Page 37 of Painter's Obsession

But I did nothing to stop it.

And now I’m fucked. Utterly, completely fucked.

Chapter Twenty- Two

Ren

Istare at the portrait hanging in my office, directly across from my desk. It’s the same one I painted two years ago—the night after I first met Byron Lopez.

His beautiful brown eyes burn with fury, pools of pain buried deep in their depths. Crimson tears streak his face, captured in thick, deliberate strokes of oil paint. I’ve relived that moment countless times since then, as though I’m just as trapped as he is.

Maybe that’s my fascination with him. We’re both prisoners, shaped by pain and darkness, forced to repress the parts of ourselves we can never let anyone see. We share the same dead eyes. His are masked by anger—a fact his criminal record proves. Mine? I’ve mastered control. I make my eyes say whatever I need them to.

The ping of my phone draws my attention to the mahogany desk. I glance at the screen.

I’m seriously beginning to worry. Byron isn’t home still.

A smile creeps across my lips. I can almost see her pacing, her mind racing with worst-case scenarios. Her despair feeds me, but not as much as his does.

I picture Byron now, likely asleep, broken by the torment I’ve carefully orchestrated. The thought sends a jolt of heat through me. Biting my lower lip, I press against the erection straining against my dress pants. I can still see him—his fury crumbling into hopelessness before that stubborn flicker of light reignited.

It’s fucking Gabriela that keeps that flicker alive. She’s his tether, his last excuse to fight. That makes her both my solution and my weapon.

Picking up my phone, I type a response.

I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably with some woman.

The word tastes bitter. A twinge of possessiveness surges through me, tightening in my chest. The thought of Byron with anyone else is... unacceptable.

My pet. My art. My muse.

He couldn’t belong to anyone else, and Gabriela will ensure that. My gaze drifts back to the portrait, like a priest worshipping his god. Those dead brown eyes stare back at me, unyielding.

Gabriela doesn’t realize it, but she’s already part of the game. A pawn, perfectly placed, and all too easy to manipulate. Through her, Byron will learn what it means to kneel. By the time I’m done, he won’t just obey me—he’ll worship me. She’s the leash that will keep Byron tethered, the rope I’ll use to pull him in line. Rebellion will hurt her more than it hurts him, and I’ll make sure he understands that.

The clock ticks closer to ten. I type quickly, wanting to finish before my next client arrives.

Me:How about I pick you up and bring you to my place? A good distraction, sounds good?

The bubbles appear and disappear on the screen, but before Gabriela responds, the office phone rings. I press the speaker button.

“Your ten o’clock is early,” Flores announces.

“Let them in,” I reply, smoothing the fabric of my meticulously tailored suit jacket.

The door opens, and Lorenzo Peroni strides in, his cologne arriving a second before he does. Flamboyant and arrogant, the man is a walking stereotype of a playboy with a drinking problem and a temper to match.

“Good morning, Mr. Sato. Thank you for seeing me early,” Lorenzo says, flashing a grin he probably thinks is charming.

I return a practiced smile. “The pleasure is mine. Please, take a seat.”

I don’t bother standing. That’s beneath me.

I became a lawyer for legacy, not necessity. To be honest, I don’t give a damn about Lorenzo or any of my clients. My office is my mask, my court room a stage. Each victory reinforces the lie, giving me the freedom to indulge the monster beneath. I smooth my jacket as Lorenzo continues to talk, but my mind is elsewhere, already plotting. Byron’s light is flickering, fragile. Gabriela is the wind that keeps it alive. And I’ll be the one to extinguish it.

Chapter Twenty - Three

Byron

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