“You both suck.” Petulant behavior has never been a trait I find attractive, but with her it’s endearing. But then again, there’s nothing I don’t like. No part of her I don’t want or crave.
“That’s mean.”
“You’ve given me no choice, Gabriella. I do need to fill the spot and—”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Just give me a good enough reason. Just one.”
“Because you earned this, Gabriella. Simple as that.” At my words, tears spring to her eyes but she blinks them back, not allowing them to fall. She’s also quiet, her emotions unreadable, but the small catch in her throat is a sign I’m getting through to her. The way she lets me grab her hand, entwining our fingers together, is a step in the right direction. “Your work speaks for itself, while your reputation is one of professionalism and dependability. Elise didn’t give you this—fuck that. The only reason I agreed to that brunch was you. Without Gabriella Moore there is no deal, and that’s a truth that can’t be negated or changed.”
“Are you just saying that so I—”
“Gabriella, I want you. No one else.”
There are many ways she can take that, and the fact is they’re all accurate. She’s what I want. All of her.
In any capacity. In any way.
“Okay,” she says after a minute of silence. It’s low, almost too low, but I hear her as if she’d shouted this from a rooftop. Gabriella takes in a deep breath before letting it out slowly. Her shoulders straighten out while her head lifts a little higher, a small smile finally stretching across those sweet lips. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Are you sure?” I ask while from the corner of my eye, Tero produces a pen for her to sign. Cecily’s contract is beside hers and the sums of money are blatantly unfair, Miss Moore being the clear victor—further proof of my choice always being her.
“Give me the contract.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You’re going to be demoted to number six in the first impression chart if you don’t let me sign, Mr. Astor.” The little tease, innocent or not, makes my cock jerk behind the confines of my pants. Sassy little thing. “What’s it going to be?”
My answer is to rip the other contract in half after placing Gabriella’s in front of her. My beautiful little artist doesn’t disappoint either, grinning at my action before signing her name at the three designated areas.
It takes less than sixty seconds.
The binding agreement is set in stone.
You’re mine, gorgeous.
10
Gabriella
I
knew what he was doing the moment I sat down at their table, and I’m not ashamed to admit I’m thankful. Relieved. So grateful, because missing out on this opportunity would’ve hurt me.
Emotionally. Career wise.
Something that Theodore saw and rectified when he preyed on my humanity. Because jealousy is a part of life, and the feelings that overcame me—the ones that made me sign after arguing someone else’s merit—aren’t ones I’m proud of. Nor do I negate them, because I know I’m better even though she’s a bigger name than me.
However, two questions still remain, run rampant through my head. Why her? Why was he there?
I’d gone to the bakery that morning because simply put, I devoured the extra surprise the shop owner had placed in a box. These flaky little chocolate croissants with a hint of spice in the hazelnut spread she’d baked within were delicious, and after not getting any sleep, I went back for more.
I also wasn’t lying about his chosen painter’s attitude and diva-like personality. I’ve seen both firsthand. Have been in the same room and dealt with her criticisms while she flirted with a gallery curator to be given the rights to show at their location.
“What’s done is done, and I don’t regret it,” I say out loud, walking up the stairs to my studio with Mr. Pickles close behind late the next afternoon. He’s been with me all day, my little shadow since I came home from my impromptu meetup with Theodore, and it’s been nice. We ate an early dinner together, watched the movie Secret Window, and then went to bed. Not fancy, but a nice quiet day that I desperately needed. “No sign of Elise either.”
Today has been much of the same thus far, too. Except for the excitement coursing through me.
I’m thinking. Planning. Already forming each piece in my mind.
And while I’m divided between two subjects, my original and private muse, they both revolve around predators.
Human. Animal. Both beasts led by different impulses.
Stepping inside my studio, I turn on the lights and then walk to the window, pulling apart the curtains. At once the room brightens, the small rays dancing across each finished painting as well as the canvas still sitting on an easel at the center.
Just like all the others in this room.
My inspiration since the nightmares began has been a faceless man and the chaos that surrounds him. His settings are always dark like the room I see in my dreams—some with blood and some black as night—the lingering emotions of fear coming across each stroke as death lies at his feet in different forms. His weapons also vary.
A knife.
A gun.
