Daniel shifts, the first crack in his professional demeanor. "Ms. Marlowe, I—" He clears his throat. "Mr. Steele was quite clear about today's schedule."
Of course he was. And everyone in Dominic's orbit follows his directives without question—his staff, his business associates, and now, apparently, me.
"Fine," I say, sliding into the backseat of the black SUV.
During the drive uptown, my phone chimes with a text from Dominic:
Baldwin is expecting you. We'll discuss Perkins another time. Enjoy your breakfast.
My fingers tighten around the phone. How did he know? Did he monitor my calls? Have someone listening to my conversations? The possibilities spin outward, each more disturbing than the last.
The meeting with Baldwin proceeds exactly as Dominic orchestrated—in a private dining room at an exclusive restaurant rather than the gallery office, with the directorfawning over me as Dominic's latest discovery. The contract terms he outlines are more favorable than industry standard, and I recognize Dominic's influence in the fine print. By the meeting's end, I've agreed to let Baldwin host my next solo show, the decision made not because I wanted it but because resistance seemed both futile and professionally foolish.
Back at the penthouse, I change clothes before heading to my studio, replacing my comfortable outfit with one of the designer ensembles that have mysteriously multiplied in my closet. The jeans and leather jacket feel like a costume now, a relic from a former life that no longer fits.
I lose myself in painting for several hours, the only time I still feel fully myself. Here, at least, Dominic's control recedes somewhat. He never criticizes my artistic choices or directs my creative process—perhaps understanding that doing so would break something essential in me. The canvas becomes my territory, the only space where I still exercise complete autonomy.
At precisely 2:45 PM, a discreet chime announces someone at the penthouse door. Alessandra, the couturier, has arrived for my fitting—fifteen minutes early, but exactly when Dominic told her to come, I'm sure. I wash my hands and descend to the main floor, where she's already set up a makeshift atelier in the living room.
"Ah, Ms. Marlowe!" she exclaims, her Italian accent musical with false familiarity. "We have such beautiful options for you!"
The gowns she's brought are breathtaking—handcrafted works of art in themselves. Yet as I try each one, Alessandra dismisses options based on criteria I haven't specified.
"No, not this one—Mr. Steele prefers you in jewel tones."
"This neckline is too revealing for Mr. Steele's taste."
"The back dips too low—Mr. Steele mentioned your scar should remain private."
I stare at her at this last comment. The scar—a small, crescent-shaped mark at the base of my spine from a childhood fall—is barely visible, and I've never been self-conscious about it. But Dominic has apparently decided it's not for public view, and so Alessandra eliminates any design that might reveal it.
"Has Mr. Steele seen these dresses?" I ask, suspicion blooming.
"But of course," she replies, surprised I would question it. "He pre-selected everything I've brought today."
Of course he did. Dominic leaves nothing to chance, especially not how I'll appear on his arm at high-profile events. I'm being dressed like a doll, my choices narrowed to options he has already approved.
By the time I select a gown—or rather, by the time I accept the inevitable choice Dominic has engineered—my mood has darkened considerably. I retreat to the studio, intending to lose myself in work for the hour before I need to prepare for dinner, only to find Jameson, Dominic's personal assistant, waiting for me.
"Ms. Marlowe, I have the guest list for tonight's dinner," he says, handing me a folder. "Mr. Steele asked that you review it in advance."
Inside are detailed profiles of each dinner attendee—not just names and occupations, but personal details, including their art preferences, recent acquisitions, and potential interest in my work. Notes in Dominic's handwriting indicate specific talking points for each person, directing which aspects of my artistic process I should emphasize or downplay depending on their individual sensibilities.
"He wants me to memorize all this before dinner?" I ask, flipping through the meticulously prepared briefs.
"Mr. Steele thought you might appreciate being prepared," Jameson replies neutrally. "He mentioned you sometimes experience anxiety in new social situations."
It's true—I do get nervous meeting new people, especially powerful figures in the art world. But the fact that Dominic has observed this vulnerability and is now managing it for me feels both considerate and intrusive. Am I grateful for his attention to detail, or disturbed by his presumption? The line blurs further each day.
As I dress for dinner, selecting the emerald dress Dominic specified (which does, admittedly, look stunning), my phone chimes with an incoming email. It's from Ana, my closest friend from art school, responding to lunch plans I'd suggested earlier in the week.
"Hey Wren, got the weirdest call from your assistant (since when do you have an assistant??) saying you're booked solid for the next three weeks but could fit me in for coffee next month if I come to your studio. What's going on? Are you okay? This doesn't sound like you at all."
I stare at the message, heat rising to my face. I never authorized anyone to contact Ana, never delegated my personal relationships to staff management. Yet someone—under Dominic's direction, undoubtedly—has taken it upon themselves to screen even my friendships, determining who deserves access to me and under what conditions.
This crosses a line I didn't even know I needed to draw. Taking a deep breath, I dial Ana's number, determined to reclaim at least this small corner of my life.
She answers on the second ring. "Wren? Is that really you? I was beginning to think you'd been body-snatched."
