Page 1 of Stalk Me

1

NIKOLAI

Istand in the shadowed alcove of the gallery, observing the spectacle before me. The white walls gleam under strategic lighting, each masterpiece basking in a spotlight, but they don’t hold my attention.

She does.

Sofia Henley moves through her gallery like a queen holding court. The golden silk of her hair catches the light as she gestures toward a massive canvas, explaining its intricacies to a cluster of admirers. The emerald silk of her dress shifts with each movement, revealing endless glimpses of her legs.

I sip my champagne, letting the bubbles dance on my tongue while I catalog every detail of her. The slight furrow in her brow as she considers a question posed by a possible client and how her entire face lights up when she laughs. The way her fingers trail the stem of her glass when she listens—artist’s hands, elegant yet strong.

This is my first time encountering Sofia Henley, and I can’t believe how addicted I am to watching her. I visited her gallery by chance after someone mentioned that she has some of the best art for sale in the city.

“The brushwork here reveals...” Her voice carries across the space, cultured and confident. I detect the hint of steel beneath the polish. Interesting.

She turns, and those stunning eyes sweep past my corner. I remain still, letting the shadows cloak me. Not yet. First, I need to understand what makes Sofia Henley tick.

A potential client steps into her path, drawing her attention. The smile she offers him is perfect—professional and warm, yet maintaining distance. She’s learned to navigate these waters well. But there’s something else. A flash of something darker when she thinks no one’s watching.

I set my empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. I fight the urge to map the delicate curve of her jaw with my fingertips—patience has always been my greatest weapon.

Sofia gestures to another piece, and I note how the gallery’s security responds to her subtle signals. She’s created quite the fortress here. A shame she doesn’t realize it’s already been breached.

The crowd parts as Sofia approaches a stark contemporary piece—geometric shapes in shades of crimson and obsidian. Her explanation of the artist’s technique and historical context is flawless. There are no reference notes, no hesitation because this isn’t rehearsed knowledge—she lives and breathes it.

“The interplay of light and shadow creates a sense of movement,” she explains to the group. “Notice how the brushstrokes...”

I step forward, emerging from my corner. “What’s your opinion on the authentication controversy surrounding his earlier works?”

She turns, and I catch her look of surprise before her professional facade returns. Those green-gold eyes meet mine directly.

“The debate centers around his use of specific pigments.” Her chin lifts. “But having examined several pieces personally, I can confirm the chemical composition matches the period.”

“Interesting.” I move closer, letting my presence fill her personal space. The subtle scent of her perfume hits me as I tower over her smaller frame. “Consider it sold.”

“The piece isn’t?—”

“Price is irrelevant.”

A slight narrowing of her eyes. She doesn’t appreciate being interrupted. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Nikolai Ivanov.” I extend my hand, noting how she meets my grip with equal pressure. “I have a particular interest in controversial art.”

“Mr. Ivanov.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Why don’t we discuss the details in my office?”

I follow her through the gallery, watching the subtle sway of her hips. She leads with confidence, but there’s tension in her shoulders. She knows she’s being hunted, even if she doesn’t understand why. Yet she walks straight into her office with me, making her very brave or foolish.

The door softly clicks closed after us.

“Now then.” She moves behind her desk with practiced grace, though her fingers betray a slight tremor as she reaches for the contracts. “Shall we discuss terms?”

I smile, letting a hint of predator show through. The game begins.

Lowering myself into the opposite chair, I maintain eye contact. “Name your price.”

Sofia pulls out paperwork, her movements precise. “The piece is valued at three million.”

“Four.” I lean forward. “Consider it compensation for expedited processing.”

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