"It's me," I say, relieved at the sound of her voice—a connection to my pre-Dominic existence. "Listen, I'm sorry about whatever message you got. Things have been crazy withthe Whitney exhibition coming up, but I never told anyone to call you."
"So the guy dropping your name and talking about your 'availability window' wasn't authorized?" She sounds equal parts amused and concerned.
"No, and I'm going to address it. Can we meet tomorrow? I could really use a friend right now."
As the words leave my mouth, the penthouse elevator chimes, announcing Dominic's early return. My heart rate instantly accelerates.
"Tomorrow's perfect," Ana says. "Our usual spot at noon?"
"Yes," I agree quickly. "I'll see you then."
I end the call just as Dominic enters the bedroom, impeccably dressed for dinner in a suit that probably cost more than all the clothes I owned three months ago combined. His eyes assess me immediately—the dress, the hair I've styled according to his preference, the subtle makeup that emphasizes my features without appearing obvious.
"Beautiful," he says, crossing to kiss me lightly. "Right on schedule, as always."
I should confront him about Ana, about the usurped meeting with Perkins, about the countless ways he's redirecting my life without consultation. Instead, I find myself responding to his kiss, craving his approval even as I resent my need for it.
"I was just confirming lunch plans with Ana for tomorrow," I say, testing the waters.
Something shifts in his expression—not anger, but a slight recalibration, as if adjusting calculations. "Ana Rodriguez from your art school days? I'm afraid tomorrow won't work, Wren. You have a profile interview with Art Forum at eleven, followed by a meeting with the Whitney curator to finalize installation details."
"I wasn't aware of those appointments," I say carefully.
"They were only confirmed this afternoon." He straightens his already perfect cuff. "I was going to tell you at dinner. Perhaps Ana could join us at the gallery opening next week instead? Much more productive use of your limited social time."
And just like that, my small act of independence is neutralized—not with argument or force, but with the inexorable logic of controlled scheduling and professional opportunity. How can I prioritize lunch with an old friend over career-advancing meetings? How can I justify protecting personal relationships at the potential expense of professional advancement?
As Dominic guides me toward the elevator, his hand at the small of my back in that possessive gesture I've come to both crave and resent, a disturbing clarity settles over me. This is how it happens—not with dramatic confrontations or obvious restrictions, but with the steady accumulation of small redirections, each one seemingly reasonable in isolation. My schedule, my clothing, my professional connections, my friendships—all have gradually shifted under Dominic's influence, transforming me from independent artist to curated asset.
And the most terrifying realization? This process didn't begin when I moved into the penthouse, or even when I first shared his bed. It began the moment his eyes met mine across that auction house months ago—perhaps even before, when he first identified me as the object of his interest. Everything since has been the meticulous execution of a plan I'm only now beginning to comprehend.
As we step into the elevator, Dominic's reflection meets mine in the mirrored wall, his slight smile suggesting he reads my thoughts as easily as one of his contracts.
"You're quiet tonight," he observes, fingers tracing a pattern at the nape of my neck that sends unwanted shivers down my spine.
"Just thinking about how much has changed," I reply, the understatement of the century.
"For the better," he adds with absolute certainty.
And the most disturbing part? Despite my growing awareness of the gilded cage being constructed around me, I can't definitively say he's wrong.
twelve
. . .
I've never beengood at following rules I don't agree with. It's a character flaw according to my traditional parents, a strength according to my art professors, and apparently an unforgivable transgression according to Dominic Steele. What seemed like a reasonable assertion of independence this morning—meeting Ana for lunch despite Dominic's rescheduling, then visiting a small gallery in Brooklyn that's been courting my work without his knowledge or approval—has evolved into something far more consequential by evening. I return to the penthouse as sunset gilds the Manhattan skyline, tired but satisfied with my small rebellion, only to find Dominic waiting in the darkened living room, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand and an expression on his face that makes my blood run simultaneously hot and cold.
"You missed your Art Forum interview," he says, his voice dangerously soft. Not a question.
I set down my bag, deliberately casual despite the tension crackling in the air. "I rescheduled it for next week."
"Without consulting me."
"I didn't realize I needed your permission to manage my own press opportunities," I reply, aiming for lightness but hearing the defensive note in my voice.
He takes a measured sip of whiskey, his eyes never leaving mine. "The Whitney curator waited forty-five minutes."
Guilt flickers briefly. I'd completely forgotten about that meeting in my determination to reclaim a shred of autonomy. "I'll call her personally to apologize."
