Chapter 11
Sophia
The honey in my chai latte swirls as I stir, creating amber patterns that remind me of my latest painting. Across the worn wooden table, Mara takes careful sips of her coffee, black as her bob cut.
We're at the café she wanted to meet at, and the exposed brick walls and mismatched vintage furniture feel like a rebellion against Adrian's chrome-and-glass world. Sunlight streams through tall windows, catching dust motes that dance above coffee grounds and fresh pastries. The barista's machine hisses and spurts, punctuating the low murmur of conversation. A bell chimes as the door opens, letting in bursts of cool air and new customers who squeeze between the crowded tables.
Mara looks different here. Her cream cashmere sweater softens her edges, and dark jeans replace her usual tailored pants. Yet she still commands attention—several patrons glance her way, drawn to her quiet authority.
I shift in my seat, the black wrap dress pulling across my thighs, its subtle draping designed to flatter every curve. My ankle boots pinch with each movement, their leather still too stiff. Adrian selected everything, down to the underwear. The outfit makes me look like I belong in his world of steel and success, but my fingers keep reaching for the nonexistent paint stains and familiar worn spots of my old clothes.
A group of art students crowds the table next to us, their bags overflowing with sketchbooks and supplies. One girl's paint-splattered jeans catch my eye, and my chest tightens with longing. Just last month, I was one of them—messy, struggling, but free.
The honey in my chai tastes too sweet now, cloying against my tongue as Mara watches me with those calculating dark eyes.
I take another sip of chai, letting my gaze drift to the bustling street outside. The past week floods back—endless hours in that pristine studio, surrounded by more supplies than I'd ever dreamed of owning. But right now is the first time I've felt my thoughts settling into place.
Away from Adrian's pull, everything comes into sharper focus.
In the penthouse, his aura fills every corner, making my skin buzz and my mind scatter like startled birds. Even when he's not there, the weight of his attention lingers in the space, in every brush and tool placed just so. The endless windows frame the city like one of his surveillance screens, making me feel both elevated and exposed.
Here, in this worn chair with its stuffing peeking through the cracks, I can breathe. My thoughts are my own again, not tangled up in the electricity that crackles between us whenever he's near. The coffee shop's gentle chaos grounds me in a way the penthouse's sterile perfection never could.
"How are you finding the penthouse workspace?"
Mara's question interrupts my reverie. Her tone is casual, but there's something beneath it—a careful probe, like a doctor pressing to find a tender spot. I meet her eyes, noting how they narrow slightly, searching my face.
The students next to us burst into laughter over a shared joke, and I welcome the brief distraction. My fingers trace the rim of my mug as I consider how to answer. With Mara, I sense that every word carries special meaning, that this conversation is more than just friendly small talk over coffee.
"The workspace is incredible," I start, running my finger along a scratch in the wooden table. "The lighting alone would have cost—"
"And Adrian?" Mara asks, her voice dropping lower. "How are you finding him?"
The chai goes down hard, making me wince. I set my mug down, buying time as I study her face. Her posture is a little more relaxed. But those dark eyes miss nothing, tracking every micro-expression that crosses my face.
The question dangles between us like a baited hook. My mind flashes to Adrian's mouth on my pussy, the way his control both thrills and terrifies me. But Mara's watching, waiting, and I sense this moment matters more than it appears.
I straighten my spine, squaring my shoulders. "He's... a lot." That feels inadequate, but it's honest. "Sometimes I feel like I'm being swept up in a current, and I'm not sure where it's taking me."
Mara nods knowingly. The café's warmth suddenly feels stifling, and I resist the urge to tug at my dress's neckline.
"Adrian can be overwhelming," she says. Her posture may be relaxed, but there's nothing casual about the way she watches me process this conversation.
I take another sip of chai, letting its warmth steady me. "Yes," I say finally. "But I think you already knew that."
Mara swirls her coffee, her dark nails tapping against the ceramic. "Adrian has a particular way of doing things," she says. "Everything must be just so."
I think of the penthouse studio, how the paints are arranged by shade and tone. Even the light switches have specific settings marked in red.
"I noticed."
"And how are you finding his... suggestions about your work?"
The question pricks at a scab inside me. I remember his hands ghosting over my sketches, redirecting lines, adjusting compositions.
"He's very involved."
"He tends to be when something catches his interest." Mara's lips curve slightly. "Though I must say, your work caught his attention quite early on."
My fingers still on my mug. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, those pieces you sold at the Riverside Gallery. Two years ago, wasn't it? That small collection about urban isolation." She takes another sip, eyes never leaving my face. "Adrian was quite taken with them."
I feel my hand getting slippery around my mug as my heart speeds up. My only pieces on that day were sold to A.V. Holdings.
Adrian.
The chai turns bitter on my tongue. I think of the crumpled receipts in my drawer, the pattern of purchases I'd discovered. The anonymous email warning suddenly feels more real. Shit, wait.
Daniel didn't send that email.
Sometimes the ones who admire you most are the ones you see the least. They know more than you think.
"He didn't mention that," I say woodenly, my mind spinning.
"No, he wouldn't." Mara's tone stays light, but her eyes sharpen. "Adrian prefers to... curate how information is shared."
"How long has he been following my work?" I ask, wanting to be absolutely clear.
Mara sets down her coffee. "Perhaps that's something you should ask him directly. Adrian does love to share his expertise, after all. When he finds something worth his attention."
I push my chai away, the spices too sharp against my churning stomach. "Why did you want to meet me here, Mara? What's the real reason?"
She takes her time answering, dabbing her lips with a napkin. The art students next to us pack up their supplies, their chatter and scraping chairs the only sound between us.
"Let's say I have a unique perspective on Adrian's... patterns." She folds the napkin neatly. "I've worked for him for six years. You're not the first artist he's taken an interest in."
"But I'm the one he's been watching for two years." The words taste sour.
"Yes." Her dark eyes meet mine. "Which makes you different."
I lean forward, lowering my voice. "Different how?"
"Adrian doesn't usually invest this much time. Or emotion." She smooths an invisible wrinkle from her sweater. "He's breaking his own rules with you."
"That doesn't answer my question about why you asked me here."
"Consider it professional courtesy." She picks up her coffee again. "Or perhaps I'm curious about the woman who's made Adrian Vale lose control."
The bell above the door chimes again, and cold air sweeps through the café. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling exposed in this dress that isn't really mine.
"I'm going to ask him about all of it," I tell her. "The art purchases, the surveillance—"
"Good." Mara's lips curve slightly. "You should. Just remember. Adrian's world operates on different rules than yours. The question isn't just what he's done but whether you're prepared for what knowing means."
* * *
I stand rigid before my latest piece, the black wrap dress Adrian bought me clinging like a serpent's skin. The setting sun paints Neon Heights in shades of amber and gold, but inside the penthouse studio, shadows creep along the pristine walls.
My hands shake as I try to steady my breathing. The conversation with Mara plays on repeat in my head, each revelation hitting harder than the last. Two years. He's been watching me for two years, collecting my art like trading cards, orchestrating every "chance" encounter.
The studio suddenly feels less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded cage. Every perfectly arranged brush, every carefully calibrated light, it's all part of his design. Even the air feels manufactured, filtered through systems I can't see but know are there, just like his surveillance.
I left Mara at that café, her knowing smile and half-finished coffee suggesting she had all the time in the world. But I couldn't stay there, couldn't keep absorbing her hints and warnings. The truth about Adrian's obsession sits in my stomach like a rock.
I touch the texture of the dried paint. This piece—was it ever really mine? Or was I just painting what he wanted all along, guided by his "suggestions" and subtle manipulations?
The dress feels too tight now, the fabric constricting around my ribs with each breath. I don't know what I've gotten myself into, but standing here in his space, surrounded by the evidence of his control, I know one thing: It ends now.
The sharp tap of Italian leather against marble makes me stiffen. Adrian's footsteps cross the studio, each click a countdown to confrontation.
"Not much progress today," he says, his voice carrying that teasing lilt that once charmed me. "All this time in my studio and not much to show for it today."
I spin around, my hands balled into fists. The words burst out before I can stop them.
"Two years. You've been stalking me for two years."
The playful smile drops from his face. His jaw tightens, those gray-blue eyes turning to steel. He takes a step closer. The last rays of sunlight catch his face, casting half in shadow, and I see it now—the predator beneath the patron's mask.
His shoulders square, his stance widening as if claiming the space around us. When he speaks again, his voice is low, stripped of its earlier warmth.
"Stalking is such an ugly word, Sophia."
"You can dress it up however you want, but that's exactly what this is," I snap back, my voice stronger than I feel. "You've been watching me, manipulating my life from the shadows."
"March 15th, two years ago." Adrian takes another step forward. "The Riverside Gallery. You had three pieces hanging in that cramped back corner. No one else saw their value, but I did."
My first real exhibition. I'd been so proud just to have my work displayed anywhere.
"You wore paint-stained jeans and that oversized green sweater," he continues. "You looked so nervous while talking to potential buyers. None of them understood your vision."
How could he remember so much? I back up until I feel the edge of the easel against my spine.
"So, you just decided to... what? Buy my work through fake names? Track my every move?"
"I cultivated your talent. Everything I've done has been for your benefit."
"I didn't need anyone to cultivate my talent," I spit back, my heart hammering. "I was doing fine on my own."
Adrian's laugh is cold and dismissive. "Fine? You were selling pieces for a fraction of their worth. Working that dead-end job. Letting that hack Daniel convince you your art wasn't good enough."
Heat floods my face. The truth in his words stings worse than the mockery. "That doesn't explain why you needed to watch me from the shadows. Why not just approach me directly?"
"Your talent was being wasted, undervalued." His voice drops lower, something raw breaking through his controlled facade. "I couldn't stand watching you struggle."
I back away, my steps taking me closer to the wall. The look in his eyes should terrify me, but instead it sends electricity racing through my veins. His words wrap around me, reasonable, impossible to fight against.
"You needed protection," he continues, matching my retreat with slow, purposeful steps. "Guidance. Someone who could see your true potential."
My back hits the wall. He has an answer for everything, each explanation sliding into place like perfectly fitted puzzle pieces. The worst part is how much sense it all makes, how his twisted logic aligns with every stroke of good fortune I've had since catching his eye.
His cologne envelops me, a heady mix of sandalwood and something darker that makes my pulse race. The wall is cold against my back as Adrian's hand lands beside my head, the thud of his palm against the surface making me flinch. I'm trapped between his body and the wall, his presence overwhelming every sense.
"I admit to orchestrating our meeting, but every reaction, every connection between us is real." His voice carries that hypnotic quality that's drawn me in from the start, making me doubt my own convictions.
My anger starts to crumble as his other hand comes up, fingers tracing my jaw with a touch that's both claiming and tender. The contrast throws me off balance—this man who's manipulated my life for years now touching me like I'm something precious.
I catch a crack in his perfect control that makes my breath catch. There's vulnerability there, hidden beneath layers of power and calculation. It humanizes him in a way that's more dangerous than his dominance.
"You should have been honest," I whisper, but the fire has drained from my words. His proximity scrambles my thoughts, turning my righteous anger into a confused tangle of fear and want. The truth of his obsession should send me running, but instead it roots me to the spot. I'm caught in the gravity of his attention.
Adrian shifts closer, pressing his body against mine until I can feel the heat of him through my dress. His breath fans across my face as he murmurs, "Would you have given me a chance if I had?"
The question is loaded with dark implications about everything that's led us here, every opportunity, every moment I thought was fate but was actually his careful design. And I don't know the answer. I just know that everything has changed, and I don't know what to do.
"Wh-what now?" I whisper, breathing him in.
"Now you get punished."