Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Henrik
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
COHEN, Mia.
Every iteration of her name returns another morsel to savor.
I imagine her burnt-red hair fanning out against my pillow, her green eyes finding fear in the face of my urges.
My mind itches like a fresh wound until every unknown is catalogued, catalogued until it's my own.
I watch the search engine spin until finally finding records on her.
Damaged findings—I lean back in my chair.
Mia Cohen, aged fifteen when her parents died.
Cause of death: house fire .
Fascinating.
Fire is a destroyer, but it's also a creator.
I picture Mia's face, pale and silvery-scarred, her life altered by trauma that I have every intention of capitalizing on.
I imagine her covered by a fireman's blanket, those emerald eyes dull with smoke.
I imagine so many things, each image more exquisite than the last.
So fragile… mine to mold.
My focus sharpens.
The records say the State of New York took custody after her parents' death.
A lifetime of trauma.
The system has never cared about fragile things.
I picture it swallowing her whole, reducing her to a kid in and out of foster homes, her beauty forever changed.
But that's not what happened.
Mia Cohen is too stubborn for that.
She turned tragedy into a burning ember, and I've found the trail.
The screen shows more details now, a winding path that brought her to me.
The next webpage is as informative as the first: she's spent her teenage years working in art galleries .
Seeing as I own a gallery and enjoy painting my muses… she's the perfect fit for my obsessions.
I almost smile, imagining her dusting frames and scrubbing floors to avoid becoming another lost cause.
Non-profit submissions, scholarship applications, each one a desperate shot into the universe for something to stick.
I see the moment she stepped off the plane, a young woman so far from home she might as well have been on another planet.
But she's exactly where she's meant to be.
Where I want her to be.
I sit in the quiet, satisfied but not sated.
I have to know more.
The watch on my wrist vibrates, the electric pulse drawing my focus away from the screen.
Ten hours of staring, six cups of coffee, one woman who's beginning to eclipse every other thought in my head.
I've sifted through endless records, each piece fitting perfectly into the image I'm constructing.
It's like she was meant for me in ways that should terrify her should she understand the depths of my fixation.
My watch buzzes again, a nagging insistence that demands my attention.
I sigh in frustration, clicking on one more link .
It's her first day on the job.
Fishnet stockings, red hair, a blood-colored halo.
Green eyes daring the world to look past her scars.
That first meeting wasn't an accident, and neither is this one.
There's a magnetic pull to her I can't ignore, one I will rise to claim.
She's careful and elusive, exactly what I've been looking for.
And she’s at my house at this very moment, cleaning it for me.
Getting it ready for me.
I could be there, seducing her, and yet knowing that I will come home knowing more about her than she’d ever willingly tell me makes my cock hard.
In time, she will be sitting on it.
Another jolt on my wrist tells me it's getting late.
I wish I could wear it down through sheer will, the way I do everything else.
But it’s well past time for me to head home and I reluctantly shut off my computer.
Mia will be there, her beautifully unique face waiting for me when I log in tomorrow.
Sitting back with a sigh, I contemplate just sleeping at the office, but of course, life has a way of interrupting me .
A call arises when I'm least expecting it, the way it always does when my mother decides to nag me.
"You'll forgive the intrusion," she says in a tone that suggests forgiveness is neither needed nor desired.
Tilde Lindberg.
Mother, art dealer, architect of my deepest neuroses.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, already tired from the conversation I know is coming.
"Mother," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
The silence stretches just long enough to be uncomfortable.
"Do I need a reason to call my only son?" She laughs lightly, the sound rehearsed. "Perhaps I do."
There's a rustling, the sound of papers or maybe social calendars being rearranged. "I know how you are, Henrik. Work, work, work. You've never been one to indulge me."
Her words bristle with disapproval, her need for attention the only constant in our tangled history.
I wait, giving her the chance to say what she really means. "I've been thinking," she continues, "it's about time you found someone to settle down with. Someone who can share your... unique temperament."
Her pause is deliberate, loaded with expectation.
I know what comes next because it's the same song, the same verse, and I never cared for the tune. "A wife, Henrik. Someone to carry on the Lindberg name."
Her words settle over me like ash, and I let them linger before responding. "I had a wife before, Mother.I wasn't aware it still needed carrying." My voice is more detached than I intend.
More of her laughter, this time with an edge that could cut glass. "It won't carry itself, dear. And you’re not getting any younger."
I'm tempted to tell her what she doesn't want to hear–that I've found someone, but not in the way she hopes.
The woman she's picturing doesn't have Mia's scars, her stubborn refusal to be claimed by anyone or anything.
The woman my mother wants for me doesn't exist.
She talks about the Lindberg name like it's the family silver, an heirloom that needs polishing.
"I've taken the liberty of identifying several possibilities for you," she presses on, undeterred by my silence. "They're all very promising. Accomplished, beautiful. Kind-hearted, even."
In other words, carefully curated.
"I'm touched by your concern, as always," I say, meaning none of it.
But this time, I throw her a bone. "There might already be someone." It feels like a confession, like a delicious betrayal.
The line is quiet, and I imagine her eyebrows shooting up in surprised delight.
"Truly?" she asks, and for once her voice is free of affectation.
I picture her leaning forward, waiting to devour every scrap of information I offer.
I give her no more.
"I'll know soon enough," I say, the thought of Mia filling the spaces between my words.
Her face, her body, everything I've learned about her in the past ten hours.
An illicit thrill races through me.
This is more than just rebellion.
It's possession.
It's everything my mother would hate and everything I want.
"You've never mentioned her," she says, the ice returning to her tone as she regains control.
I let the moment hang, savoring her uncertainty.
"I wasn't aware it needed mentioning," I reply, echoing my earlier dismissal.
There's a slight hitch in her breath, a crack in her veneer.
This time it's me who cuts the conversation short.
"We'll talk soon," I say, then end the call before she can answer.
The idea of forcing her to submit is enticing.
Mia Lindberg .
It has a sinister elegance.
I let the thought unravel itself, enjoying the way it ties her to me in impossible knots.
Mother would despise it, the girl with the scars and the dark past, but that only adds to the appeal.
Mia Lindberg .
A name with its own gravitational pull, and the more I think about it, the more I like it.
The conversation with my mother circles in my mind, each of her expectations making my real desires sharper.
She wants a wife for me like she wants a gallery space–all beauty and no risk.
I want Mia because she's exactly the opposite.
A child is something I've never considered, not in any serious way.
But the image of Mia pregnant with my heir is both shocking and perfect.
I picture her body changing, all those silvery scars stretching across her skin, her green eyes fierce with the knowledge that she's mine in ways she can't deny.
It's the ultimate control, the ultimate connection .
I imagine telling Tilde, watching the horror spread across her face.
It's almost as thrilling as the thought itself.
Mia's trauma makes her perfect for me.
She's survived things that would break most people, just like I have.
My fire, her fire.
Everything she is, everything she could be, aligns too beautifully for chance.
I picture her in my house, in my bed, her guard slowly dropping as I weave her into my world.
She's different from every woman who's come before, because she's never going to leave.
That's not how this story ends.
It's not how any of this ends.
I almost laugh at the audacity of my plans, but I keep it all tightly controlled, savoring the taste of rebellion as it mixes with obsession.
This is more than defiance; it's inevitability.
I think of Mia, everything I want her to be.
It's only a matter of time until she realizes it, too.
The walk down to the elevator takes an eternity.
The staff barely look up from their screens as I pass, completely unaware of the woman I can't get out of my head.
They're ignorant of how much they don’t matter, how much nothing matters except getting home to her .
It should be amusing, but today it only irritates me.
In the elevator, I resist the urge to tap my foot like a child who can't wait for his turn on a ride.
But isn't that exactly what this is?
A delicious game I've never been more eager to play.
When the doors open, I step out and the tension drains from me like air from a balloon.
Finally, escape.
I spot the McLaren, my favorite car, ready to take me wherever I want to go.
It's not long before I'm driving like a bat out of hell, eager to return home.
I drive past the iron gates and watch through my rear-view mirror as they close behind me.
Once I'm parked, I waste no time and head inside.
It's been two days since I've seen her and I'm an addict looking for a fix.
That's what Mia is–my addiction.
She's in the kitchen when I walk through the door, red hair pulled into a careless knot and body wrapped in black like a gift.
I stuff down the urge to grab her, pin her against the counter, and make her come on my cock.
I watch her move with a confidence that suggests this is more than a job to her.
To Mia, everything is art .
The way she wipes down the counter, the way she tucks a stray hair behind her ear.
She's so absorbed that she doesn't notice me standing in the doorway, taking her in like I'm preparing for a new canvas.
The moment stretches, and I almost don't want to break it.
The air is obnoxious, the scent of bleach burning my nostrils, and she finally looks up, green eyes piercing the distance between us.
Her gaze is steady, almost challenging, as if she knows how much I think about her.
As if she knows and doesn't care.
I step into the kitchen, closer than I need to be, close enough to see the slight tension in her shoulders. "Looking for extra work?" I ask, trying to sound casual but feeling the raw need behind my words.
She pauses, letting the question hang in the air, then continues wiping the counter as if I've given her something to consider.
"I'm not actively looking," she says, her voice soft but clear. "But I could use an extra ten hours a week. For school. The bills that come along with college aren't exactly always covered."
I know she has a scholarship, but that likely pays for her courses and equipment .
I doubt it helps with her monthly rent, or even groceries.
That must be why she works for me.
I watch her mouth form the words, watch the slight twitch at the corner of her lips, and I know she's weighing my interest against her own.
"I might have something," I tell her. "A few extra shifts at the gallery," I add, watching for her reaction.
She nods slowly, and the moment is more satisfying than it should be.
"My gallery's cleaner quit." I keep talking as she keeps wiping, moving along the marble slowly, making sure not to miss a spot. "Could you replace her?"
She's still holding the rag, the counter spotless beneath her hands.
Those hands stop moving for just a second before she sets the rag down and looks at me.
Mia takes her time, her consideration deliberate. "What days? I need to make sure it fits with school.”
"Thursday, Sunday, and Tuesday. Evenings."
She nods, once, and her red hair slips from the knot and onto her shoulders.
It's almost enough to distract me.
Almost.
"Will the pay be different?" she asks, practical and maddening. "Considering it's for your business. "
"The same," I say, letting my own smile match hers. "Like now. Cash."
My mind leaps ahead, already imagining her there.
I almost leave it at that, but my compulsion, my need, my entire nature won't let me.
"There is one thing.”
Her eyebrow raises, the barest twitch.
"What?" she asks curiously.
"A stipulation," I tell her. “You’ll clean in the nude.”
The words hang between us as her mouth drops open.
Her perfect body on full display for me.
I imagine her on her knees in the empty gallery, scrubbing, shining, her pussy open for my gaze.
The thought sends a thrill through me that's almost electric.
"You'll be my muse for a new collection," I say, the words almost tasting sweet.
I watch her reaction with the same intensity I've watched everything about her since she first came into my orbit.
Mia reels her head back, almost laughing. "You're kidding, right?"
She lets the question hang, trying to read me and knowing it's impossible.
I stay silent, letting the seconds stretch like torture, for her and for me.
My desire to have her there, exactly as I described, fills the room.
I meet her eyes, hold them until there's no mistaking what I mean.
"I'm not," I say, each word weighted, deliberate.
Her expression shifts, and I can see the calculations happening behind those green eyes.
She thought she knew where this was going.
She didn't.
She had no fucking clue.
For a moment, she blinks at me, and I feel like I've knocked the air from her lungs. "You're insane," she says, but there's a hesitation that betrays her.
She doesn't move, doesn't back away.
It's almost too perfect.
It's almost exactly what I hoped for.
"Compensation will be more than generous should you agree. Much more than you are receiving now," I tell her, trying to sweeten the deal.
Her uncertainty only adds to my need. "You won't have any debt by the time you're done with school," I add, knowing exactly what buttons to push.
The offer hangs between us, and I wait for it to sink in.
I see the moment it does, the moment she knows I'm serious and that her life could change if she lets it.
If she lets me .
"You must be joking." She says it like a punchline, like she's not sure if the joke's on me or on her.
She waits for the laugh, for the dismissive wave, but I stay silent, waiting for my offer to catch up with her incredulity.
She tries again, her voice more controlled. "You're serious?"
This time it's a real question.
I take a step closer, close enough to see the slight tremor in her hands as she wipes them on the rag.
Close enough to know she wants this as much as I do, even if she won't admit it yet.
"You'll be compensated," I repeat. "Your entire life will change, Mia. All you have to do is say yes."
The longer I let it sit, the more the silence fills with possibility.
Mia blinks, and the look in her eyes is one I've seen before.
It's the look of someone on the edge of a decision that could change everything.
For both of us.
The connection between us simmers, and I can almost feel it take shape.
It's something she doesn't understand yet, but she will.
I see it in the way she holds my gaze, in the way she doesn' t pull away.
She doesn't answer, but the silence is rich with possibilities.
I watch the tension in her body, the way her lips press together as she weighs what this means.
Mia shakes her head, a last attempt to dismiss it.
"What kind of man are you?" she asks, a forced laugh coloring her words.
But I know the laugh is an act.
I know because she's still standing here, still looking at me like she can't decide if I'm dangerous or just what she needs.
I'm both.
That's the point.
"You'll find out," I say, letting the words hang like a challenge, like a promise.
She tries to stay composed, but I know what it looks like when someone's losing.
"I'm wrapping up," she finally says, the words as uncertain as she is. "I'll be out of your hair soon."
I don't let her escape so easily.
Not this time.
"Let me give you a ride. The streets aren't safe this late."
It's almost too easy, the way her eyes widen, the way her lips part with surprise and something else.
She's not used to this kind of attention, not from me or anyone .
I wait for her answer, already knowing what it will be.
Mia Cohen.
Mia Lindberg .
“Okay,” she says, her eyes darting around, anywhere but at my face.
She packs up, cleans her supplies and we make our way to my McLaren.
She sits beside me, quiet and contained, and I feel the electricity between us.
This is the start of something I can control, the beginning of a story where the ending is already written.
The streets blur past, and I focus on the curve of her jaw, the soft, careful way she holds herself. In here, she's captive to my attention, unable to escape the pull between us.
I ask about school, feigning a casual interest but wanting to know everything.
"Is the scholarship enough?" I probe, my voice calm and steady.
I already know the answer, but I want to hear her say it.
I want to hear the need.
She hesitates, choosing her words as carefully as she always does.
"It covers most things," Mia finally replies.
She's unsure of me, unsure of herself, but I see the curiosity starting to form.
She's considering what it will mean to be my muse.
She gives me her address and I head toward her part of town.
We drive in silence for a while, and each breath makes it feel more real, makes her feel more mine.
The connection simmers, and I know she feels it too.
The street lights flicker, lighting the tight set of her lips, the way she glances out the window but always back to me.
When we pull up to Mia's flat, I watch the knowledge sink in.
I know exactly where she lives, and now I can watch her whenever I’d like.
"Thursday," I say, my voice leaving no room for doubt. "I'll pick you up."
She looks at me, and there's a flicker of understanding as she nods.
And so the little lamb is led to the slaughter.