He raises his glass slightly, an acknowledgment that requires no words. I nod in return, then deliberately turn back to the artwork, running from a confrontation I don't understand.
The remainder of the evening passes in a blur of conversations and careful navigation. I stay within Dominic's orbit but maintain physical distance, hypervigilant about proximity. If he notices my strategy, he doesn't comment, but occasionally I catch him watching me with an expression that might be patience or might be predatory calculation—I lack the experience to know the difference.
The car ride back to the estate stretches long and silent. I sit as close to my door as possible without being obvious, watching the city lights blur past my window. Dominic takes calls for the first twenty minutes, his voice a low rumble of business terms and decisive instructions. When he finishes, the silence feels pressurized.
"You impressed Marianne tonight," he says eventually. "She's not easily moved."
"She knows her art," I respond, keeping my tone neutral, professional.
"She asked if you'd consider a small exhibition at her museum next season."
This pulls my full attention. "What? The Whitney?" My voice rises with disbelief.
He smiles slightly, satisfaction evident in the curve of his lips. "I told her we'd discuss it after your commission is complete. No distractions until then."
The possessive undercurrent returns—"we" would discuss my career options, not me alone. I should be offended by his presumption, but instead, I feel a treacherous warmth at being included in his plans beyond our current arrangement.
"Thank you," I say, unsure what else to offer.
He turns slightly in his seat, facing me more directly. "You belong in those spaces, Wren. Among those people. Your talent merits recognition."
His conviction washes over me, tempting me to believe in this fairy tale version of my future. I want to bask in it, to accept his vision as reality. But beneath the gratitude lurks something unsettling—the awareness that every opportunity, every introduction, comes with invisible strings that lead back to him.
"It's been an illuminating evening," I say carefully.
"Indeed." He lets the word hang between us, laden with unspoken meanings. Then his gaze drops briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes. "Rest well tonight. Tomorrow, I'd like to see your progress on the fourth piece."
Just like that, we're back to patron and artist, the charged moment in the gallery relegated to unacknowledged history. But as the car glides through the estate gates and toward the house, I'm acutely conscious of my skin still tingling where his hand pressed against my back—a lingering echo of contact that feels like a silent claim.
And despite my rational mind's protests, some primitive part of me recognizes it for exactly what it was—the first deliberatemove in a game whose rules I don't yet understand, but whose outcome seems increasingly inevitable.
six
. . .
The grandfather clockin Dominic's study chimes eleven, each resonant tone marking another hour I've spent surrounded by books and printouts spread across his massive desk. What began as a simple review of art references for the final commission piece has evolved into an impromptu master class in art history, with Dominic pulling volume after leather-bound volume from his extensive library. "Context matters," he'd said when I arrived at seven, ostensibly for a brief consultation. "Your work exists in conversation with everything that came before it." Now, four hours later, my shoes kicked off under the desk and my carefully maintained professional distance eroding with each passing minute, I'm acutely aware that this evening has shifted into something beyond education.
Dominic stands at the bookshelf across the room, his suit jacket long discarded, sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with lean muscle. His tie hangs loose around his neck, the top button of his shirt undone—small concessions to comfort that somehow make him more rather than less imposing. In the two months I've lived at his estate, I've never seen him so casually disheveled, and the sight stirs something low in my belly.
"This one," he says, pulling another massive art folio from a high shelf. "Sixteenth-century Dutch masters—study how they layered light."
He returns to the desk, not to his side but to mine, setting the book between us and leaning in close enough that his scent—bergamot, cedar, and something uniquely him—envelops me. I inhale involuntarily, then try to disguise it as a yawn.
"Tired?" he asks, those penetrating eyes missing nothing.
"No, just—" I gesture at the sprawl of reference materials. "Processing. It's a lot to absorb."
His mouth curves slightly. "You have a remarkable capacity for absorption."
The compliment shouldn't heat my cheeks, but it does. Two months of his measured praise have conditioned me to crave his approval like a drug, each dose more potent than the last.
He reaches across me to turn a page, his arm brushing mine. The contact, brief and ostensibly innocent, sends electricity racing up my skin. I've been careful since that touch at the gallery three weeks ago—maintaining physical distance, reminding myself constantly of our professional relationship—but tonight, in the intimate confines of his study with the rest of the world held at bay by darkness and heavy doors, my defenses feel paper-thin.
"Look at the brushwork here," he says, pointing to a detail in a Dutch landscape. His finger traces the subtle gradations of light, and I find myself watching his hand rather than the painting—the elegant length of his fingers, the controlled strength evident in every movement.
"The artist understood that revelation requires restraint," he continues, voice dropping lower, as if sharing a secret. "Too much too soon, and the viewer becomes overwhelmed. The mind shuts down."
Is he still talking about painting? His proximity makes it hard to think clearly, to maintain the professional focus I've clung to like a lifeline these past weeks.
