Chapter 14
Sophia
I stumble through my apartment door, fumbling with the sticky lock that always catches. The familiar squeak of hinges hits different now, like everything else in this room I once called home.
My footsteps are loud in the small space. Paint splatters mark the floor like battle scars—honest ones, unlike the pristine surfaces in Adrian's world. The cramped studio feels suffocating after so much time in his penthouse, walls pressing in where huge windows once opened to the city below.
My cheap coffee maker sits abandoned on the counter, a film of dust coating its plastic surface. The sight of it twists something in my chest. Not too long ago, I watched Adrian's chrome espresso machine hiss and steam, crafting the perfect morning brew. Now the contrast feels like a slap—my dollar store mugs next to his hand-painted ceramics, my salvaged furniture against his custom pieces.
The torn dress clings to my skin, damp with sweat and tears. I'd tried wrapping myself in my jacket for the trip home, but nothing could hide what I'd become in his world: a doll, dressed up and posed for his pleasure.
Tools are scattered exactly where I left them weeks ago. Half-finished canvases lean against walls, patient ghosts waiting for my return. The commission sketches mock me from my desk. All that potential, all those hours of work. But the images from that room flash through my mind: Screens upon screens tracking my life like I'm some specimen under glass. My Instagram posts. My credit card statements. My location, mapped in real-time.
And those photos. The ones Daniel took, private moments I thought were gone forever. How long had Adrian possessed them? How many times had he studied them, planned his approach, calculated the perfect moment to enter my life?
I tear at the dress, expensive fabric giving way under desperate fingers. The lingerie follows. I kick the pile away, standing naked in my own studio, reclaiming my skin.
But my hands shake as I gather supplies, sorting through what's mine and what came from him. All of it has to go. I can't keep anything he touched, anything that might give him another hold over me.
The commission sketches taunt me from my desk, hours of work, concepts that excited me, themes I wanted to explore. But now I see the manipulation behind his suggestions, every "creative discussion" that steered me toward his vision. The technology theme, the surveillance motifs, he wasn't just commissioning art. He was confessing, flaunting his control right in front of me.
My stomach churns at the memory of those screens, that shrine to his obsession. Every move I made, cataloged and analyzed. My whole life reduced to data points for him to possess. I can't forget, no matter what happens. No commission is worth that price. No amount of success can justify submitting to his obsession.
I stumble into the bathroom, and the shower sputters to life at my touch, pipes groaning. Steam fills the small space as I step under the spray, but the hot water can't burn away the memory of his hands on my skin.
Purple marks dot my shoulders, my hips, my thighs. Each one pulses with phantom sensation, his mouth, his touch, the way he made me beg. My body betrays me, warming at the memories even as my mind recoils. The sex was... I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the thought away. It doesn't matter how good it felt. He's insane. Dangerous.
I scrub until my skin turns red. But the cheap body wash can't mask the lingering scent of his cologne.
And I told him I was his. I completely submitted. That memory won't go down the drain, either.
After drying off, I pull on my oldest, most comfortable T-shirt. The worn cotton feels like a shield against everything that happened tonight. My bed welcomes me with familiar creaks and dips.
My phone sits dark and silent on the nightstand. I pick it up, then set it down again. I pick it up. What if I'm overreacting? Those screens could have been for security purposes. He's a tech billionaire after all…
No. I grab the phone again, staring at the blank screen. He hacked my whole life. My messages, my location, my private photos. Everything I do on this device, he can see. Tomorrow, I'll need to figure out how to unhack everything. Get a new phone maybe. New accounts.
Minutes tick by. No calls. No texts. No pounding at my door. Just silence and the weight of everything I discovered tonight.
My eyes grow heavy, but sleep stays out of reach. Every time I start to drift, I see those screens, see myself reduced to data points and surveillance feeds. Finally, exhaustion wins and I slip into darkness, my phone lying silent beside me like a time bomb.
But it never goes off.
I wait and wait. I wait for days, and they blur together in a haze of takeout and Netflix, my art supplies untouched in the corner, but nothing. So I let my guard down and just give in. Give in to what?
I'm not sure.
I'm sprawled on my worn couch, half-watching some mindless reality show while picking at a bowl of cereal. Every time my phone buzzes, my heart jumps—but it's never him.
Part of me expected black vans to screech up outside my building or Mara to appear at my door with that knowing look. But there's been nothing. Just silence. The quiet should be comforting, but it feels like the calm before a storm.
Then, my phone lights up with an unknown number. My spoon clatters into the bowl as I grab it, hands shaking slightly. It's the gallery director's voice on the other end, pleasant but firm.
"Ms. Larkin, I'm calling about your upcoming exhibition."
My stomach drops before she even finishes. I know what she's going to say before she says it. My commission with Adrian has been cancelled. That isn't a surprise—I'd already packed away the commission sketches. But then she continues, her voice cooling several degrees.
"Additionally, I regret to inform you that we won't be able to consider any of your work for future shows. We're facing some... financial adjustments."
"Financial adjustments?" I sit up straight, milk souring in my mouth. "But my other pieces were selling well. The opening night—"
"I understand your confusion." She cuts me off. "Unfortunately, the decision has been made. There are certain... pressures we need to consider."
"Pressures?" The word catches in my throat. "What kind of pressures?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss the details. I wish you the best with your future endeavors."
The line goes dead before I can respond. I stare at my phone, the reality sinking in. The gallery was my biggest connection to the art world, my chance at building a real career. He's making his move.
He's cutting off my opportunities.
I dial the number back, but it goes straight to voicemail. My hands are shaking harder now as I type out an email, pleading for a chance to discuss this in person. The response is immediate and automated: "Your message could not be delivered."
"Fuck!" I scream out, suddenly remembering Marina Chen and how she lost her grant, just like that. "Fuck," I whisper to myself, eyes growing wide. What's even going on with her? She must have been devastated.
I didn't even bother to check. Not that she's my friend or anything but I didn't so much as look at her Instagram. Feeling I should at least get a glimpse at where my life is heading, I grab my laptop and jerk it open.
My fingers shake as I type Marina's name into Instagram. The first post steals my breath—a long, detailed exposé about "fake artists" who "sleep their way to success." She doesn't name me directly, but the timing and details make it crystal clear who she means.
I scroll through her feed, my chest tightening with each swipe. Post after post drips with veiled accusations. "Some people will do anything for a grant," reads one caption. The comments section explodes with speculation, each theory worse than the last.
"Did you see how fast she got that commission?"
"I heard she blackmailed someone."
"No way she earned that spot fairly!"
My cereal sits forgotten as I dive deeper into the rabbit hole. I find even worse—screenshots of my sales records, questions about my "sudden rise," side-by-side comparisons of Marina's work and mine. Someone even dug up old photos of me and Daniel, spinning wild theories about my relationships.
The room spins as I connect the dots. The gallery's "pressures" weren't just about Adrian's direct influence—he's orchestrating a full takedown of my reputation. Every comment, every accusation, feels like another nail in my career's coffin.
I slam the laptop shut, but the damage is done. I can still see those comments burned into my vision. Marina's anger, her followers' judgment, the whispers spreading through the art community—it's all part of his plan.
He doesn't need to call. He doesn't need to text. The message comes through loud and clear:
Cross Adrian Vale, and watch your world crumble, piece by piece.
* * *
A sharp knock breaks through my spiral of dark thoughts. I take one last look around my tiny apartment—it's as clean as it's going to get. The vanilla candles cast a warm glow that almost makes the place seem inviting. Almost.
My hand trembles on the doorknob. I shouldn't have reached out to him. But with my career imploding and Adrian's shadow looming over everything, I needed someone who knew me before all this. Someone real.
I pull open the door, and there's Daniel. His wavy brown hair is artfully messy, and he's wearing that old flannel shirt I used to steal—the blue one that brings out the warmth in his eyes. Paint streaks his worn jeans, and his boots are scuffed from his studio. A bottle of red wine dangles from his fingers, and that familiar crooked grin spreads across his face.
My stomach twists. That smile used to make my heart flutter. Now it just reminds me of all the reasons we fell apart. But with my world crashing down around me, even Daniel's complicated presence feels like an anchor to normality.
"I heard you got mixed up in some shit," Daniel says, striding into my apartment like he still belongs here. His cologne—woodsy and familiar—fills the space.
I snatch the wine bottle from his hand. "Not really in the mood to talk about it." The cork comes out with a satisfying pop, and I busy myself finding two clean glasses.
"Come on, Soph." He settles onto my worn couch, spreading his arms across the back. "The whole art scene is buzzing. Your name's everywhere. What happened with Vale?"
The wine sloshes as I pour, nearly spilling over. "Nothing happened. We met at a gallery showing. He bought some pieces, offered me a commission." My cheeks burn as I go over to him and hand him a glass, careful not to let our fingers touch.
"Just like that?" Daniel's eyebrows rise. "The most reclusive tech billionaire in the city randomly shows up at your gallery opening?"
I sit next to him and down half my glass in one gulp, the wine bitter on my tongue. There's so much more—the screens, the photos, the sick feeling in my stomach when I realized how deep Adrian's obsession went. I even think about telling Daniel to sort his own tech out since he got hacked—or yell at him for keeping our photos. But the words stick in my throat. Now's not the time for that, not when I need a friend.
"Damn, Soph." Daniel sets his glass down, scooting closer. "You look like you really need some comforting right now."
"You don't know the half of it," I mutter into my wine, drinking more.
His hand finds my shoulder, thumb tracing circles through my shirt. "I can make it all better, you know." His voice drops low, the way it used to when we'd stay up late in his studio. "Let me help you forget about him."
I know what he's getting at, and I lean in, my hands reaching for his face. Our lips meet, and I part my mouth slightly, inviting him to take control. But Daniel's kiss stays soft, almost chaste, his hands resting lightly on my hips.
I pull back, a flicker of disappointment crossing my face. "Choke me," I whisper, almost impatiently.
"What? That's weird, Soph." Daniel frowns, his confusion genuine.
I shift on the couch, guiding him to lie back against the cushions. "Just do it," I insist, my voice firm. "I need you to."
His eyes search mine for a moment, and then he slowly reaches up to wrap his fingers gently around my throat. It's not what I imagined, not what I need. His grip is tentative, his touch too soft. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. This isn't what I wanted.
"Squeeze," I say, my breath catching. "Harder."
His grip tightens slightly, but it's still not enough. I want to feel the pressure, the loss of control. I want to be consumed by the sensation, to forget everything else for a moment.
"Harder," I repeat more insistently.
Daniel's eyes flicker with uncertainty, but he complies, his fingers digging in just a bit more. Finally, I feel the rush of adrenaline, the spark that sets my nerves alight. My breath quickens, and my heart pounds in my chest.
"That's it," I murmur, my voice thick. "Don't stop."
His grip tightens further, and I let myself sink into the sensation, my body relaxing against his. I forget about Adrian, the surveillance, and the mess my life has become. It's just me and Daniel and the comfort of his touch, however twisted it may be.
I grind against him, stimulating my clit, but I can't feel his dick hard for me. I grind harder, my eyes still closed, one hand caressing his wrist, but still nothing. When I glance down at him, he's watching me with a concerned look on his face. I push his hand away with a sigh and drop down to kiss him.
I need to give him what he wants.
Daniel's lips are warm and insistent, and I let myself get lost in the kiss for a moment. I straddle his lap, grinding my hips against him, searching for some spark of desire. His hands roam over my body, tentative at first but growing more confident as I continue to kiss him deeply.
I can feel his dick starting to harden between my legs, and I grind harder, my thoughts drifting to Adrian's hand around my throat. The memory sends a shiver through me, and I tear my mouth away from Daniel's with a gasp.
"Just use your mouth," I command, my voice strained as I gesture toward my pussy. I need to forget about Adrian, to lose myself in the physical sensation.
Daniel seems relieved to comply, flipping me onto my back and pulling down my leggings and panties in one smooth motion. His tongue teases my clit, circling and flicking. But I find myself unable to surrender to the sensation. It's not enough to push me over the edge, and the ghost of Adrian's touch haunts me, intensifying my frustration.
Despite my lack of reaction, Daniel persists, his tongue lapping at my clit with renewed fervor. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open for his mouth. I can feel his breath hot against me, but my body refuses to respond. My mind is elsewhere, caught in a tangle of thoughts and emotions.
I try to focus on him, willing myself to feel something. Daniel's tongue flicks and teases, his lips sucking gently. His beard tickles my inner thighs, and his fingers probe, searching for the spot that will make me cry out. But my body remains stubbornly inert.
Daniel's tongue delves deeper, his fingers finding my entrance and pushing inside. He stretches me, curling his fingers to find that hidden spot. His tongue swirls, his breath hot and damp against me.
I shift restlessly, my hands tangling in his hair. I want to feel something—anything. My hips lift slightly off the couch, seeking more pressure, more intensity.
Daniel grunts in response, his tongue working furiously now. He adds a third finger, scissoring them to stretch me open. His tongue flicks my clit relentlessly, his lips sucking and kissing.
My body finally starts to respond, a faint tingle building deep within me. I bite my lip, willing the sensation to grow. Daniel senses the change and redoubles his efforts, his tongue flicking against me.
The tingle builds, spreading outward from my core. My breath quickens, and my hips buck involuntarily. I can feel the pleasure coiling tighter, ready to snap and send me spiraling into oblivion.
Daniel senses it too, his fingers curling just right, his tongue relentless. I'm on the edge, teetering on the precipice of release.
And then, just as I'm about to fall, it slips away. The pleasure recedes, leaving me hovering on the brink, unfulfilled. I whimper in frustration, my hands tightening in Daniel's hair.
"Fuck, just fuck me," I demand, my voice edged with desperation.
Daniel kicks off his jeans and boxers, revealing his hard dick. He positions himself at my entrance and gently thrusts inside, his eyes closing briefly at the feeling. My hips rise to meet his, my body instinctively reacting to him filling me.
It feels good, but my mind starts to wander. I think of Adrian, his intense stare, and the power he exudes. I remember the way he dominated me, owned me, and how I'd surrendered completely. My breath quickens as the memory clouds my senses, removing me from the present moment.
Daniel's thrusts become more urgent, his hands grasping my hips as he drives into me. "God, you're so wet for me, Soph," he groans, mistaking my ragged breathing.
But my thoughts tangle, and I picture Adrian. I see his dark eyes fixed on me, commanding. I recall the way he possessed me, his control absolute. My body may be responding to Daniel, but my mind is elsewhere, craving the power and edge that only Adrian provides.
Daniel's pace quickens, his breath coming fast. With a final deep thrust, he pulls out and spills himself onto my oversized T-shirt, moaning my name.
The moment is ruined as I think of the mess, the sticky residue that will be left on my favorite shirt. I know then that I won't find satisfaction with Daniel. My body craves something more, something forbidden. It's not Daniel I yearn for—it's Adrian, with his secrets and his darkness, that truly sets my soul alight.
"Fuck!" Daniel yells out, tossing his head back. "Sorry about the shirt," he adds quickly. And then after a beat, "Did you come?"
I awkwardly push myself up and smile tightly. "Ah, don't worry about it. Thanks, that was… that was what I needed," I finish, sounding deflated.
Daniel doesn't pick up on anything wrong. He looks around the room. "Got a napkin around here?" he wonders aloud, already shuffling about. "Oh, you got a letter?"
"Huh?"
I finish pulling off my T-shirt and blink at him, confused. Daniel is holding out a folded piece of paper out to me.
"It was on the floor, under the door."
I don't remember seeing anything like that before. I take the paper out of his hands and unfold it. When I get a look at the official text, I let it fall to the ground as a laugh rips out of my chest.
Of course, the cherry on top.
"What is it?" Daniel asks, crouching to retrieve it.
I can barely stop laughing long enough to answer, but I don't need to. Daniel says the words that were on the tip of my tongue.
"Eviction notice?"