4. Elara
Elara
“What can you tell me about this piece?” The old man, no younger than fifty—if the wrinkles around his eyes are anything to go by—poses the question to me.
I gaze toward the canvas, the orange circle practically daring someone to ask questions. Blue background, orange circle. Brilliant. Revolutionary. Or… not.
I’ve been working in my father’s gallery for ten years now. Ever since my love for art became more than a fascination. In fact I’m obsessed, but only when the work is half decent. Somehow, the concept of a bright orange circle doesn’t scream conceptualism to me.
But to each their own, right? I know art is subjective, but seriously. Who decided that a piece of art that could be created by a two-year-old would be considered genius?
The customer leans closer, squinting. “I’m curious about the inspiration behind it.”
I tilt my head, letting a smirk tug at my lips. I resist the urge to say that clearly, the artist woke up one morning, looked out the window at the sky, spilled their coffee on the canvas, and thought, yes, this is profound.
Instead, I answer, “This piece explores the relationship between color and emotion. The artist uses the orange circle to disrupt the calm of the blue background, inviting viewers to confront tension visually.”
“Or,” a voice from behind me interrupts, “maybe they just really liked orange and blue together. No point overthinking something so simple, right?”
A cold wave washes through me, as if I’ve just been doused in an icy bucket of water. Though I can’t quite pinpoint where I know the voice from, my body reacts to it immediately. It’s sultry yet playful, exposing only a glimmer of danger.
Fuck.
I spin around, coming face-to-face with Cash. His bright green hair sticks up at all angles, like he’s just woken up. He’s wearing a white shirt with a gray waistcoat and matching slacks that hug his body deliciously, and his cologne… I don’t know what it is, but it’s dizzying.
I haven’t seen him since my visit to Vice last week. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my palms growing sweaty as my heart begins to race. I swallow thickly, my eyes widening when he shamelessly steps closer and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear.
“How’s it going, Princess?” His grin widens like he’s caught me right where he wants me, his teeth sparkling under the gallery spotlights.
My mouth parts and closes like a breathless fish. How the hell did this guy know where I was? This can’t be a coincidence, and someone from Sinner’s territory should not be here.
I go to turn around to excuse myself, but the man I was escorting has quickly disappeared. Spinning back around to face Cash, I notice that he’s smiling too knowingly, leaning casually against a small podium that hosts a bust of a very well-endowed woman.
He glances down at where my gaze lands, his tattooed hand moving to stroke one finger over the curve of the marble breast. “Anything more than a handful is a waste in my opinion,” he mutters.
My pulse picks up, and I can feel my cheeks warming. “You… what are you doing here?” I manage, my voice tighter than I intend.
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “I was in the area.”
I blink. “You—” No, don’t start. Don’t ask. “Are you stalking me now?”
Cash pushes off the podium, sliding an arm around my waist to bring me closer to him.
Our chests press against one another, his stare searing into my skin.
It’s almost hypnotizing how one glance into his green orbs has my legs feeling like jelly.
Suddenly I’m thankful I opted for suit pants and sneakers today, because I’d have broken an ankle by now if I was wearing heels.
“Would you like that, Princess?” he asks, his voice low enough that it vibrates against my skin.
My mind scrambles for an answer, but I don’t have one. I can’t exactly escape, not with him standing so close. Every inch of him a challenge, a dare, a threat. And the thing is… my body wants to rise to it, even though my brain screams at me to run.
Thankfully, the gallery is like a maze of fixtures and projects. I think I’d have a damn good shot at getting away.
If I wanted to.
He tilts his head, green eyes sharp, dangerous, and playful all at once. “You look… tense,” he murmurs, letting his fingers brush along my ribs. “I like it.”
Before I can respond, he produces a thin blade from the pocket of his waistcoat. My breath catches—not in fear exactly, but because the cold steel glints dangerously close to my skin.
“You’d be perfect,” he whispers, leaning close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my ear.
He lets the knife trace the line of my collarbone that peeks out from my shirt.
His touch is feather-light, teasing. My nerves ignite, every inch feeling like it’s on fire.
“Perfect to come undone… right here. On my blade.”
My pulse drums so loud I swear he can hear it. He presses closer to my chest, his lips curving into an animalistic grin.
“You feel that? That’s the edge of danger. That’s me. And you… you’re craving it.”
“Cash, I—”
“I’m not gonna lie,” he presses the flat side of the blade against my bottom lip, the promise of chaos swirling between us. “I’m a little upset we never got to play our game.”
Stabscotch. Of course. I can only hazard a guess at what that game entails. Even though I know I should be scared, there’s a part of me leaning into him, begging for the details.
Footsteps suddenly echo through the room, coming from the far side of the gallery. My stomach tightens, my heart pounding in my ears. We’re concealed between a floor-to-ceiling banner and two floor displays—one being the tits Cash was just caressing—but it wouldn’t take long for someone to see us.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I rasp, trying to keep the words professional. My body says otherwise, heat pooling low in a way that’s entirely inappropriate.
Cash tilts his head, cocky as hell. “Shouldn’t? Or you don’t want me here?”
I swallow.
“You really shouldn’t,” I repeat, firmer this time, dragging the words out like a whip.
He grins wider, pocketing his blade with a simple flick of his wrist. “Guess we’ll see about that, Princess.”
I want to glare at him, I want to shove him away. But all I can do is inhale sharply, aware that I’m trapped in the tension he’s creating, and I hate that I don’t hate it.
“You’re insane,” I manage, my voice tight.
He laughs softly, low and teasing. “Maybe. But you like it, don’t you?”
I don’t answer him. I can’t, because the next set of footsteps is accompanied by the sound of my father’s voice.
Cash spins me around, his arm still firmly wrapped around my waist. His lips linger close to my skin, his hot breath caressing the sensitive area beneath my ear. Before I can get a grasp on what’s happening, he sinks his teeth into my neck.
A scream tears through me—or it would have if Cash didn’t slam his hand over my mouth.
“Until next time, Princess,” he whispers.
The heat of his body is swiftly replaced with the cool temperature of the gallery. Despite the chill, I still feel the burn of his touch on my neck and the blush that creeps up onto my cheeks.
“Elara?” my father’s voice booms through the room.
I clear my throat, and dust of my trousers like that will somehow eradicate what just happened. Pulling my hair over my shoulder, I step out from behind the banner, spotting my father with Silas at the other side of the room.
“Here!” I wave, forcing a casual smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “I didn’t know you’d be visiting today.”
He stretches his arms open for me, welcoming me with a hug. “Can’t a father visit his only daughter?”
I smile as he squeezes me tightly. “He can, but I see you every day,” I giggle, thinking about our nightly dinners.
Most nights, it’s just my parents sharing the table—the clink of cutlery, polite conversation, their hands brushing occasionally, the kind of domestic perfection I’ve never been part of.
My relationship with my mother has always been…
distant. Polite smiles, careful words. She’s lovely in her way, but always just out of reach.
My father, though—he’s different. He listens. Really listens. And no matter how tense or chaotic my life gets, he’s the one anchor I’ve never questioned.
I glance at him now, heart still fluttering from Cash’s touch and a small, private smile tugs at my lips. This—this warmth, this safety—is the part of my life that feels untouchable, even when chaos and danger are never more than a heartbeat away.
He notices my fleeting gaze, raising an eyebrow in question. “Everything alright, Elara?”
“Perfectly fine, Daddy,” I reply, voice steady, though my pulse is still racing. I brush past him, offering a polite nod to Silas, even though his eyes linger on me in ways I don’t want to acknowledge.
As my father and Silas follow me into my office, the echo of Cash’s voice and the knife still lingers in my mind.
My hand rests against the place where his teeth sank into, my stomach flipping slightly.
I can’t make out whether it’s excitement or fear that has me spinning out, but as soon as the door closes behind us, I feel a sense of safety wrap around me.
“I have something for you,” my father announces as I take a seat behind my desk.
“Oh? I… thought you were just stopping by,” I say, carefully measuring my tone.
“I am,” he confirms, slowly lowering himself into the armchair opposite me.
Silas is holding his position next to the door, but I still feel his greasy gaze tour over me.
“As you know, the Mayor is up for re-election,” he begins, linking his fingers together in his lap. “He is holding a Gala at the end of the month to support his campaign, and as I am one of his most substantial backers, it means I have to show my face.”
My eyes widen. I’m all-too-aware of the weight behind those words. Gala. High society. Glittering dresses. Endless conversations where I’m expected to smile, nod, and pretend politics doesn’t make me want to scream.
“And you want me to accompany you?”
“It’s important for the campaign.” he replies, voice calm, but that calm carries the kind of authority that shuts down arguments before they even start.
I groan internally, feeling the familiar burn of frustration in my chest. “Of course it’s important. Every political move has to involve me looking like a proper daughter, smiling, saying the right things, drinking something I can’t pronounce, and pretending I actually like people.”
He chuckles, the kind of soft sound that makes me almost forgive him—but only almost. “I don’t expect you to enjoy it, Elara. I expect you to be present. That’s all.”
“Present,” I repeat, shaking my head. “You do realize the entire city will be there, right? I’ll be ogled, overpraised, and probably have to talk to people who think a ‘bright orange circle on blue’ is the height of civilization.”
He frowns at the last part.
“Just an inside joke,” I deflect.
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “You attending isn’t optional.”
I bite back a sigh. I know he’s right. It isn’t optional. My father has always been my anchor, but I’d rather be buried in paint fumes than navigate polite smiles and forced hellos.
“I want you there looking effortless. No distractions, no mishaps. Understood?”
I nod, forcing a tight smile. “Effortless. Got it.”
He studies me for a moment, and I know he’s not buying it. He never does, but he trusts me enough to know I’ll make it work—even if I hate every second of it.
I glance toward the gallery windows, catching the last streaks of sunlight cutting through the room and inwardly groan.
I have to remind myself that it isn’t about me or the gallery, it’s politics.
It’s about my father securing his standing with the Mayor so he can continue running his businesses through the city.
This isn’t about me.