Chapter Six
Isla
I woke to the familiar chime of my phone, a sound that now sent my heart racing with anticipation rather than the usual mild interest.
Sunlight streamed through my blue curtains, painting my bedroom in a dance of colors, but I barely noticed as I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand.
My fingers trembled slightly as I unlocked the screen, breath catching when I saw the notification from @AdrianCatalyst.
I tapped it instantly, stomach flipping as the post loaded.
It was a watercolor I'd shared weeks ago, a dreamy cityscape at dusk with streetlights like stars against a violet sky.
His comment sat beneath it, posted just twenty minutes ago:
@AdrianCatalyst: Angels have talented hands. I wonder what else they can create.
My cheeks burned as I read the words, the pet name sending hope through me that I couldn't quite explain .
Angel. The name felt special, personal in a way that made me curl my toes against the sheets. I'd never been anyone's angel before.
I scrolled through my notifications, finding more breadcrumbs he'd left while I slept.
Likes on photos from months back, and comments on my paintings that revealed he'd been studying my work, my life . Somehow, I’d never felt more seen.
Then I saw it—a direct message notification from him. My heart slammed against my ribs as I opened it.
@AdrianCatalyst
Good morning, angel. Show me something nobody else gets to see. Something you've created that's never been shared.
You have until sunset.
I stared at the message, reading it three times to make sure I understood. It wasn't a request; it was a challenge. A test.
My first instinct was to wonder why I should comply and do anything this man asked of me after one heated encounter in a club.
But the thought disappeared before it could even fully form.
I was already sliding out of bed, drawn to the corner of my studio where a canvas stood facing the wall, a painting I'd never posted, never shown, never even fully acknowledged to myself.
I showered and dressed quickly, pulling on a soft romper, twisting my hair into a messy bun, and dabbing concealer under my eyes.
My usual morning routine felt different, charged with purpose. I kept glancing at Adrian's message, the words burning into my mind.
Show me something nobody else gets to see.
The canvas waited, its surface a darker, more visceral vision than anything my followers had ever seen from me.
I'd painted it late one night after scrolling through my private account, after hours of looking at images that stirred something hungry in me.
It was inspired by men with tattooed hands and dangerous smiles, bodies marked with ink and scars, and eyes that promised things I'd never admitted wanting.
It wasn't a pretty cityscape or a field of flowers. It was a study in desire, abstract enough that no one would immediately recognize the subject, but to me, the forms were clearly entwined bodies, the colors all heat and want and surrender.
My hands shook slightly as I positioned the painting on my easel, angling it to catch the morning light.
I hesitated before taking the photo, suddenly self-conscious about sharing something so honest. What would he think? Would he see through me completely?
But before I could talk myself out of it, I snapped the picture and sent it, immediately slamming my phone down, heart pounding.
What was I doing? Sharing my most private work with a man I barely knew? A man who made me feel things I'd never felt before, whose touch had lit me on fire, whose eyes had seen past every styled layer?
I paced my apartment, nervously preparing food, messing with my trinkets, and staring at my sketchbooks.
Minutes stretched into an hour. No response.
Doubt crept in. Had I misunderstood? Had I shared too much, revealed too much of myself too quickly?
Maybe he was just playing games, leaving digital crumbs to see how far I'd go, how easily I'd jump at his attention.
I was just about to delete the message when my phone chimed.
@AdrianCatalyst
Beautiful, angel. Raw. Honest. The way you blend crimson with the deep blue... You feel everything so deeply, don't you? I can see it in every brushstroke.
You're holding back in everything else you share. Don't hold back with me .
I gasped. No one had ever spoken about my art that way before, seeing beyond technique to the emotion beneath.
No one had ever called me out so directly on the careful curation of my public persona.
Before I could reply, another message came in:
@AdrianCatalyst
You did well, following my instructions. Good girl.
Something molten and sweet pooled in my belly at those two simple words.
Good girl. They shouldn't have affected me the way they did, shouldn't have made me press my thighs together, shouldn't have sent heat crawling up my neck. But they did. Oh, they did.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I considered how to respond. Should I be flirtatious? Casual? Grateful? Nothing felt right.
Before I could decide, another message appeared:
@AdrianCatalyst
Tonight. 8 PM. Wear something that makes you feel beautiful, angel. Take a photo of yourself. Just for me.
Show me the real Isla, not @IslaBelleflower.
The directness of it made my heart race. This wasn't subtle flirtation; this was a man who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn't afraid to ask for it. The confidence behind his words was hot .
I found myself nodding, though he couldn't see me. "Okay," I whispered to my empty apartment, then typed the same word.
Was I allowed to text him now? To respond?
@IslaBelleflower
Okay.
@AdrianCatalyst
That’s a good angel .
I floated through the rest of the day in a haze, my usual routines—filming content, editing photos, responding to comments, feeling distant and automatic.
None of it mattered compared to the countdown in my head, the approaching deadline he'd set.
By seven, I was standing in front of my closet, considering and discarding options. The dress I'd worn to the club was too obvious, and my usual outfits felt unworthy now.
I wanted something that revealed the truth, the girl who kissed strangers in clubs, who painted desire in secret, who thrilled at being called "good girl" by a man with tattooed hands and knowing eyes.
I found it in the back of my closet.
A simple slip dress in a deep midnight blue, the color of the shadows in my secret painting. I bought it on impulse months ago, but never wore it, never having found an occasion that felt right.
It draped over my curves like water, the thin straps revealing more of my freckled shoulders than I usually showed, the neckline dipping just low enough to show cleavage without being scandalous.
I left my hair down, applied minimal makeup, and stood barefoot on my balcony as the sun began to set.
No filters, no perfect lighting, no careful poses. Just me, silhouetted against the darkening sky, looking directly at the camera with all the want and curiosity I usually kept hidden.
My finger hesitated over the send button. This was more revealing than the painting somehow, more me .
But something about Adrian made me want to be honest and strip away the layers to show him the girl beneath.
I sent the photo, then stood watching the city lights blink on one by one, my heart pounding in a rhythm that felt like freedom.
@AdrianCatalyst
There she is. My beautiful angel showing me her true colors.
I can see the hunger in your eyes, Isla. You're being honest. You’re perfect when you stop pretending to be innocent.
I sank onto my balcony lounger, legs suddenly weak. The praise washed over me like honey, settling deep in my chest, in places that had been cold and empty for so long. I traced my fingers over his words, reading them again and again.
Perfect when you stop pretending to be innocent.
No one had ever looked at the girl beneath the filters and careful captions and called her perfect for her darkness.
Especially not Noah, who had claimed to love me but had always fallen short.
I typed and deleted a dozen responses before settling on the simplest truth.
@IslaBelleflower
You make me want to be honest.
@AdrianCatalyst
Good. Because I want all of you. Every truth. Every secret. Every filthy desire you've never said aloud.
I'm going to pull them out of you one by one until there's nothing left to hide
I curled deeper into my chair, wrapping my arms around myself as if I could hold onto this feeling, this strange, exhilarating mix of being seen and being wanted, exactly as I was.
A final message appeared on my screen:
@AdrianCatalyst
Sweet dreams, angel. Tomorrow, I have another task for you.
I traced the words with my fingertip, a smile spreading across my face that felt different from the one I practiced for photos. Wider, wilder, more real.
"Sweet dreams," I whispered back to the night, to the city, to the man who was somewhere out there thinking of me, watching for me, leaving breadcrumbs for me to follow deeper into his world.