“I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.”
Sweat breaks out on my palms and the back of my neck. “Come again?”
His rosy lips stretch in a catlike grin, a dimple popping into his cheek. “You heard me.”
Shit.
Maybe I could—
No. I can’t. Not for any sum would I ever consider painting someone’s portrait. Not after what happened to Dad. Not after—
I took a fucking vow before the goddess and the spirits and whatever else exists out there. I won’t break it. I can’t.
The guy is watching me. There’s no trace of threat from him now; his face is so serenely beautiful it’s almost innocent.
“You think about it.” He tucks the cigarette between his lips and pulls a wallet from his back pocket. He extracts a business card and hands it over, pinned between two long fingers. He’s got a few silver rings—not as many as I usually wear, but his are fascinating. Vintage for sure, maybe older.
His business card is a smooth, silvery gray, printed with two words and a number in an elegant black font.
I take the card, still gripping the palette knife in my other hand.
He strides to the door and pushes it open as the bell jingles. “Let me know when you change your mind.”
“I won’t, though,” I respond.
“Sure.” He gives me a wink.
The door closes, and I watch him stroll past the window.
Only then do I read the name printed on the card.
Dorian Gray.
3
Baz
Instead of finishing the painting I should be working on, I scour social media for Dorian Gray.
He’s got an Instagram account—mostly pictures of his masculine yet elegant hands wearing gorgeous rings or holding various objects. His followers are nearly all women. I roll my eyes even though no one’s around to see it.
He’s more active on TikTok. Sometimes he dances, rolling his lean body and hips in the company of two or three guys. In other videos, he shows off hair-care products, moisturizer, makeup, or beverages—typical sponsorship deals for someone with his looks and charm. Sometimes he talks quietly to the camera, giving smiles that seem impulsive but are perfectly studied. When I catch myself smiling back into those brilliant blue eyes, I clamp my hand over my mouth, angry that I’ve fallen prey to his carefully curated persona.
Judging from his clothes and the luxurious settings of his videos, this guy could afford to find Banksyandhire him to paint his portrait. So why does he wantmeto do it?
Panic tightens my gut.
The paranoid part of me whispers there’s only one reason he’d choose me specifically—and that’s if he already knows what I can do.
But he can’t know. Nobody knew except Mom and Dad, and they’re gone. Mom hadn’t used her gift for years before she passed; her family was dead, and Dad was the only one who knew about her ancestry. Sometimes I wish he had let her create his portrait, trap his soul. Maybe he’d still be alive. But Mom said he didn’t want that kind of supernatural safety. Which makes me irrationally angry whenever I let myself think about it.
Keeping my secret was tough, especially in college. For my minor, I chose art classes that didn’t involve much painting from live models, and thanks to some strategic absences on particular days and some finagling with a few teachers, I managed to get through without drawing a single living person. I distracted my professors from those gaps in other ways, like in Mrs. Radley’s class where I excelled at the speed-sketching assignments she liked to spring on us.
I’ve never told anyone else, never painted anyone else. Nobody knows my secret. So there must be some other reason Dorian wants to commission me.
Not going to happen. I haven’t concealed my curse this long just to have some douchebag out me right after I finally set up my first studio.
A siren wails, and a cop car whizzes past outside. I jump, nearly toppling off my stool. God, I’m nervous lately.
