Page 2 of Ruthless Desire

Something is coming. A reckoning, a dark omen perched on the razor’s edge of my life. And when it arrives, I have a sick, sinking feeling that not even my stalwart father - my north star - will be able to guide me from the gathering gloom.

As the sickly orange light of sunset filters through the grime-streaked windows, I step back to survey my latest creation. This twisted amalgam of glass and steel thrums with a malevolent energy, a work that teeters on the edge of brilliance. But it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

I need more. More chaos, more destruction, more of the sweet, searing oblivion that only my art can provide. But my supplies are dwindling, and my pockets are emptier than a junkie’s broken promise.

Cursing under my breath, I fish out my phone and scroll to a familiar contact - Sienna, my sometimes-friend and constant enabler. Her sultry purr answers on the third ring.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite little Picasso. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Cut the crap, Si,” I sigh, no patience for our usual dance. “I need a favor. A big one.”

“Color me intrigued,” she practically purrs, and I can picture the arch of her perfectly sculpted brow. “What’s the damage, sweet thing?”

I hesitate, hating myself for what I’m about to ask. But desperate times and all that. “I need a hookup. For supplies. The kind that doesn’t come cheap.”

Silence stretches for a beat, then a low, throaty chuckle. “Oh, Natty. You know I’m always happy to play Santa to my struggling artist friends. But I’m afraid my goodwill doesn’t come for free.”

I grit my teeth, grip tightening on the phone. “What do you want, Sienna?”

“Just a small favor in return,” she simpers, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “I’m having a little get-together tonight. A soirée, if you will. And I need a bit of eye candy to class up the joint.”

Bile rises in my throat at the thought of debasing myself for Sienna’s sneering socialite friends. But I’m running out of options - it’s either swallow my pride or risk losing the only thing keeping me sane.

“Fine,” I bite out, hating the way my voice wavers. “I’ll be there. But you better come through with the goods, Si. I mean it.”

“Don’t I always?” she laughs, the sound like shattering crystal. “See you at nine, darling. And do try to wear something a bit more…festive than your usual rags, hmm?”

The line goes dead before I can summon a suitably scathing retort. I toss the phone aside with a muttered curse, already dreading the night ahead.

And yet, a treacherous part of me can’t deny the flicker of excitement at the prospect of losing myself in Sienna’s glittering world of vice and excess. Of drowning my demons in a sea of overpriced champagne and the crush of writhing bodies on the dance floor.

It’s a dangerous game, a descent into the darkness that lurks beneath the city’s neon veneer. But it’s a game I know all too well, one I’ve been playing since I was old enough to sneak out my bedroom window and into the waiting arms of trouble.

And trouble, it seems, is always eager to welcome me home.

Hours later, I stand before the cracked bathroom mirror, scarcely recognizing the girl staring back. Gone are my paint-splattered jeans and ratty t-shirt, replaced by a slinky black dress that clings to every curve like a second skin, the hemline barely grazing the tops of my thighs.

My unruly mane of ink-dark waves has been tamed into a severe, slicked-back ponytail, and my lips are stained a shade of red that screams “fuck me” and “fuck you” in equal measure. I look like a lethal weapon, honed and ready to strike - a far cry from the broken doll I know lurks just beneath the surface.

The taxi ride to Sienna’s is a blur of neon and noise, the city’s very lifeblood pulsing in time with my own racing heart. By the time we pull up to the gleaming high-rise, I’m already buzzing with a sickening cocktail of anticipation and dread.

The doorman eyes me with a knowinsmirk as I step into the waiting elevator, my reflection warping and distorting in the mirrored walls. And there, in the fractured glass, I catch a glimpse of the girl I’ve been running from - tired, afraid, lost in a way that has nothing to do with the city’s twisting streets and everything to do with the darkness gnawing at my soul.

But then the doors are sliding open, and I’m stepping out into a world of glittering chandeliers and clinking glasses, air kisses, and predatory smiles. Sienna holds court at the center of the fray, resplendent in a gown the color of fresh blood.

“Natalie, darling,” she coos, pulling me into a hug that reeks of expensive perfume and cheaper intentions. “So glad you could make it. You look ravishing.”

I paste on a smile that feels more like a grimace, accepting the flute of champagne she presses into my hand. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Si. You know how I love a good party.”

She laughs, the sound like shattering ice. “That’s my girl. Now, let’s get you introduced around, shall we? I have a feeling you’re going to be the belle of the ball tonight.”

And just like that, I’m swept up into the maelstrom, passed from hand to hand like some exotic party favor. Tailored-suit-clad men leer down the front of my dress while their wives size me up with cool, appraising gazes, mentally calculating my worth in carats and social currency.

I hate them all, with their empty smiles and hollower hearts. But I play my part to perfection, laughing at their vapid jokes and leaning in close to whisper scandalous nothings. All the while, the champagne flows like water, and I feel myself slipping further and further from the girl I know myself to be.

By the time Sienna pulls me away with a conspiratorial wink, I’m well and truly drunk, the room spinning in a kaleidoscope of color and sound. She leads me down a shadowed hallway, her fingers biting into my arm with bruising intensity.

“I have a little surprise for you,” she purrs, pushing open a door to reveal a dimly lit bedroom. “Consider it a thank you for being such a good sport tonight.”

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