Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Ava
Me: Is everything okay?
His messages usually carry warmth—even when he’s being direct. This one feels… clipped. Cold, almost. And now I’m spiraling, trying to figure out if I did something wrong. If I upset him.
Daddy: Everything’s okay, babe. Sorry if I scared you.
Me: Okay, Daddy. I’ll be there.
Daddy: Good girl. I miss my baby.
Me: I miss you too, Daddy.
By 4:45 PM, I can’t take it anymore. My nerves are buzzing, heart racing with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. I grab my bag and head for the door.
“Mia, I’m meeting Elijah at the studio. Can you close up tonight?”
She glances up from the register and grins. “Ooh, can I come with you? I want to see if Asher’s around—I need to ask him something.”
I raise an eyebrow. “New tattoo?”
“That’s the idea,” she replies with a happy shrug. Mia’s practically in love with ink; it doesn’t take much to get her excited.
The studio’s only five minutes away, and we walk there together, our conversation light but my mind still half-occupied, wondering what Elijah’s message really meant.
When we walk in, the familiar bell above the door chimes softly. Asher is behind the counter, focused on something on the screen. He looks up the moment the door closes behind us, eyes flicking first to me, then to Mia.
The studio is tucked into the corner of a quiet side street, a black-brick facade with clean gold lettering that simply reads: “Get Inked”. No neon signs. No flashy graphics. Just the name—and the quiet promise of artistry inside.
Step through the heavy glass door and the space opens into a blend of old-world soul and modern precision.
The scent of sandalwood and clean antiseptic lingers in the air—warm, grounding, comforting.
Dark hardwood floors stretch beneath your feet, polished to a soft sheen, and the walls are painted a deep, matte charcoal that makes the space feel like a secret.
Framed sketches line the walls—each one a quiet masterwork in black and grey, with occasional accents of deep crimson or gold.
Classical anatomy studies hang beside minimalist linework and gothic-inspired motifs, all unmistakably Elijah’s hand.
There’s something almost reverent about the way the art is displayed.
Not crowded. Not loud. Just... intentional.
The front area features a sleek, modern reception desk made of blackened steel and walnut wood, minimalistic, but striking.
Behind it, shelves display Elijah’s custom inks in glass vials like a collection of rare perfume.
An espresso machine hums quietly in the corner—because, of course, Elijah wouldn’t settle for bad coffee.
The stations are divided by frosted glass panels with delicate etched designs—roses, blades, sacred geometry—offering privacy without isolation.
Each setup is surgical in cleanliness and layout, but softened by subtle personal touches: a leather-bound sketchbook here, a single white rose in a dark glass vase there.
Every surface gleams, but nothing feels sterile.
At the back, there’s a large, antique mirror framed in blackened gold, opposite a wall-length shelf stacked with art books, tattoo history volumes, and old leather journals that may or may not hold Elijah’s private concepts.
A small record player sits on the shelf, with a neatly arranged stack of vinyls, Music for creating something sacred.
This isn’t just a tattoo studio. It’s a cathedral of ink and skin. And every detail—from the smell to the silence—feels like Elijah: precise, thoughtful, seductive without being performative, and impossibly cool.
As soon as we walk in, Asher is behind the counter, focused on the screen. He glances up the moment the door shuts behind us.
“Hey, how are you ladies?” he greets, warm as always.
“I’m okay. I’m meeting up with Eli. And Miss Mia here wanted to see you,” I say, nodding toward her.
“The boss is finishing up with a client,” he tells me. “Feel free to sit down. Mia, come on—I’ll show you what I’ve worked on for your design.”
“Perfect,” she replies, clearly thrilled.
We're mid-conversation about the tattoo she wants—something floral with delicate linework—when the door to one of the private rooms opens. And out walks a woman who looks like she just stepped off a runway. She’s tall, with long, platinum-blonde hair, legs for days, and barely enough clothing to qualify as a swimsuit cover.
My chest tightens.
It’s irrational—I know Elijah loves me. I know he would never betray me. But logic isn’t louder than the imposter syndrome clawing at my ribs. Not when a woman like that walks out of his room.
And then I hear her speak.
“Elijah, darling…” she purrs, dragging the name out like it’s something sweet on her tongue.
“Next time, I want you to do my tattoo… right here…” Her fingers run down between her surgically enhanced breasts, slow and deliberate.
“And I’ll make it worth your while. Something very special, just for that night. ”
Time slows.
The room is quiet, suffocating. I don’t need to look at anyone to know they all heard it. All saw it.
I stand, the couch already cold behind me. I take two steps before Elijah’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade.
“Ava, baby girl, where do you think you’re going?”
He knows. Of course he does. He knows me.
“You’re busy,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even.
“We can talk later.”
“No. No, no,” he hums, already crossing the room toward me. His steps are calm, but the storm behind his eyes is unmistakable. “Asher will see your design. My girlfriend and I have plans. Right, babe?”
I nod, but before I can speak, his eyes flick to the woman still standing there like she owns the room.
“Oh, and Sandra? From now on, any piercing, tattoo, or whatever you want from this studio will be handled by Asher.”
Her expression falters. “But Eli, you’re my tattoo artist—”
“I was your tattoo artist,” he says, voice low, sharp, controlled. “Until you decided it was okay to throw yourself at me like some desperate groupie—in front of my girlfriend. The same girlfriend you saw a picture of ten minutes ago. You knew who she was.”
The air crackles. No one moves.
“And unless the next words out of your mouth are an apology to Ava—my girlfriend—for that sad little stunt you just pulled, I’ll make sure you never get tattooed in this city again. Not by me, not by anyone worth a damn.”
Sandra goes pale. The sultry pretense drains from her face like someone flipped a switch. The predator is gone, replaced by something small. Ashamed.
Her voice trembles, suddenly hollow. “I’m… I’m sorry.”
I can’t speak. My throat feels tight, like something lodged itself there the second she touched him—right in front of me. I know he didn’t bring me here for this. I know he didn’t ask for that attention. But it still hit like a slap.
And yet… hearing him claim me so clearly, so publicly, so fiercely—hearing that warning edge in his voice, the way he made the entire room his—it’s the only thing keeping my knees from buckling. The only thing holding me together.
Because in that moment, there’s no doubt: I’m his.
And everyone in this room knows it.
***
As soon as Sandra walks out of the studio, Asher gently takes Mia aside, giving us space. Elijah doesn’t say a word—just takes my hand and leads me straight to his office.
The door closes behind us, and in the next second, his hand is around my neck. Not hard—never hard—but firm, commanding. His face is inches from mine, and we’re breathing the same air.
“Did you really think I’d let someone else touch me?” he asks, voice low and sharp. “That I’d hurt you like that?”
The intensity in his eyes makes my heart stutter. I shake my head, unable to answer. “I… I don’t know,” I whisper, before pushing him back just enough to breathe on my own. He lets me.
“My mind’s messing with me,” I admit. “Nothing feels logical. And we never really talked about… exclusivity. I can’t expect you to be faithful when we never defined the rules. A woman like her—it would make sense. Not someone like me.”
His expression darkens. Dangerous. “Someone like you?” His voice is low now, a warning beneath the words. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You know what I mean, Elijah.”
“No,” he snaps. “I don’t. Tell me.”
I point to myself, and suddenly I can’t stop the words from coming, my voice rising with each breath.
“A woman like me. Fat. Ugly. Covered in stretch marks. This stomach, these breasts—nothing about me looks like her. I’m not radiant or toned or flawless.
I’m just… ordinary. Less. I’m nothing, Elijah.
And I know—God, I know—you say I’m everything now, but one day…
one day you’ll wake up, and I won’t be enough. ”
“?THAT'S ENOUGH!”
His voice slams through the room like a shockwave. I flinch, breath caught somewhere between fear and shame. But Elijah doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t raise his voice again. He just stands there—still, tense, breathing hard. Like he’s holding back a storm.
Then, slowly, he steps toward me. His hands unclench. His voice softens, but his eyes stay fierce.
“Don’t you ever speak about yourself like that again. You hear me?”
I look away, but he doesn’t let me. His hand gently lifts my chin until I’m forced to meet his gaze.
“You think stretch marks and curves make you less?” His thumb strokes along my jaw. “Baby girl, those marks? They’re proof you’ve lived. They’re proof you’ve survived. This body? This body drives me crazy. This softness, your skin, your scent—it’s mine. All of it.”
Tears start to sting at the edges of my eyes, but he doesn’t stop.
“You say you’re not enough? You’re everything. You’re mine, when you smile and when you cry, when you’re strong and when you’re spiraling. You’re not a placeholder, Ava. You’re the endgame. The whole fucking reason.”
I break. A sob escapes me, and before I can say anything, his arms are around me. He holds me against his chest like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.