear now feels less like freedom and more like shackles.
I glance at Mara, hoping to find an ally, but her dark eyes assess me clinically. There's something in her expression—a warning, perhaps—that makes me swallow the questions about Marina's grant that had been burning on my tongue.
The silk blouse whispers against the table as Mara adjusts it, the sound oddly threatening in the loaded silence. These clothes, these expensive chains dressed up as gifts, represent everything I've tried to avoid—dependency, obligation, control.
"Thank you," I finally manage stiffly, the words tasting like ash. My voice comes out smaller than I intend, and I hate how easily I've been maneuvered into compliance. The paint stains on my sweater now feel like badges of resistance rather than marks of unprofessionalism.
Adrian's hand slides from my shoulder to the nape of my neck, his thumb brushing against my pulse point. The gesture seems caring to anyone watching, but I feel the possession in his touch, the subtle reminder of his power over me.
"Mara will help you try these on," he says, as if my agreement is already secured. And isn't it? What choice do I really have when my freedom from debt hangs by threads as delicate as the silk before me?
"Now I can't even put on clothing myself?" I grumble.
I feel Adrian stiffen, fingers curling around the back of my neck. "I don't know. Can you?" he says into my face, and the question in his expression makes me wonder if he actually wants to know the answer.
I glare openly up at him. What the hell has gotten into him?
Adrian's hand leaves my neck, and suddenly, his palm strikes between my shoulder blades. The force pitches me forward, my hands bracing against the desk as my mouth drops open in shock.
"Get back to work," he says, voice clipped and cold. "I'll check in with you later, and I expect to see improvement."
As he walks away, my spine tingles where he hit me—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind me of his strength. The studio door clicks shut behind him and Mara, leaving me alone with the pile of designer clothes and my racing thoughts.
I slump into my chair, the expensive fabric surrounding me like silent witnesses to my submission. Has Adrian always been like this? The way he dismissed Marina's setback, the timing of these gifts, the subtle threats wrapped in kindness—were there signs I missed? Or did I choose to ignore them, seduced by his charm and generosity?
My fingers find the blouse, trailing over its liquid surface. The fabric feels like a caress, promising luxury and belonging. Part of me yearns to slip it on, to transform into the polished artist Adrian envisions. Another part recoils at how easily he's boxing me in, using debt and opportunity as pretty cage bars.
I can't untangle whether I feel protected or possessed. What disturbs me most is how I crave both sensations, even as they get tighter.