Chapter 17
Sophia
I drop my worn duffel bag onto the marble floor, the thud seemingly too loud in the cavernous bedroom I've been granted. My worn-out clothes and secondhand art supplies look like stains against the crisp white linens and shiny surfaces.
The walk-in closet alone is bigger than my old bathroom. When I hang up my three shirts and two pairs of jeans, they barely take up a fraction of the space. I run my fingers over the silky fabric of a dress Adrian already has hanging up here. The contrast between my threadbare sweater and these luxurious pieces makes my stomach twist.
My body tingles as I remember Adrian's commanding touch, how he fucked me against the window, his lips claiming every inch of me. The way he knew exactly what I needed, demanded my surrender. Heat floods my cheeks.
Daniel's clumsy pawing the other night only highlighted what I'd lost. His desperate attempts to recreate our past chemistry fell flat, leaving me cold and disconnected. His fingers were clumsy, uncertain where Adrian's had been sure. His kisses landed sloppy where Adrian's had burned.
I press my thighs together, trying to shake off the memory of Adrian's skilled hands, the outpouring of his passion. Even now, trapped in this glittering world of his making, my traitorous body wants him inside me. I hang up my last worn T-shirt beside a row of designer blouses, the gap between our worlds never more apparent.
My toothbrush looks lonely in the massive en suite bathroom with its rainfall shower and soaking tub. As I step back out, I feel that my shoulders are pulled back, chin lifted. When did I start carrying myself like this? Even my steps are different now, measured and purposeful instead of my usual artist's shuffle.
The woman in this room moves with a grace I don't recognize. She belongs here among the clean lines and perfect angles of Adrian's world. She claims space without hesitation instead of shrinking from it.
I realize I'm standing like him, spine straight, head high, taking up room instead of trying to disappear. His influence has seeped into my muscles, my bones, reshaping me from the inside out. The transformation frightens me, but I can't deny how natural it feels to move this way now, to own my presence instead of apologizing for it.
My artist's hands still have paint under the nails, but they gesture with new authority, reaching for what they want without second-guessing. It doesn't take me long to finish unpacking.
The word "partnership" pops into my mind as I sink onto the plush bed. Adrian's offer, when he laid out the terms, it all sounded like a business arrangement. But his eyes had burned with possession when I agreed.
I trace the comforter idly with my nail. Everything here speaks of ownership, from the pre-stocked closet to the art supplies already arranged exactly how I like them in the adjoining studio space. He'd been preparing this cage just for me.
My few belongings barely make a dent in this room, yet I've already stopped seeing them as out of place. It's like my mind has accepted what my heart still rebels against—this is home now. Not because I want it to be, but because Adrian has engineered it so that I have nowhere else to go.
The pretense of professional support, his promises of protection, they're beautiful lies we choose to believe. But when he touches me, when his control wraps around me like a velvet noose, we both know what this really is. He owns me now, has claimed every piece of me, and wrapped it in the language of partnership.
A shiver runs through me as I spot the easels lined against the wall. Premium oils, acrylics, and brushes I've only dreamed of owning sit organized in gleaming cases. The possibilities make my fingers twitch.
I hate how my heart races at the sight, how the creative part of my brain already maps out pieces I could create with these materials, unfettered by the constant worry of running out or making do with cheaper alternatives.
The worst part is knowing Adrian understands exactly what this means to me. He's weaponized my passion, turned it into another chain binding me to him. And still, my hand wants to reach for a brush and test its perfect balance.
My phone buzzes, breaking through my artistic trance. A text from "Sarah" lights up my screen: "Need to see you. Important. The usual spot?"
Suddenly, it's hard to breathe. Daniel. I'm glad I had the sense to save his new number under a different name after we hooked up. The thought of meeting him feels dangerous now but also like oxygen after being underwater too long.
I clutch the phone tighter, grateful for this thin thread connecting me to my old life. This one choice I managed to keep for myself, this small act of defiance hidden under an innocent contact name.
The timing of Daniel's message feels like fate throwing me a rope. Maybe there's still a way to navigate this situation without completely losing myself in Adrian's golden cage.
* * *
I drum my fingers against the chipped ceramic mug, scanning faces through the grimy window of this hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. My phone sits powered off in my studio drawer back at Adrian's penthouse. Its absence makes my pocket feel hollow.
'Finding a working payphone took longer than expected. When I finally reached Daniel, the static crackled between us as I changed our meeting spot. "The usual place isn't safe," I'd whispered, cupping my hand around the receiver like someone might read my lips through the scratched plastic booth.
Now I wait, trying not to jump each time the bell above the door chimes. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but after seeing those screens tracking my every move, I can't shake the feeling of being watched.
The bell chimes, and Daniel hurries in, his flannel hanging loose, dark circles under his eyes. His usual dishevelment has given way to genuine disarray.
"Christ, Sophia." He slides into the booth, his knee bumping the table. "I've been worried sick. No one's seen you since—" He leans forward, lowering his voice. "The eviction. Where are you staying?"
I trace the rim of my mug, avoiding his gaze. "I moved in with Adrian."
"You what ?" His palm slaps the table, making me flinch. I never told him the full story, so I don't get why he's reacting so strongly.
"I didn't have a choice," I murmur, feeling like there's nothing else I can say.
Daniel runs his hands through his messy hair. "There's always a choice. You could have stayed with me or—"
The suggestion brings back flashes of our last encounter. I shift in my seat, the vinyl squeaking beneath me.
"That's not..." I shake my head. "Things are complicated now."
"Complicated?" Daniel scoffs. "He destroyed your career, and now you're living with him? That's not complicated, that's Stockholm syndrome."
My fingers clench around the mug. Daniel's concern might be genuine, but it doesn't erase how small he made me feel during our relationship, how he'd subtly undermine my work while praising his own. At least Adrian's manipulation is honest in its brutality.
"We just had a misunderstanding about the commission, that was all."
"No, I don't think it was," Daniel says firmly, convinced of something.
"What are you talking about?"
Daniel leans closer. "Listen, I've been talking to people. Gallery owners, tech journalists, other artists. The stories they tell about Adrian Vale..." He shakes his head. "His AI isn't just watching, it's changing things. Changing people."
My stomach knots. "What do you mean?"
"Remember Mario Bennett? That startup founder who was going to revolutionize data privacy?" Daniel's voice drops lower. "Three days before launching his company, his entire search history leaked. Every private message, every deleted email. He withdrew from the market. A week later, Adrian's company announced similar technology."
I wrap my arms around myself, remembering the wall of screens. "That could be a coincidence."
"What about Senator Williams? She was pushing for AI regulation until suddenly dropping the bill. No explanation." Daniel taps his fingers on the table. "Except my friend at the Times says her daughter's sealed juvenile records mysteriously appeared in her inbox that week."
The coffee turns even more bitter in my mouth.
"The Riverside Gallery collapse? They were Adrian's biggest competition in the digital art space. Their accounts showed perfect health until, overnight, every transaction from the past decade got flagged for fraud. The investigation found nothing, but by then..." He spreads his hands. "The damage was done."
My hands shake as I remember Adrian's words about protecting me, about keeping me safe. The way he spoke about Marina before her smear campaign started.
"His AI doesn't just collect data, Sophia. It weaponizes it. Personal secrets, financial records, private moments, all available to destroy someone when needed." Daniel reaches across the table but stops short of touching me. "And now you're living in his house, surrounded by his tech."
I think about my powered-off phone sitting in that drawer, wondering if it matters whether it's on or not. I think about the cameras I'd spotted in Adrian's penthouse, some disguised, some not. About how many of my own secrets those screens hold.
"The commission, the galleries refusing you, your reputation plummeting, none of that was coincidence," Daniel says. "It was algorithms and automation, breaking you down piece by piece until you had nowhere else to go."
I keep my face carefully blank as Daniel speaks, letting shock creep into my expression at appropriate moments. Inside, each revelation just confirms what I already discovered in that room full of screens. But Daniel can't know that; his ego would turn this into another chance to play savior.
"That's..." I swallow hard, making my voice crack. "Are you sure about all this?"
He squeezes my hand on the table. I pull back, pretending to reach for my coffee. His touch sends uncomfortable ripples through me, memories of fumbling desperation that only highlight how different things are with Adrian.
But Daniel's information about the AI system, that's worth something. If Adrian's power comes from data and algorithms, maybe there's a way to work within that framework, to carve out space for myself without breaking his rules completely.
"I need to process this," I say, wrapping my arms around myself. "It's a lot to take in."
"You can't go back there," Daniel insists. "It's not safe."
I shake my head. "I have a contract with him. The commission..." I purposely trail off. "I need time to figure things out carefully. I can't just run."
"Stay with me then. We can—"
"No," I cut him off, softening it with a wan smile. "Thank you, but I need to handle this my way. I'll be careful, I promise."
Daniel's face falls, but he nods. "I'm here if you need anything. Day or night."
"Thank you." I stand, shouldering my bag. "Really. For telling me all this."
I walk out of the coffee shop, my steps calm. Let Daniel think I'm scared. It's better than him knowing the truth. Adrian may own the game board, but I'm done being just another piece to move around. I just need proof of how his system works.
Then maybe I can start playing, too.