Page 64 of Stalker's Toy

"I actually have an offer for a show in about three weeks," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm supposed to pick a couple other people, all different areas of art." I pause, steeling myself. "So... do you want in?"

The words hang in the air for a moment, and I wonder if I've made a mistake.

But then Larsa's face transforms, lighting up like a supernova.

"You bet yer bloody arse I do!" she exclaims, bouncing on her toes.

Before I can react, she throws her arms around me in a tight embrace.

I stiffen, unused to such physical contact.

The warmth of her body againstmine is both comforting and unsettling, stirring memories I'd rather keep buried.

But I force myself to relax, to accept this moment of connection.

When Larsa finally releases me, her eyes are shining with excitement and... is that a hint of moisture?

She takes a step back, her expression suddenly more serious.

"I have to admit," she says, her voice losing some of its earlier exuberance, "I'm frustrated. People always want to give me a chance when they find out I'm Claude Monet's daughter, but not when I'm just a woman trying to get her name out there."

I nod, understanding the weight of expectations and legacy.

"That must be difficult," I murmur, searching for the right words to offer comfort without seeming patronizing.

I meet Larsa's gaze, a wry smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

"Nepotism at its finest," I say, the words carrying a bitter edge.

Larsa nods, her hazel eyes flashing with determination. "Exactly. But I'm going to make my own name for myself. I don't want people to know I'm a Monet. I want to succeed on my own merits, not my father’s."

I find myself admiring her strength, her willingness to step out of her father's shadow.

"What name are you going to use?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Larsa's brow furrows, her fingers absently toying with a loose strand of her auburn hair.

"I don't know yet," she admits. "But I'll come up with something. Something that feels... me."

I nod, understanding the importance of self-definition.

My own name, Mia Cohen, feels like both a shield and a burden sometimes.

A reminder of who I was, who I lost.

Larsa's voice pulls me back from the brink of darker thoughts. "So, how many others do you have to find for the show?"

"Two more," I reply, grateful for the shift in conversation. "But I have a couple in mind already. One's a sculptor, and the other specializes in graffiti works."

Larsa's eyes widen, a spark of excitement igniting in their depths. "That sounds like it'll be quite an interesting show," she says, leaning in slightly. "What's the subject matter?"

I hesitate for a moment, tasting the words on my tongue before I speak them.

"Dark," I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "Darkand dangerous."

The air between us seems to thicken, charged with potential. Larsa doesn't flinch or pull away.

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