The only thing was, I hadn’t known what the actual art was. I had just paid the organizers of the event to put her exhibit front and center. It had cost a pretty fucking penny, but there was nothing I couldn’t buy. Except maybe genuine love, but that was never going to be a part of my life.
Now, I took a closer look at her art. And fuck me, it was good.Toogood.
In the same way that having Sarah on my arm brought a swarm of heat and passion that I worried might be obvious in my tuxedo pants, the sight of her art stirred emotions I hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t arousing, not like her touch, but it reminded me… it reminded me…
Fuck.
Her art was way too fucking good. It showed a man grieving at sunrise, overlooking what appeared to be a tombstone. It was… it was…
I fucking hated this. Why did I need a reminder of Virgil now? Yes, of Virgil, of course of fucking Virgil, what fucking else would make me wish I was anywhere else?
But, damn.
A part of me had to respect her work. Rarely was there anything—a person, a news headline, a work of art—that shook me from my core. It had become rarer and rarer the older and more powerful I got. It said a lot about her work that she had done that.
“Yes, your art,” I said. “And may I remind you, you are the artist. You are standing by your art. You must not look surprised by it, but impressed by it.”
The scowl she gave me surprised me, but unlike her art, I did not let it unsettle me.
“There’s no such thing as an artist who's overly in love with their work,” she snapped.
“I’m not asking you to believe what you present, but to do it for the cameras. Or has the moment gotten too big for you?”
She scowled at me. That was the last expression I needed to see right now.
“Smile.”
“Give me a reason,” she snarled.
Oh, this was fun. Real fucking fun. It was almost tempting to let this be the spot where she crumbled; left to fend for herself, I had my doubts about her ability to make it through the night without running to the bathroom in tears at some point. No, that wasn’t fair; Sarah was stronger than that.
But that was beside the point. It was too early. I had to play nice for a little longer. The longer the food marinated, the tastier it was. The longer my vengeance simmered…
“The reason,” I said, walking over and placing an arm around her. Oh, fuck, that felt dangerously tense and good. I cleared my throat, thought of boring spreadsheets, and turned back to her. She was too beautiful for me to pretend her presence wasn’t exciting me.
“The reason?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“The reason is that you are mine here tonight,” I said, low enough that no one nearby could hear it. “And I will treat you exactly as you should be treated.”
Finally, that brought a smile to Sarah. Finally, she got the picture. Finally, things could move forward.
As the night progressed, we took turns standing by Sarah’s art and wandering around the exhibit. Both of us played our parts rather well; I was my charming but powerful self, and Sarah had the good sense to smile and be affable to those I introduced her to. She was properly high class, just pompous enough for the occasion but not arrogantly so. I dared to say,I almost enjoyed it. Truly, genuinely enjoyed it, no strings or conditions attached.
That was a problem.
If I stayed the romantic date for too long, I might lose sight of why I’d started this deal in the first place. I needed a reason to let my true darkness through. I needed?—
“Can we rest someplace?” Sarah suddenly said. “I feel like I’ve been on my feet for three days.”
Yes.
This was it. This was the excuse I needed to be annoyed and angry.
Truth be told, I was a bit tired too. Not so tired I couldn’t perform—I never got that tired—but tired enough that if no one was looking, if I were alone in the room, I might lounge in a chair, sip on some bourbon, and just let my mind wander a bit.
“You want to rest?” I said. “So be it. Come.”
“I—”
