Chapter 3

The air in the loft still tasted of turpentine and expensive wine, a thick, intoxicating haze that clung to the back of my throat long after the other guests had drifted away. It was late, the kind of late where the city outside hums with a distant, electric promise, but in here, the silence was heavy, pressing against my eardrums. I stood near the large bay window, looking out at the industrial sprawl of the city below, my champagne flute empty and forgotten in my hand. I had been trying to compose myself, to smooth out the erratic rhythm of my heart that had been galloping since he first touched my lower back with those possessive, warm palms. He was across the room, leaning against a workbench covered in half-finished canvases and rags stained with cobalt and ochre. He was watching me. He always watched me. It wasn’t a casual glance; it was a slow, deliberate assessment, like he was studying the brushstrokes of a masterpiece, looking for the subtle shifts in tone that revealed the truth beneath the surface. I felt exposed, stripped bare by that gaze, even though I was still wearing the same silk slip dress I’d