Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mia
The noise of the crowd swells and ebbs like waves crashing against a rocky shore.
I stand before my charcoal drawing of a woman engulfed in flames, her mouth stretched wide in a silent scream.
The piece seems to pulse with its own dark energy, drawing people in despite—or perhaps because of—its haunting imagery.
I adjust the black lace choker at my throat, the silver skull charm cool against my skin.
My fingers tremble slightly as I smooth down the front of my flowing crimson dress.
The color reminds me of blood, of fire.
Appropriate for tonight .
"Your work is... unsettling," a middle-aged woman in pearls remarks, her eyes wide as she takes in the details of my largest piece. "But I can't look away."
I offer a small nod. "Thank you. Art should provoke a reaction, I think."
She moves on, replaced by a steady stream of gallery patrons sipping champagne and murmuring to each other as they examine my collection.
I've lost count of how many people have approached me tonight, eager to dissect my creative process or share their interpretations of my work.
The constant socializing leaves me drained.
I crave solitude, the quiet of my studio where I can lose myself in the scratch of charcoal against paper.
But tonight is important.
This is my moment to make an impression on London's art scene.
I scan the room, searching for Henrik's tall frame among the sea of bodies.
He's been circulating, charming potential buyers and critics alike.
His presence both comforts and unnerves me.
When our eyes meet across the gallery, a jolt of electricity runs through me.
Henrik weaves through the crowd, a distinguished-looking older gentleman in tow .
As they approach, I notice the man's appraising gaze sweep over my work.
My stomach tightens with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety.
"Mia, my dear," Henrik says, his voice a low purr that sends shivers down my spine. "I'd like you to meet someone."
I force a polite smile, though inside I'm screaming.
These interactions drain me, leave me feeling raw and exposed.
But I know they're necessary.
I can't hide in the shadows forever if I want my art to be seen.
"It's a pleasure," I murmur, extending my hand.
The man's grip is firm, his palm slightly damp.
As Henrik makes introductions, I study the newcomer.
His suit is impeccably tailored, his silver hair neatly combed.
He exudes an air of wealth and influence.
I wonder what he sees when he looks at me—a talented artist worthy of respect, or a young girl playing at being profound?
"Your work is quite... intense," the man says, his gaze lingering on the burning woman. "You have a unique vision."
I swallow hard, searching for the right words .
How do I explain that my art comes from a place of pain and guilt without sounding melodramatic?
That each piece is an exorcism of sorts, a way to give form to the demons that haunt me?
"Thank you," I finally manage. "I try to capture raw emotion, to make the viewer feel something visceral."
The man nods thoughtfully. "You certainly succeed in that regard. Tell me, what inspired this particular piece?"
I freeze, memories of that terrible night flooding back.
The smell of smoke, the roar of flames, my parents' screams...
No.
I can't think about that now.
I take a deep breath, willing my racing heart to slow.
"I'm fascinated by the duality of fire," I say carefully. "How it can both create and destroy. The woman represents that struggle between passion and pain."
It's not a lie, not really.
But it's easier than admitting the truth—that I see myself in that burning figure, consumed by guilt and grief.
The man seems impressed by my answer.
He and Henrik continue to discuss my work, but their voices fade to a dull buzz as I retreat into my own thoughts.
I'm suddenly hyper aware of my body, of the scars hidden beneath long sleeves and dark fabric.
My skin feels too tight, like it might split open at any moment and reveal the broken girl beneath.
I need air.
Need to escape, if only for a moment.
"Excuse me," I murmur, not waiting for a response before I slip away.
I weave through the crowd, ignoring the curious glances and attempts at conversation.
My chest feels tight, each breath a struggle.
Finally, I reach a small alcove near the back of the gallery.
It's mercifully empty.
I lean against the wall, closing my eyes and focusing on steadying my breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
Slowly, the panic begins to recede.
"Are you all right, Nattblomma ?"
Henrik's voice startles me.
I hadn't heard him approach.
When I open my eyes, he's standing before me, concern etched on his angular features.
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just needed a moment away from the crowd."
He reaches out, his long fingers gently caressing my cheek .
Despite everything, I lean into his touch.
There's something both comforting and dangerous about Henrik—like cuddling up to a lion and hoping it won't decide to eat you.
"You're doing wonderfully," he murmurs. "Everyone is captivated by your work. By you."
I laugh softly, the sound tinged with bitterness. "They're captivated by the persona I've created. The tormented artist with her macabre visions. If they knew the real me..."
Henrik's ice-blue eyes bore into mine. "I know the real you, Mia. And you're exquisite."
Before I can respond, he leans in and captures my lips in a searing kiss.
I melt against him, my body responding instinctively to his touch.
For a moment, I forget about the crowd just beyond this alcove, about the weight of expectations pressing down on me.
There's only Henrik, his taste, his scent, the solid warmth of his body against mine.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless.
Henrik smirks, clearly pleased with the effect he has on me.
"Come," he says, taking my hand. "Let's rejoin the party. I believe there are a few more people eager to meet you."
I allow him to lead me back into the fray, steeling myself for more small talk and probing questions.
As we emerge from the alcove, I catch sight of my reflection in a nearby mirror.
My lipstick is slightly smudged, my cheeks flushed.
I look... alive.
It's almost jarring.
The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and discussions about my work.
I find myself falling into a rhythm, answering questions about my technique and inspiration with practiced ease.
It becomes almost like a performance—I am Mia the Artist, confident and enigmatic.
But beneath the calm exterior, my mind races.
I can't help but marvel at how surreal this all feels.
Just a year ago, I was a lonely art student, pouring my pain onto paper in the solitude of my tiny flat.
Now I'm the center of attention at a prestigious London gallery, rubbing elbows with the elite of the art world.
And it's all thanks to Henrik.
I glance at him as he chats animatedly with a group of potential buyers.
He's in his element here, charming and magnetic.
When he first approached me about representing my work, I was skeptical .
Why would someone of his status and influence be interested in an unknown student?
But Henrik saw something in me, in my art.
He nurtured my talent, pushed me to explore the darkest corners of my psyche and translate that onto paper.
Under his guidance, my work evolved from raw, angry sketches to the polished pieces on display tonight.
I owe him everything.
"Mia, darling," Henrik's voice breaks through my reverie. "Come meet Evelyn. She's a curator at the Tate Modern."
I paste on a smile and turn to greet the newcomer, pushing my conflicted feelings aside.
Tonight isn't about me or my tangled relationship with Henrik.
It's about my art.
As the night wears on, I begin to feel the strain of constant socializing.
My cheeks ache from smiling, my throat raw from talking.
But I push through, knowing how crucial these connections could be for my career.
I'm in the middle of explaining my creative process to a group of art students when I feel Henrik's hand on the small of my back.
"Pardon the interruption," he says smoothly. "But I'm afraid I need to borrow Mia for a moment."
He guides me away from the group, his touch both possessive and steadying.
"How are you holding up?" he asks once we're relatively alone.
I exhale slowly. "I'm... managing. It's a lot."
Henrik nods, his expression sympathetic. "You're doing beautifully, Nattblomma . Just a bit longer."
He's right, of course.
Henrik's hand remains on my back as he steers me toward a distinguished-looking gentleman standing near my most provocative piece—the woman screaming in the fire.
A lot of people have been heading over that way tonight.
The man's eyes are fixed on the painting, his expression a mixture of awe and something darker that I can't quite place.
"Mia," Henrik says, his voice low and smooth, "I'd like you to meet Charles Blackwood. He's an old friend and owns several prestigious galleries here in London."
I extend my hand, trying to ignore the way my heart races. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Blackwood."
Charles takes my hand, his grip firm. "The pleasure is all mine, Miss Cohen, your work is... extraordinary. "
"Thank you," I say, feeling a flush creep up my neck. "I'm glad you're enjoying the show."
Charles nods, his gaze returning to the painting. "More than enjoying. In fact, I'd like to discuss something with you." He pauses, his eyes meeting mine. "I'm interested in giving you space for a new collection next summer in one of my galleries."
My breath catches in my throat.
This is the kind of opportunity I've dreamed of.
I force myself to remain composed, even as excitement bubbles up inside me.
"That's incredibly generous," I manage to say. "I'd be honored to discuss it further."
Charles smiles, a predatory glint in his eye. "Excellent. And there's something else. I'd like to purchase this piece." He gestures to the woman in the flames. "It speaks to me on a deep level. Shall we discuss a price?"
I glance at Henrik, unsure how to proceed. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod.
"Of course," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "What did you have in mind?"
Charles strokes his chin thoughtfully. "I'm prepared to offer 5,000 GBP."
Before I can respond, Henrik interjects smoothly. "I'm afraid you're not the only one who's expressed interest, old friend. The last offer we received was for 10,000 GBP. "
I struggle to keep my expression neutral, even as my mind reels.
10,000 pounds?
For one of my pieces?
It seems almost unreal.
Charles raises an eyebrow, looking between Henrik and me.
I can see the wheels turning in his head, reassessing the value of my work.
Charles laughs, a rich, deep sound that echoes through the gallery.
His eyes gleam with amusement and something else—calculation, perhaps.
"Well, well," he says, straightening his already impeccable suit jacket. "It seems I've underestimated the market for such raw talent."
I stand perfectly still, my heart thundering in my chest.
The scars on my arms seem to tingle beneath my sleeves, a reminder of the pain that birthed this very piece.
I wonder if Charles can see the ghosts that haunt every stroke of charcoal.
"How about we settle it at 17,500 GBP and state it's sold?" Charles proposes, his tone casual as if discussing the weather rather than a sum that could change my life .
My breath catches in my throat.
I glance at Henrik, searching for guidance, but his face is impassive.
This is my decision to make.
"It's sold," I hear myself say, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "Thank you for being my first purchase, Mr. Blackwood."
A smile spreads across Charles' face, satisfaction evident in the set of his shoulders. "Excellent choice, my dear. It will go nicely in my home in Moscow."
As he speaks, I can't help but picture my art hanging in some opulent Russian mansion, surrounded by priceless antiques and gilded frames.
Will it stand out, I wonder, or fade into the background like so many pretty trinkets?
"I hope it brings you as much... inspiration as it has brought me," I say softly, thinking of the nightmares that spawned this particular piece.
Charles reaches into his breast pocket, producing a sleek business card that he hands to me with a flourish.
His fingers brush mine as I take it, and I suppress a shiver at the contact.
"You have quite an eye for talent, Henrik," Charles says, turning to my boyfriend. "Someone will scoop this woman up if you're not careful."
I feel my cheeks flush at the implication, a mix of embarrassment and a strange pride swirling in my chest.
Henrik's arm snakes around my waist, pulling me closer to his side.
The possessive gesture sends a thrill down my spine.
"No need to worry about that, old friend," Henrik replies, his voice smooth as silk but with an edge of steel beneath. "Mia is set to be the future Mrs. Lindberg. No one will be scooping her up."
My heart stutters in my chest.
Future Mrs. Lindberg?
I struggle to keep my face neutral, even as my mind races.
When did this become a plan?
Why am I both terrified and exhilarated by the prospect?
Charles's eyebrows rise slightly, but his smile never wavers. "Well then, congratulations are in order. You two make quite the striking pair." He nods to us both before turning away, melting back into the crowd of art enthusiasts and socialites.
As soon as he's out of earshot, I turn to Henrik, my eyes wide.
"Are you serious?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Henrik's icy blue eyes lock onto mine, a wicked gleam sparking in their depths .
He throws his head back and cackles, the sound both thrilling and unnerving.
"When have you known me not to be serious?" he purrs.
My breath catches as Henrik reaches into his pocket, his long, elegant fingers emerging with something small and glinting.
Before I can fully process what's happening, he's sliding a ring onto my finger.
I gasp, staring down at the piece of jewelry now adorning my hand.
It's exquisite—a coffin-cut black diamond set in blackened gold, the Victorian-style setting intricate and hauntingly beautiful.
It's exactly my style, as if he'd plucked the design straight from my deepest desires.
"Henrik," I breathe, unable to tear my eyes away from the ring. "It's... it's perfect."
A mix of emotions swirls within me—awe, excitement, and a hint of trepidation.
This is all happening so fast, and yet... isn't this what I've wanted?
To be bound to Henrik, to his dark and captivating world?
I look up at him, searching his face.
"Are you going to ask me?" I whisper, half-expecting him to drop to one knee right here in the middle of my gallery opening.
Henrik's expression shifts, becoming intense and almost predatory.
He leans in close, his breath hot against my ear as he speaks.
"No, I'm not," he growls, his voice low and commanding. "You belong to me, Nattblomma , and only me."
A shiver runs through my body at his words.
There's no question in his tone, no room for argument.
It should frighten me, this level of possessiveness, but instead, I feel a thrill of excitement.
I gnaw on my bottom lip, a nervous habit I've never been able to shake.
"We should take a break," I suggest, my voice barely above a whisper. "Fifteen minutes or so. Just to... catch our breath."
Henrik's icy blue eyes flash with understanding, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I'm on board with that idea."
Without another word, we weave through the throng of art enthusiasts, my hand firmly clasped in Henrik's.
The constant chatter and clink of champagne glasses fades as we approach the studio .
I fumble with the key, my hands trembling slightly as I unlock the door.
Once inside, Henrik swiftly closes it behind us, the lock clicking into place with a finality that sends a shiver down my spine.
The familiar scent of charcoal and turpentine envelops me, a stark contrast to the perfumed air of the gallery.
"Finally," Henrik murmurs, his tall frame looming over me in the dimly lit space. "Just us."
I lean against my worktable, surrounded by half-finished sketches and the tools of my trade.
"Henrik," I start, my voice wavering. "This ring... us... it's all so sudden."
He steps closer, his presence overwhelming in the confined space. "Is it? Haven't we been moving toward this since the moment we met?"
I close my eyes, remembering our first encounter, the instant spark of connection. "Yes, but..."
"But what, Mia?" Henrik's fingers trace the silvery scars on my arm, a gentle touch.
"I'm scared," I admit, the words escaping before I can stop them. "Not of you, but of... this. Of how much I want it."
Henrik's eyes darken with desire as he pulls me against him, his lips crashing onto mine with an urgency that steals my breath .
I respond instantly, my body arching into his as if pulled by an invisible force.
His hands roam my body, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
"You're mine now," he growls against my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Say it."
I gasp as he lifts me onto the worktable, scattering pencils and papers. "I'm yours, Henrik. Always."
He pushes my dress up, his fingers finding their way beneath the fabric.
I shudder at his touch, my mind clouding with desire. "Henrik, we don't have much time," I pant, even as I fumble with his belt.
"Then we'll make every second count," he says, his voice low and husky.
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer.
The cold metal of my new ring presses against his back as I cling to him.
Our bodies move together in a frenzied dance, the passion between us reaching a fever pitch.
"God, Mia," Henrik groans, his rhythm becoming erratic. "You're perfect. Made for me."
I lose myself in the sensation, my world narrowing to just us, just this moment.
"Henrik, I—" My words are cut off by a wave of pleasure so intense it leaves me breathless.
As we come down from our shared high, Henrik rests his forehead against mine, both of us panting. "That was..."
"Incredible," I finish, a smile tugging at my lips.
He chuckles, a rare sound that warms my heart. "At this rate, I'll have you pregnant in no time."
I playfully swat his arm, but can't help the flutter in my stomach at his words. "Is that so?"
"Absolutely," he says, his tone half-joking, half-serious. "I can already picture a little artist running around, covered in paint."
As we straighten our clothes and attempt to make ourselves presentable, I can't shake the image Henrik's words have conjured.
A child with his piercing blue eyes and my wild curls.
It's a future I never dared to imagine before, but now...
"We should get back," I say, running a hand through my tousled hair. "They'll wonder where we've gone."