Stalker’s Toy

Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mia

Obsession burns through my veins like liquid fire.

I can't escape it, can't outrun it.

Henrik Lindberg consumes my every waking thought, haunts my dreams, infects my art.

His piercing blue eyes follow me everywhere, that knowing smirk etched into my mind.

I shouldn't want him.

I know this.

But god help me, I do.

I grip my charcoal pencil so tightly it nearly snaps, dragging it violently across the paper.

Dark, angry lines emerge—the curve of his jaw, the sharp angle of his cheekbones.

My hand trembles as I try to capture the essence of him, this beautiful, dangerous man who's burrowed under my skin.

"Damn you," I whisper, tearing the page from my sketchbook and crumpling it into a ball.

I hurl it across my tiny bedroom, watching it bounce off the wall and roll under the bed.

Pushing away from my desk, I pace the cramped space, five steps in each direction.

The walls feel like they're closing in, suffocating me.

I need air.

I need to breathe.

I need...

Him.

No. Stop it, Mia.

You can't keep doing this to yourself.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, staring out at the gray London sky.

A light drizzle falls, coating the city in a glistening sheen.

It's been three days since I last saw Henrik.

Three endless, agonizing days.

The memory of our last encounter floods my senses.

The heat of his body pressed against mine.

The intoxicating scent of his cologne.

The way his fingers trailed fire along my skin.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the images away.

This isn't healthy .

It isn't safe.

Henrik is like a drug, and I'm spiraling deeper into addiction with each hit.

"Get it together," I mutter, pushing away from the window.

I need a distraction.

Anything to keep my mind off him.

I grab my phone, scrolling through my pitiful list of contacts.

Most are classmates or professors—people I keep at arm's length.

My thumb hovers over Larsa's name.

She's the closest thing I have to a friend here.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit call.

It rings twice before her chipper voice fills the line.

"Mia! To what do I owe this pleasure?"

I wince at her enthusiasm. "Hey, Larsa. I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee or something?"

"Ooh, social time with the reclusive Mia Cohen? I'm honored." I can practically hear her grinning through the phone. "Give me twenty minutes. I'll meet you at that little cafe on the corner."

"Okay," I agree, already regretting this decision. "See you soon."

I hang up and toss the phone onto my bed.

What am I doing?

I don' t socialize.

I don't do casual coffee dates with almost-friends.

But I need this.

I need normal human interaction to ground me, to remind me that there's a world beyond Henrik Lindberg and his intoxicating pull.

I shrug on my heavy black coat and lace up my boots, steeling myself for the outside world.

The stairs creak beneath my feet as I descend, each step feeling like a monumental effort.

The crisp winter air hits me as I step onto the street.

I pull my coat tighter, hunching my shoulders against the chill.

My boots splash through puddles as I make my way down the sidewalk, my reflection rippling in the water.

I pause outside the cafe, peering through the foggy windows.

Larsa isn't here yet.

Part of me wants to turn and run, to retreat back to the safety of the flat.

But I force myself to push open the door, the little bell above it announcing my arrival.

The warmth and aroma of coffee envelop me.

I choose a small table in the corner, positioning myself so I can see the entire room.

Old habits die hard.

I order a black coffee when the waitress comes by, wrapping my hands around the steaming mug when it arrives.

The bell chimes again and Larsa breezes in, all bright smiles and bubbly energy.

She spots me and makes her way over, unwinding a colorful scarf from her neck.

"Mia! So good to see you out and about." She plops down across from me, shrugging off her coat. "I was starting to think you'd become a hermit."

I force a small smile. "Just been busy with work."

Larsa raises an eyebrow. "Mhmm. And does this 'work' have a name? Perhaps tall, dark, and brooding?"

Heat floods my cheeks.

Am I that transparent?

"I don't know what you're talking about," I mutter into my coffee.

She leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh come on, I've seen the way you look at Henrik Lindberg. Can't say I blame you—the man is sex on legs. But he's got a reputation, you know."

My stomach clenches. "What kind of reputation?"

Larsa shrugs, signaling the waitress. "Oh you know, typical tortured artist stuff. Mood swings, obsessive behavior. I heard he went through three assistants in a month because they couldn't meet his impossible standards."

She pauses to order a latte, then turns back to me. "Plus there are the rumors about his... proclivities."

I swallow hard. "Proclivities?"

Larsa lowers her voice conspiratorially. "They say he's into some pretty dark stuff. BDSM, knife play, you name it. A friend of a friend modeled for him once and said his studio was like something out of a horror movie."

My mind reels, images of Henrik's haunting paintings flashing through my head.

The unsettling beauty, the raw pain captured on canvas.

"That's all just gossip," I say weakly, though something deep inside me thrills at the thought.

Larsa shrugs again. "Maybe. But where there's smoke, there's usually fire. Just be careful, okay? I worry about you sometimes."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

If only she knew the half of it.

We chat for a while longer, Larsa filling the silence with idle gossip about our classmates and professors.

I try to focus, to engage in normal conversation.

But my thoughts keep drifting back to Henrik.

To his hands, his eyes, the way he makes me feel so alive.

"Earth to Mia," Larsa says, waving a hand in front of my face. "Where'd you go just now? "

I blink, forcing myself back to the present. "Sorry, just thinking about a piece I'm working on."

She eyes me skeptically but doesn't push it. "Well, I should get going. There’s a party going on later and you’re coming. I’ll meet you back at the flat in an hour, and you’d better be ready. Thanks for the coffee date—we should do this more often."

"Yeah," I agree halfheartedly. "We should."

Larsa gathers her things and heads out with a cheerful wave.

I fish some cash out of my wallet and leave it on the table for the waitress.

I linger a moment longer, staring into the dregs of my coffee as if they hold the answers I'm seeking.

The walk back to my flat feels longer somehow.

Each step is a battle between my rational mind and the craving that gnaws at my insides.

I need to go back there, though, and I need to go now.

Ever since the other night my heart hammers in my chest with every step I take.

It’s a mixture of fear and excitement, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I make my way to the building, and then get into the flat I share with Larsa.

I toss my keys on the hook and sigh heavily, kicking off my boots and heading back to my room .

I tear my thoughts away from Henrik as I stand in front of my closet, fingers trailing over the various fabrics.

Larsa asked me to go to that party… and well I don’t really go to them, ever.

I should go.

I should be a ‘normal’ woman at university for once in my life.

Tonight's party demands something special, something that will help me shed this restless energy coursing through my veins.

My eyes land on a black corset-style crop top, its lace detailing, intricate, and delicate.

Perfect.

I slip it on, relishing the way it cinches at my waist, accentuating my silhouette.

Over it goes a sheer, long-sleeved mesh top with subtle spider web embroidery—a nod to the darkness that always seems to cling to me.

For the bottom, I choose a high-waisted, pleated mini skirt in deep burgundy.

The color reminds me of dried blood, of passion, of the fire that still haunts my dreams.

I layer it over fishnet tights, the diamond pattern a comforting familiarity against my scarred skin.

As I lace up my platform shoes, the silver buckles catching the dim light of my bedroom, I can't help but wonder what Henrik would think of this outfit.

Would his eyes darken with desire?

Would he reach out to trace the lace on my corset?

I shake my head violently, dispelling the image.

"Stop it, Mia," I mutter to myself. "He's not yours to want."

With a final glance in the mirror, I step out of my bedroom and into the main area of my flat.

To my surprise, Larsa’s back, already dressed in a vintage-inspired ensemble that screams artistic chic.

"What are you doing?" I ask, unable to keep the shock from my voice.

"Oh, goodness how I’m excited!" Larsa says, her British accent more pronounced than usual. "We’re going to have a blast tonight, Mia, I promise!"

My heart sinks.

I'd been looking forward to losing myself in the crowd, blending into the shadows where I feel most at home, but if Larsa is so determined to be near me it means that she’s going to be up next to me the entire time.

Larsa's presence will make being by myself impossible.

But as I look at her eager face, I realize she's the closest thing I have to a friend in this city of millions.

I sigh, resignation settling over me like a heavy cloak.

"Come on, then," I mutter, grabbing my keys and heading for the door.

As we step out onto Whitfield Street, the crisp London air nips at my exposed skin.

The scent of impending rain hangs heavy, mingling with the earthy smell of wet cobblestones.

In the distance, Big Ben's chime echoes faintly, a reminder of the passage of time.

"So," I begin, searching for a topic of conversation as we walk, "how's your work going?"

Larsa's face lights up. "Oh, it's going better than ever! I've been experimenting with new techniques, really pushing my boundaries."

Her enthusiasm is palpable, her hands gesticulating wildly as she speaks. "I'm trying to get into some galleries soon, but it's... well, it's really hard."

I nod, understanding all too well the struggle of an artist trying to make their mark.

"That must be frustrating," I offer, my voice soft against the backdrop of distant traffic.

"It is," Larsa admits, her shoulders slumping slightly. "But I'm determined, you know? I'll make it happen, one way or another."

As we continue down the street, the party's location drawing nearer, I can't help but admire Larsa's determination.

It's a quality I wish I possessed more of, instead of this constant desire to retreat into the safety of my art and solitude.

I lick my lips, debating internally.

The offer sits on the tip of my tongue, a potential lifeline for Larsa, but also a commitment I'm not sure I'm ready to make.

My fingers trace the silvery scars on my arm absently as I contemplate.

Finally, I take a deep breath.

"I actually have an offer for a show in about three weeks," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm supposed to pick a couple other people, all different areas of art." I pause, steeling myself. "So... do you want in?"

The words hang in the air for a moment, and I wonder if I've made a mistake.

But then Larsa's face transforms, lighting up like a supernova.

"You bet yer bloody arse I do!" she exclaims, bouncing on her toes.

Before I can react, she throws her arms around me in a tight embrace.

I stiffen, unused to such physical contact.

The warmth of her body against mine is both comforting and unsettling, stirring memories I'd rather keep buried.

But I force myself to relax, to accept this moment of connection.

When Larsa finally releases me, her eyes are shining with excitement and... is that a hint of moisture?

She takes a step back, her expression suddenly more serious.

"I have to admit," she says, her voice losing some of its earlier exuberance, "I'm frustrated. People always want to give me a chance when they find out I'm Claude Monet's daughter, but not when I'm just a woman trying to get her name out there."

I nod, understanding the weight of expectations and legacy.

"That must be difficult," I murmur, searching for the right words to offer comfort without seeming patronizing.

I meet Larsa's gaze, a wry smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

"Nepotism at its finest," I say, the words carrying a bitter edge.

Larsa nods, her hazel eyes flashing with determination. "Exactly. But I'm going to make my own name for myself. I don't want people to know I'm a Monet. I want to succeed on my own merits, not my father’s. "

I find myself admiring her strength, her willingness to step out of her father's shadow.

"What name are you going to use?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Larsa's brow furrows, her fingers absently toying with a loose strand of her auburn hair.

"I don't know yet," she admits. "But I'll come up with something. Something that feels... me."

I nod, understanding the importance of self-definition.

My own name, Mia Cohen, feels like both a shield and a burden sometimes.

A reminder of who I was, who I lost.

Larsa's voice pulls me back from the brink of darker thoughts. "So, how many others do you have to find for the show?"

"Two more," I reply, grateful for the shift in conversation. "But I have a couple in mind already. One's a sculptor, and the other specializes in graffiti works."

Larsa's eyes widen, a spark of excitement igniting in their depths. "That sounds like it'll be quite an interesting show," she says, leaning in slightly. "What's the subject matter?"

I hesitate for a moment, tasting the words on my tongue before I speak them.

"Dark," I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "Dark and dangerous."

The air between us seems to thicken, charged with potential. Larsa doesn't flinch or pull away.

Instead, a slow smile spreads across her face.

"I'm excited to get started," she says, her voice tinged with an eagerness that mirrors my own hidden desires.

As we stand there, the bustling London street fading into the background, I feel a flicker of something I haven't experienced in a long time: anticipation.

For the first time in years, I'm looking forward to something beyond my solitary world of charcoal and shadows.

But even as that spark of excitement grows, I can't shake the nagging voice in the back of my mind.

The one that whispers of fire and loss, reminding me that every light casts a shadow.

And in my world, those shadows have teeth.

We push through the heavy oak door of the party venue, and the bass hits me like a physical force.

The air is thick with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and cheap perfume.

Bodies writhe on the dance floor, a mass of undulating flesh and glitter under pulsing strobe lights.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.

"I need a drink," I mutter to Larsa, who nods in agreement.

We make our way to the bar, my eyes scanning the crowd .

I spot my two classmates near the far wall, deep in conversation.

My stomach tightens with nerves, but I force myself to order a vodka tonic.

The first sip burns, but I welcome the sensation.

It's something to focus on besides the oppressive darkness that threatens to swallow me whole.

Larsa’s brow is furrowed with concern. "You all right?"

I plaster on a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Fine. Just... adjusting."

She doesn't look convinced, but doesn't push.

Instead, she raises her glass. "To new beginnings and dark, dangerous art."

We clink glasses, and I down half of mine in one go.

The alcohol hits my system quickly, dulling the edges of my anxiety.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself.

"I'm going to talk to them," I say, nodding toward my classmates.

Larsa squeezes my arm. "You've got this. I'll be right here if you need me."

I weave through the crowd, my heart pounding in time with the music.

As I approach, I catch snippets of their conversation.

"...completely avant-garde, pushing boundaries..."

"...controversial, but that's the point, isn't it?"

I clear my throat, and they turn to face me.

"Hey," I say, trying to inject confidence into my voice. "I was wondering if I could talk to you both about an opportunity."

Emma raises an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "What kind of opportunity?"

I take a deep breath, the words tumbling out in a rush. "There's this art show I'm involved in. It's... unconventional. Pushing boundaries. I think your work would fit perfectly."

James leans in, his eyes sparkling with interest. "Unconventional how?"

I hesitate, searching for the right words.

How do I explain Henrik's vision without sounding completely unhinged?

"It's... immersive," I begin, choosing my words carefully. "A blend of performance art and installation. The theme is exploring the darkness within humanity, the hidden desires and fears we all carry."

Emma's eyes widen. "That sounds intense. And fascinating."

I nod, feeling a flicker of hope. "It is. The curator, Henrik Lindberg, he's... visionary. Controversial, but brilliant. He wants to create an experience that shakes people to their core."

James takes a sip of his drink, considering. "And you think our work would fit? "

"Absolutely," I say, my voice gaining strength. "Your sculptures, James—they're raw, visceral. And Emma, your graffiti... they have this haunting quality that lingers long after you've looked away. That's exactly what we need."

I can see the interest growing in their eyes, but there's still hesitation.

I press on, fueled by a desperate need to make this work.

"Look, I know it's a lot to take in. But this could be huge for all of us. A chance to be part of something groundbreaking."

Emma exchanges a glance with James. "When's the show?"

"Three weeks from now," I reply. "I know it's short notice, but?—"

"We're in," James interrupts, a grin spreading across his face.

I blink, startled. "Really?"

Emma nods, her excitement palpable. "Absolutely. This sounds like exactly the kind of challenge we've been looking for."

Relief washes over me, so intense I feel dizzy. "That's... that's amazing. Thank you."

James raises his glass. "To pushing boundaries and exploring the darkness."

We clink glasses, and as I take a sip, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders.

As we discuss the details, I can't help but marvel at how easily they've agreed.

Part of me wonders if they truly understand what they're getting into.

But mostly, I'm just grateful.

As we continue to chat, I find myself relaxing slightly.

The alcohol helps, dulling the ever-present anxiety that thrums beneath my skin.

For a moment, I almost feel... normal.

Like I belong here, among these people who understand the drive to create, to express the darkness within.

But then a flash of memory intrudes—the smell of smoke, the heat of flames licking at my skin.

I flinch, my hand tightening around my glass.

Emma notices, her brow furrowing with concern. "You okay?"

I nod, forcing another smile. "Yeah, just... lost in thought for a moment."

James leans in, his voice lowering. "Is it true what they say? About your work being inspired by... personal experience?"

I freeze, feeling exposed.

How much do they know ?

How much should I reveal?

"I... draw from many sources," I say carefully. "But yes, some of it comes from personal experience."

Emma's eyes soften with sympathy. "It must be difficult, channeling that kind of pain into art."

I shrug, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "It's... necessary. Art is how I make sense of the world. Of myself."

James nods solemnly. "I get that. Sometimes it feels like the only way to exorcise our demons is to give them form."

His words hit close to home, and I feel a sudden kinship with these fellow artists.

They may not know the specifics of my past, but they understand the drive to create, to transform pain into something meaningful.

"Exactly," I say softly. "It's... cathartic. Even when it hurts."

Emma raises her glass again. "To art as therapy, then. And to new collaborations."

As we toast, I feel a mix of emotions swirling within me.

Relief at their acceptance, excitement for the show, and a lingering unease about what's to come.

But for now, I push those worries aside, allowing myself to bask in this moment of connection.

The conversation flows more easily after that, as we discuss our various projects and inspirations.

I find myself opening up more than I usually would, sharing snippets of my creative process and the themes that haunt my work.

"I'm fascinated by the interplay of light and shadow," I explain, gesturing with my hands as I speak. "The way darkness can consume everything, but also how a single point of light can pierce through it all."

James nods enthusiastically. "That comes through so clearly in your charcoal work. The contrast is... striking."

Emma leans in, her eyes bright with interest. "And the recurring motif of fire in your pieces—it's both destructive and transformative. Is that intentional?"

I swallow hard, feeling exposed once again.

"Yes," I say softly. "Fire... it changes everything it touches. Destroys and purifies in equal measure."

They exchange a look, sensing the weight behind my words.

But mercifully, they don't press further.

Instead, James steers the conversation back to the upcoming show. "So, what kind of space are we working with? And how immersive are we talking?"

Grateful for the change of subject, I launch into a description of Henrik's vision. "The venue is this old, abandoned warehouse that was turned into a gallery. Lots of open space, high ceilings."

Emma's eyes light up. "Oh, the possibilities are endless! We could create these claustrophobic spaces, force people to confront their fears..."

As they brainstorm ideas, I feel a mix of excitement and fear.

Their enthusiasm is infectious, but I can't shake the feeling that we're playing with fire.

Henrik's vision is dangerous, pushing boundaries that perhaps shouldn't be pushed.

But isn't that what art is supposed to do?

Challenge us, make us uncomfortable, force us to confront the parts of ourselves we'd rather ignore?

I take another sip of my drink, letting the alcohol quiet the doubts swirling in my mind.

This is what I signed up for, after all.

A chance to be part of something groundbreaking, to push my art to new limits.

As the night wears on, our conversation becomes more animated.

We sketch out rough ideas on napkins, our excitement building with each new concept.

The alcohol flows freely, loosening our inhibitions and fueling our creativity.

At some point, Larsa joins us, adding her own unique perspective to the mix .

Her enthusiasm is contagious, and I find myself swept up in the creative energy.

"What if we created a room that plays with sensory deprivation?" Larsa suggests, her eyes gleaming. "Pitch black, with just occasional flashes of light and sound. Really disorient people, make them confront their own minds."

James snaps his fingers. "Yes! And we could have sculptures that you can only fully experience through touch. Force people to engage with the art in a completely different way."

Emma nods excitedly. "And I could do a series of graffiti that change under different lighting conditions. Reveal hidden images and messages."

As they continue to build on each other's ideas, I feel a spark of genuine excitement.

This is what I love about art—the collaborative energy, the way ideas can grow and evolve when shared.

For a moment, I allow myself to forget about the darkness that usually clouds my mind.

To just be present in this moment, surrounded by fellow artists who understand the drive to create, to express, to challenge.

But as the night wears on and the alcohol continues to flow, I feel the familiar tendrils of anxiety creeping back in .

The bar seems too loud suddenly, the press of bodies too close.

I need air, need space to breathe.

I excuse myself, stumbling slightly as I make my way to the exit.

The cool night air hits me like a slap, and I lean against the brick wall, taking deep breaths.

The world spins slightly, and I realize I've had more to drink than I intended.

But the alcohol has dulled the ever-present pain, the constant replay of that night in my mind.

For once, the memories feel distant, hazy.

Larsa appears beside me, her auburn hair glowing under the streetlights.

"Mia, darling, you okay?" Her words have a slight slur, her usually crisp British accent softened by alcohol.

I nod, pushing myself off the wall. "Yeah, just needed some air. Think I overdid it a bit."

Larsa giggles, a sound so carefree it makes my heart ache. "We both did, I think. Shall we call it a night?"

The idea of returning to our empty flat makes my stomach churn, but I know we can't stay out much longer in this state.

"Probably for the best," I agree reluctantly.

We start walking, our steps unsteady.

Larsa loops her arm through mine, and I'm grateful for the support.

The streets of London, usually so familiar, seem to shift and blur around us.

"You know," Larsa says, her voice dreamy, "I think tonight was rather brilliant. The way everyone came together for your show idea. It's going to be magnificent, Mia."

I feel a surge of warmth at her words, mixed with a familiar twist of anxiety. "You really think so?"

"Of course!" Larsa exclaims, nearly tripping over a crack in the pavement.

We both laugh as we right ourselves. "You have a vision, darling. And the talent to back it up."

I'm about to respond when I hear footsteps behind us.

My body tenses instinctively, memories of that night threatening to surface.

But the alcohol has dulled my usual hypervigilance, and Larsa's presence is comforting.

"Did you hear that?" I murmur, not wanting to alarm her.

Larsa just hums contentedly. "Hear what?”

I glance back, seeing two men walking a short distance behind us.

In my current state, I can't tell if they're following us or just heading in the same direction .

The rational part of my brain tells me to be cautious, but the alcohol-soaked part just wants to keep moving, to get home and collapse into bed.

"Come on," I say, tugging Larsa along. "Let's pick up the pace a bit."

We stumble forward, giggling as we try to coordinate our steps.

The world spins pleasantly around us, the cool night air a balm on my flushed skin.

For a moment, I let myself forget about the men behind us, about the weight of my past, about the pressure of the upcoming show.

At this moment, I'm just a young woman walking home with a friend after a night out in London.

And for now, that feels like enough.