He was blurring the lines between patron and predator, and I was no longer sure which one I wanted him to be.
The memory of his hands on me, the electric shock of his touch as he corrected my grip on the palette knife, was a ghost that haunted my studio. It lingered in the air, a phantom sensation on my skin that I couldn't scrub away. For three days, I'd tried to work, but every stroke of the brush felt like a reaction to him, to the stormy, unsettled look in his eyes when he'd pulled away. Now we're getting somewhere. The words were a taunt, a promise of a deeper, more dangerous game.
He'd left me alone since then, a silence that felt more deliberate, more charged, than any of his previous visits. It was calm before the storm. I should have known his next move would be a public one.
The summons came not as a request, but as a notification. A sleek, black garment bag was delivered to the studio by a silent, efficient woman who informed me I was to be ready by seven. Inside was not just a dress, but an arsenal.
It was a gown of liquid night, a deep, fathomless black that felt like it had been woven from shadows and starlight. The fabric was heavy, exquisite, a silk-wool blend that whispered of obscene wealth. It was backless, with a neckline that promised both modesty and revelation, and a slit that ran from the floor to the middle of my thigh. It was a weapon. Another tool of control, designed to make me feel both invincible and exposed.
At precisely seven o'clock, he was there. He stood in the doorway of my studio, and the air fled the room. He was in a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, the stark black and white making his grey eyes seem even more piercing, his presence even more formidable. His gaze swept over me, from the complicated updo my hands had fumbled to create, down the length of the devastating dress, to the unfamiliar high heels I was trying not to wobble in.
A slow, appreciative smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was the smile of a collector admiring a prized artifact. "It suits you," he said, his voice a low thrum that vibrated in the hollow of my chest. "The colour of ruin."
"Is that what tonight is?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. "Another exhibit? Am I to be your latest acquisition on display?"
"Tonight," he said, stepping forward and offering me his arm, a gesture that felt more like a command than a courtesy, "you are my muse. And you will act like it."
The gala was at the Aethelred Gallery itself, the very institution that was to host my solo exhibition. It was a cruel bit of staging, a reminder of the prize dangled before me. The moment we stepped through the towering doors, we were swallowed by a world of blinding chandeliers, the clink of crystal, and the low, moneyed hum of the city's elite.
I was a fish out of water, a sparrow among hawks. But Lysander's hand on the small of my back was a brand, a constant, firm pressure that both anchored and imprisoned me. He moved through the crowd with an easy, predatory grace, and I was tethered to him, a captive moon to his dark planet.
And then the looks began. The curious, assessing glances from women in diamonds and men who assessed everything, and everyone, as a potential asset. A man I vaguely recognized as a hedge fund manager approached, his eyes lingering on the slit in my dress.
"Lysander! A stunning piece," he said, his gaze raking over me as if I were one of the artworks on the wall. "Is this the famous Vance? The one causing all the… chatter?"
Before I could form a retort, Lysander's arm slid from my back to my waist, pulling me tightly against his side. The move was possessive, primal. His voice, when he spoke, was coated in a polite frost that didn't hide the steel beneath.
"The chatter is irrelevant, Charles," Lysander said, his eyes cold. "Elara is under my exclusive patronage. Her work, and her time, are spoken for."
The man's smile faltered. He mumbled something and retreated quickly. A flush heated my cheeks — part fury, part something else, something dark and thrilling that coiled low in my stomach. I was infuriated by his display, by being talked about as if I were a commodity. But the sheer, unapologetic force of his claim… it was a potent, terrifying aphrodisiac.
It happened twice more. An elderly art critic who tried to take my hand, a young tech prodigy who asked me too many questions about my process. Each time, Lysander would shut it down with a quiet word, a cutting remark, or simply by shifting his body to block their access to me, his hand a constant, heavy weight on my hip or the bare skin of my back. He was building a wall around me with his presence alone, and to my horror, a part of me felt safer inside it.
"You don't have to act like a jealous guard dog," I hissed at him during a momentary lull, my heart pounding. "I can handle myself."
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes. "Can you?" he murmured, his thumb stroking a slow, deliberate circle on my spine. The sensation shot straight through me. "You look like a fantasy they all want to devour. I'm merely reminding them that this particular fantasy has teeth, and I'm the one who holds the leash."
The words should have enraged me. Instead, they made my breath catch. The room was too hot, too bright. The pressure of his hand, the intensity of his focus, the way his body seemed to thrum with a barely leashed energy — it was all becoming too much.
"I need air," I breathed, pulling away from his touch.
I didn't wait for his permission. I moved through the crowd, feeling his gaze like a physical touch between my shoulder blades, and found a set of glass doors leading to a secluded balcony overlooking the city. The cold night air was a shock, a blessed relief. I gripped the stone railing, my knuckles white, and tried to steady my racing heart.