Page 125 of Stalker's Toy

Appropriate for tonight.

"Your work is... unsettling," a middle-aged woman in pearls remarks, her eyes wide as she takes in the details of my largest piece. "But I can't look away."

I offer a small nod. "Thank you. Art should provoke a reaction, I think."

She moves on, replaced by a steady stream of gallery patrons sipping champagne and murmuring to each other as they examine my collection.

I've lost count of how many people have approached me tonight, eager to dissect my creative process or share their interpretations of my work.

The constant socializing leaves me drained.

I crave solitude, the quiet of my studio where I can lose myself in the scratch of charcoal against paper.

But tonight is important.

This is my moment to make an impression on London's art scene.

I scan the room, searching for Henrik's tall frame among the sea of bodies.

He's been circulating, charming potential buyers and critics alike.

His presence both comforts and unnerves me.

When our eyes meet across the gallery, a jolt of electricity runs through me.

Henrik weaves through the crowd, a distinguished-looking older gentleman in tow.

As they approach, I notice the man's appraising gaze sweep over my work.

My stomach tightens with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety.

"Mia, my dear," Henrik says, his voice a low purr that sends shivers down my spine. "I'd like you to meet someone."

I force a polite smile, though inside I'm screaming.

These interactions drain me, leave me feeling raw and exposed.

But I know they're necessary.

I can't hide in the shadows forever if I want my art to be seen.

"It's a pleasure," I murmur, extending my hand.

The man's grip is firm, his palm slightly damp.

As Henrik makes introductions, I study the newcomer.

His suit is impeccably tailored, his silver hair neatly combed.

He exudes an air of wealth and influence.

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me—a talented artist worthy of respect, or a young girl playing at being profound?

"Your work is quite... intense," the man says, his gaze lingering on the burning woman. "You have a unique vision."

I swallow hard, searching for the right words.

How do I explain that my art comes from a place of pain and guilt without sounding melodramatic?

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