Page 8 of Ruthless Desire

I slip it on, the silk whispering against my skin like a promise. For once, I don't feel like the broken girl in the mirror, the one with the haunted eyes and the scars that run soul-deep.

I feel like a woman on the cusp of something great, something transformative. A phoenix rising from the ashes of her past, ready to spread her wings and soar.

The Uber to my father's house in Flushing is a blur of neon lights and honking horns, the city's lifeblood pulsing to the beat of my own racing heart. By the time it pulls up to the curb, my cheeks are flushed with excitement, my eyes bright with anticipation.

Dad is waiting for me on the porch, a bottle of champagne clutched in one hand and a wrapped package in the other. He looks different somehow, his usually rumpled shirt crisp and pressed, his hair slicked back with a pomade that glints in the fading light.

But his smile is the same, warm and wide and full of love. He pulls me into a crushing hug as soon as I step out of the car, the champagne bottle digging into my back.

"There's my little superstar," he says, his voice gruff with emotion. "I'm so damn proud of you, pumpkin. So damn proud."

I bury my face in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of Old Spice and cigarette smoke. "I couldn't have done it without you, Dad. You've always been my biggest supporter, my rock."

He pulls back, his eyes suspiciously bright. "Enough of that mushy stuff. Tonight is about celebrating your success, not stroking your old man's ego."

He leads me inside, the house warm and inviting after the chill of the evening air. The living room is dim, the only light coming from a few flickering candles scattered on the coffee table.

"What's all this?" I ask, gesturing to the romantic ambiance. "You trying to seduce me, Dad?"

He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that reverberates through my chest. "Hardly. I just wanted to make tonight special, a night you'll never forget."

He pulls me down onto the couch, the wrapped package heavy on my lap. "Open it," he says, his eyes dancing with excitement. "I've been saving this for a moment just like this."

I tear into the paper with trembling fingers, my breath catching in my throat as the contents are revealed. It is a book, a rare first edition of "The Art Spirit" by Robert Henri, one of my all-time favorite artists.

I had mentioned it to my dad once, in passing, a wistful sigh escaping my lips as I spoke of the way Henri's words had inspired me, and the way he had given me the courage to pursue my dreams against all odds.

And here it is, the holy grail of art books, the pages crackled and yellowed with age but still vibrant with passion and purpose. Tears spring to my eyes as I run my fingers over the cover, tracing the embossed letters with something like reverence.

"Dad," I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. "This must have cost a fortune. How did you even find it?"

He shrugs, a small, secretive smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I have my ways. I've been saving up for years, waiting for the right moment to give it to you."

I shake my head in disbelief, the tears now flowing freely down my cheeks. "I don't know what to say. This is too much, too generous."

He reaches out, cupping my face in his rough, calloused hands. "Nothing is too much for you, Natalie. You're my world, my everything. I would move heaven and earth to make your dreams come true."

I lean into his touch, my heart swelling with a love so fierce it threatens to consume me. "I love you, Dad. More than anything."

"I love you too, pumpkin. More than my own life."

We sit like that for a moment, the rest of the world fading away until it is just us, a father and daughter bound by a love that defies explanation.

I notice an unfamiliar envelope resting on the console table, my name written in an elegant, masculine script.

"What's this?" I ask, picking it up with a frown. The paper is heavy, expensive. Definitely not the usual bills and junk mail.

Dad shifts uncomfortably, a shadow crossing his face. "Ah, that. It's nothing, probably just some fan mail from the gallery. Why don't you open it later, after we've had a chance to celebrate properly?"

But curiosity gnaws at me, an itch I can't ignore. I tear into the envelope, revealing a single sheet of thick, cream-colored cardstock.

"Ms. Quinn," it reads. "Your presence is requested at the Annual Gala for the Arts, to be held this Saturday at the Accel City Museum of Fine Art. Cocktail attire required. A car will arrive for you at 7 pm sharp. I look forward to making your acquaintance. Sincerely, An Admirer."

I stare at the invitation, my heart pounding in my throat. The Annual Gala is the most prestigious event in the art world, a glittering who's who of collectors, critics, and rising stars. To be invited is an honor in itself, but to be personally requested by an anonymous admirer?

It's like something out of a dark fairy tale, a handsome prince whisking me off to the ball. Except in this story, I have a feeling the prince might be more villain than hero.

"Who sent this?" I ask, looking up at dad with wide eyes. But he just shakes his head, his expression unreadable.

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