5. Rosenna
Chapter five
Rosenna
I t was the day of the “session” with Beckham, and to say I was nervous would be a huge understatement. Reaching the address he’d sent, I noticed it was a finished warehouse turned into an art studio, I assumed. Getting out of the car, I grabbed my belongings and dusted off my black tights. I decided to wear a shoulderless, long-sleeve white fitted crop top with a pair of black leggings, some white chunky sneakers, and white ankle socks.
I was only dressed this way since it was my day off, and no matter what time we finished, I needed to go to the gym for at least an hour to relieve some stress. I felt like it was a bit revealing, but I assumed I would only be dressed this way for a short while as he probably had something for me to choose from, considering he told me to dress comfortably.
Making it to the door, I knocked and waited for a while before the man himself opened it. Once I saw him, I knew I had made a mistake.
He let his eyes wander my entire body, and I felt exposed all of a sudden. He looked hungry, or rather starved… for what reason, I was entirely unsure of.
Looking at him somewhat hesitantly, I did my best to keep my calm.
I was physically here. There was no turning back after entering through this door.
There were a million reasons why I couldn’t be here, a million reasons why I should keep my distance from this man—and yet after replaying the scenarios over and over of things potentially taking a turn for the worse, I didn’t cancel. I didn’t back out and I didn’t know why.
“Come in, Flower.” He ushered me inside, and my stomach flipped at the nickname he’d been calling me recently.
I looked around to see that his home was basically split into two. One half was dedicated to his works of art, his portraits, paintings, sculptures, carvings. The other half had held his rustic living room, small dining room table, his kitchen, and a spiral staircase that led upstairs. Huge windows let in the sun, and lights hung from the tall ceiling.
It was not entirely what I’d expect from a billionaire’s son, but none of my reasonable expectations were met with Beckham. Nevertheless, his home, his space was oddly inviting and almost cozy.
I turned to look at him to see he was still looking at me, studying my features. I cleared my throat, and he looked up into my eyes before directing me over to his setup.
He had a canvas set on an easel, and in the middle of the room, there was a cushioned bench in the middle with a chunky dark maroon knit blanket. He went over to his desk and grabbed a few of his utensils before standing in front of me. I played with my sleeves as I felt the pressure under his gaze.
“Is... there anything you need me to do now?” I filled the silence.
He remained impassive as he responded: “Strip.”
My eyes widened dramatically. I blinked at him, my mind virtually short-circuiting. “I’m... I’m sorry?”
He approached me slowly, towering over me.
“You heard me, Flower… or do you want me to repeat myself?”
I remained still, utterly shocked.
He leaned into my ear, his voice taking a darker, more assertive tone. “I said… You need to take off your fucking clothes and strip down bare .”
My knees buckled as a blush coated my face. My hands felt clammy, and I could feel myself becoming lightheaded. Is he absolutely insane? He has to be.
Shaking my head, I tried to ignore my reaction to his words. “…I-I can’t do this. My husband, he—”
My words got caught in my throat as he sighed, rubbing his hand over my arm softly before he deeply inhaled. I practically froze in place, his hand making my skin feel hot.
“Relax. All I need is your bare back. The rest of you will be covered completely. I have a few more supplies to get from my shed outside. I’ll give you some time.” He walked out, giving me no chance to speak or further protest.
Rosenna.
You need to leave.
Get to your car. Go home.
Figure it out on your own. If you can’t, listen to Gavin and sell the properties.
You’ll have to let Kira go, but she’s a big girl.
You need to leave.
You need to take off your fucking clothes and strip down bare.
…
…
I’m not proud… of the decisions I make at times, I thought to myself as I sat on the bench with the knit blanket wrapped around me like a towel. I watched him silently through the mirror as he walked around his studio comfortably.
As he went over to his closet of canvases, I lost sight of him and decided to look around a bit more. His art spoke volumes. It was soft and elegant but passionate all at once. And here I was, mentally preparing myself to pose for him so I could be amongst his creations.
Glancing down at my attire, I felt my heart rate quicken and my face flush in embarrassment. I was never one to model, much less for a client I was trying to persuade to let me present his art. And nude at that. It felt wrong… So wrong.
As I played with the fabric and held it up to cover my chest, I felt it slip down my back slightly, as it wasn’t all that tight. Hearing a few things in the background, I went to lift my head when I flinched, my breath hitching and my mouth going dry.
Feeling his presence behind me, almost flush against me, he ran his thumb over the small tattoo that was on my back by my rib—the same tattoo I’d gotten years ago to fill an aching void that had built itself within me. I looked up at him in the mirror to see he was highly focused on it.
I cleared my throat as he bit his lip, and he looked up to make eye contact with me in the mirror… not bothering to move an inch away from me.
“What a lovely little surprise, Flower.”
I gulped softly as he continued caressing it. It was a small rose tattoo, and entwined around it the words—
“‘You are loved,’” he read in a whisper.
I felt out of breath as I watched him. His touch was too tender, his presence was too close, too suffocating. He leaned in slightly, taking a deep breath before exhaling abruptly and pulling away, seemingly frustrated.
He seemed strained as he fixed my hair to the side like he wanted and positioned me. My pose consisted of my hair to the side and my hands lowered beside me, and I held the blanket between my arms and torso. Meanwhile, my entire back was on display, and I felt genuinely exposed to this man.
“Tell me if you get uncomfortable. It’ll only be an hour or two,” he muttered, sitting at the easel, and I nodded. I’d sat still through much worse before, like my wedding reception when I was being told by Gavin’s parents how to be a good wife.
Reminiscing on the past or simply thinking about my plans for the week, I didn’t even realize the time had passed.
Soon, he finished and beckoned me over with his two fingers. I adjusted the blanket so it would cover everything and blushed as I walked over to where he sat, drawing and painting.
My eyes landed on the canvas and I had no words to describe what I saw.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was more than beautiful. It was raw. Unfiltered. Me .
The tension in my shoulders was captured with deliberate, heavy strokes highlighting my hesitancy. The gentle arch of my back, the looseness in my frame… he had caught the second I gave in, the second I stopped holding myself together. He painted me in shades of vulnerability, in a way I hadn’t even realized I existed.
Beckham said he needed to paint me to understand me. And now, standing before this canvas, I could feel him peeling me open, layer by layer, seeing me in ways I had never seen myself.
He saw me without asking, without permission, without warning.
Why he wanted to understand me in the first place still remained a mystery. And to be honest… I don’t know if I wanted to be understood like this… at least not by him .
Beckham stood up beside me and handed me his phone. Looking down, I noticed a few pictures of me in the exact pose a few moments ago, capturing the moment I gave into him.
“I only took them to finish up the details so that I wouldn’t bother you for much longer. If you’re uncomfortable with them, you can delete them.”
I thought about it for a moment but shook my head as I handed him back his phone. There wasn’t really a rationale for deleting a few photos but keeping the large canvas painting that took hours to create.
But it still felt wrong. This whole thing did.
“You can use them for the time being,” I whispered, and he nodded as he gazed at me for a little while longer, his eyes not entirely subtle.
Clearing my throat uncomfortably, my eyes glanced over to my neatly folded clothes. “Do you mind…? I want to get dressed.”
His jaw ticked as his eyes lingered on me for a moment before he stepped into another room. He seemed angry with my request, but he didn’t show it. Yet, simply knowing him for only a week or two, I could sense it.
After I finished getting dressed, my fingers fumbled slightly as I tried to force on my ring. After I finally slipped it on, he returned, cleaning one of his brushes with a paper towel.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he said casually in a manner that was too calm for my liking.
I furrowed my eyebrows. “Not done with me? What does that even mean?”
“We’re going to have another session soon.”
I scoffed. “Beckham, I’m not entirely sure if you recall, but we agreed on one session. I only agreed to do this one portrait for you to become my client.”
His eyes narrowed, something in his expression shifting… growing darker and colder.
“And I’m telling you that I’m. Not. Fucking. Done. With. You,” he growled.
I grabbed my bag as I looked at him in complete disgust. “You’re sick,” I spat, feeling repulsed with myself.
For the first time, he let out a genuine smile and laughed: a genuine, deep, rich laugh that made the hair on my arms rise. He looked at me, genuinely amused, his eyes filled with dark delight, like I had just said something incredibly stupid despite my throat feeling like closing up.
“My little flower…” he mused, a hint of false sympathy in his tone, “you don’t get to make choices anymore.”
Slowly, he approached me, and I gasped as he backed me against the brick stained wall, his voice a mix of softness and something terrifying.
“ You chose to go through with me painting you. You chose the option of letting me keep the pictures I took of you. You chose to take off your fucking ring when I was painting you. I’ve given you enough choices…“ His gaze, once sinister, was now devouring every inch of me. “Now, you don’t get any more.”
Pushing him away from me with all my force, I walked over to the door. “Go to hell,” I snarled and left the building without looking back once, his laughter following behind me.
Entering my car, I slammed the door shut and gripped the wheel, my hands shaking. I felt mortified. This man has consumed my thoughts, decisions, feelings, everything . He could ruin my entire life, and I allowed him the tools to do so.
What have I done?
What the fuck have I done?