"Yes," I agree, gesturing to the gardens. "The lighting changes everything."
"Perspective shifts reality," he says, moving into the room. "What we see depends entirely on how it's illuminated."
There's something philosophical in his tone that suggests he's talking about more than landscape lighting. Before I can parse his meaning, he gestures to the table. "Shall we?"
Dinner is an elaborate but understated affair—each course perfectly prepared and portioned, paired with wines I suspect cost more than a month's rent in my old apartment. Throughout the meal, Dominic asks questions about my artistic process, listening with genuine interest to my explanations. He remembers details from our previous conversations with unsettling precision, building on ideas as if we've been engaged in one continuous dialogue since I arrived.
"You mentioned you've never worked in dimensions this large before," he says as dessert is served by a silent staff member who materializes and disappears like a ghost. "Are you finding it challenging or liberating?"
"Both," I admit, relaxing slightly under the influence of excellent food and wine and his surprisingly easy conversation. "The scale allows for nuance I couldn't achieve before, but it also exposes every weakness in technique."
He nods, as if I've confirmed something he already knew. "Excellence requires vulnerability. We cannot achieve greatness without risking exposure of our flaws."
The way he says it—intimate, almost confessional—sends a shiver through me. I take another sip of wine to hide my reaction.
"I'm hosting a small gathering this weekend," he says, changing direction with the smoothness of someone accustomed to controlling conversations. "Several collectors and gallery owners who might be interested in your work beyond this commission. I'd like you to attend."
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. "As your artist?"
Something flashes in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or satisfaction. "As my guest, Wren. The distinction matters."
Three days later, I find myself in a cocktail dress I didn't pack—delivered to my suite that morning with a note saying simply "For tonight" in Dominic's precise handwriting—circulating among New York's art elite. Dominic remains constantly aware of my location, appearing at my side whenever a conversation lags or an introduction would be beneficial. His hand rests lightly against the small of my back as he guides me through the crowd, the heat of his palm burning through the thin fabric of the dress.
"This is Wren Marlowe," he tells each important contact, "an extraordinary talent I've recently discovered." The way he says it—possessive, proud—makes me feel like a prize he's claiming rather than a professional he's promoting. Yet I can't deny the doors his endorsement is opening. Gallery owners who wouldn't give me the time of day three weeks ago now press their cards into my palm, inviting me to discuss future exhibitions.
"You're making quite an impression," he murmurs in my ear as we stand slightly apart from the crowd, observing the gathering like generals surveying a battlefield. "How does it feel to be desired?"
The question lands with deliberate weight, and I look up at him sharply. His expression reveals nothing beyond polite interest, but the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch.
"I think they're more interested in being associated with your collection than in my actual work," I deflect.
"A pragmatic assessment," he acknowledges, "but incorrect. They recognize quality when they see it—they simply needed me to direct their attention." He takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the glass. "I'm very good at identifying value others overlook."
Two days after the gathering, Dominic summons me to his study to "discuss progress." I bring my sketches for the fourth piece, expecting a formal review. Instead, I find him seated not behind his imposing desk but in the intimate seating area near the fireplace, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms.
"Your work is evolving," he says after examining my latest sketches. "There's a confidence in these that was missing in the earlier pieces."
"I'm becoming more comfortable with the scale," I explain, hyperaware of his proximity as he sits beside me on the leather sofa, our knees almost touching.
"And with your surroundings," he adds, his voice dropping slightly. "You're adapting to this environment."
It's true. In the month I've been here, the initial intimidation has faded. I navigate the massive house with growing familiarity, have learned the names and duties of key staff members, no longer feel like an imposter in the luxury surrounding me.
"The commission is going well," I acknowledge.
"It's more than the commission, Wren." The way he says my name—soft yet somehow commanding—draws my eyes to his. "You belong here. In this world. Among beauty and excellence."
A protest forms on my lips—I'm just a struggling artist from a middle-class background, temporarily elevated by his patronage—but the certainty in his gaze gives me pause. He believes what he's saying completely.
"I should get back to work," I say instead, gathering my sketches with hands that aren't quite steady.
He makes no move to stop me, but as I reach the door, he speaks again. "Join me for a drive tomorrow. There's a private collection upstate I think would inspire you."
It's not really a question, just as none of his invitations are truly optional. Yet I find myself nodding, agreeing to another extension of our professional relationship into something more personal.
As I walk back to my studio, I rationalize his attention as the natural interest of a patron in his investment. The dinners, the introductions, the private conversations—all logical extensions of our working relationship. The flutter in my stomach when he stands close, the heat that blooms when his eyes linger on me—those are merely my own reactions to an attractive, powerful man who happens to be supporting my art.
Nothing more.
