"I'm fine, Claire. Really. I just need to get through this auction, and then I'll take some time off. Maybe I’ll go visit Annie again or something." Nothing in my voice is particularly convincing, especially since it took Annie having issues with her pregnancy to get me to take time off in the first place.
She doesn't believe me. I can hear it in her silence. But she doesn't push, and I'm grateful for that at least.
"Okay," she says finally. "But if you need anything—if you need help or just someone to talk to—I'm here. You know that, right?"
I nod, feeling my throat tighten. "I know. Thank you."
After she leaves, I stare at the documents on my desk, feeling the weight of my isolation. I can't tell Claire, can't tell anyone. Who would believe me? And even if they did, what could they do?
I consider running. I could leave. Just pack a bag and go. Close the gallery, and disappear somewhere I.S. can't find me.
But where would I go?
I can’t go to Annie’s; he found me in Boston first, and I can’t bring this to her doorstep. I could go to LA. I have a friend from college there, someone I haven't talked to in years but who might let me crash on her couch while I figure things out. Chicago? I'vealways liked Chicago. I could start over there, find a new gallery, build a new life. Abroad? London, Paris, somewhere far enough away that he couldn't follow?
But is there really anywhere far enough to run from a man so wealthy, so connected, soobsessedthat he can pay off the police? Wouldn’t he just find me, no matter where I go? And even if I could believe that running was really an option, something within me knows that I’m not going to buy a ticket or make a phone call or pack a bag.
I tell myself it's pride. That I'm not going to let him chase me out of my own life, out of my city and career, and home. That running would be admitting defeat, letting him win, proving that he has power over me. And after all, I can't just abandon my job, my responsibilities, my life. I can’t leave Claire without a job. I can’t run out on everything that makes upme.
But there's something else underneath all of that. Something darker that I don't want to examine too closely.
Part of me wants to see him again… to know what happens next, wants to see how far this will go.
The thought horrifies me. I’ve pushed it away every time it surfaces, burying it under layers of fear and rationality. But it keeps coming back, persistent and undeniable.
I'm drawn to him—to the danger, to the darkness, to the intensity of the way he looks at me. The feeling of being seen and known and desired so deeply that there’s no sin not worth committing to have me.
That feeling lingers with me into the next day, when I find myself staying late at the gallery again. I don’t know if it’s the need to stay busy or a dark, secret hope that he’ll ambush me when I leave again, but I wave off Claire as she tells me she’s leaving to go meet up with friends for dinner, telling her I want to finish cataloging the pieces for next week's auction.
It's not entirely a lie. We do have an auction coming up—a collection of contemporary sculptures that a client is liquidating after a divorce. But I could have done this work tomorrow, during normal business hours, with other people around.
I want to be here right now, though. Alone and surrounded by what I’ve built, the reminder of what my life truly is. My apartment feels less and less like mine now, the reminder that I’m being watched ever-present there more than anywhere else. Even after what happened the other night, this space still feels safer.
The back room of the gallery is dimmer than the main space, lit by overhead fluorescents. It's a storage and work area, lined with metal shelving units holding artwork in various states of preparation: paintings wrapped in protective plastic, those sculptures on pedestals as an attempt to continue to diversify, and boxes of catalogs and promotional materials.
I take a seat at my work table, my laptop open as I photograph each piece and work on writing up detailed condition reports on each one, from a classical marble torso to a series of small ceramic pieces that look fragile enough to shatter if I breathe on them wrong.
The work is methodical and soothing. Photograph from multiple angles. Measure dimensions. Note any damage or wear. Write a description that will entice buyers without overpromising. I focus on that, on any minutiae that can keep my mind from wandering back to I.S., to the kiss, to the way he looked at me with that same intensity that made my knees weak and took my breath away. The way he kissed me, rough and possessive and consuming.
The way I kissed him back.
I've been trying not to think about that part, convincing myself it was just shock and fear, my body responding to a threat by giving him what he wanted.
But I know that's not entirely true. Iwantedthat kiss… wantedhim. I wanted the intensity and the danger and the feeling of being completely consumed by someone else's desire.
I shake my head, trying to clear it, and focus on the sculpture in front of me. It's a bronze piece, abstract but vaguely humanoid, about eighteen inches tall and surprisingly heavy. The artist's signature is on the base, and there's a small dent on one side that I need to note in the condition report.
I glance outside. It’s dark, and well past eight o’clock. I should go home. This can all be done tomorrow. But what am I going to do at home? Sit and think? Do more google searches for a man who might as well be a digital ghost? What is the point of doing anything else?
Instead I keep working, photographing the next piece, writing another description, losing myself in the routine. I manage to actually shut my brain off for a little while outside of the rote work, so much so that I jump when I hear the front door chime ring.
The sound is electronic and cheerful, completely at odds with the spike of fear that shoots through me. It's just the door sensor, the same sound it makes dozens of times a day when customers come and go.
But we’re closed. The lights in the main gallery are off except for the security lighting. The front door is locked. No one should be here except…
“Claire?” I call out, my voice echoing slightly in the empty space. "Did you forget something?"
No response.
