Page 53 of The Art of Obsession
“Fragility of connection? Beauty of surrender?” He chuckles, swirling his wine. “Sounds like a fancy way to say we’re here to watch a woman spread her legs.”
The room stiffens. Even Dorian, seated near the far end of the table, lifts a brow, his usual smirk fading into something colder.
I lower the revolver, my grip tightening around the handle. The words echo in my head, each syllable igniting a deeper fury. Slowly, I turn to face him, my predatory gaze locking onto his.
“Stand,” I command, my voice sharp enough to cut flesh and bone.
The man hesitates, his smirk faltering.
“Now.”
He rises awkwardly, his bulk shifting uncomfortably.
I approach him, my thumb tapping the revolver barrel. “You seem to misunderstand the nature of this gathering,” I say calmly but with menace. “This is not a brothel. It is not a stag party. And she,”—I gesture toward the exhibit room, where Everleigh waits—“is not an object for your vulgar fantasies. She is the heart of this exhibit. Respect is non-negotiable.”
I stop before him, close enough to smell the expensive cologne failing to mask the sweat breaking out on his brow. With deliberate slowness, I spin the cylinder of the revolver, the metallic clicks echoing in the silence.
“Here’s how this will go,” I say, pressing the barrel of the gun against his groin, thrilling in his eyes widening. “There are six chambers. Five are empty. You have five chances to apologize.”
The man’s face drains of color. “You’re joking,” he stammers.
I smile, cold and sharp. “Am I?”
Before he can respond, I pull the trigger.
Click.
The sound reverberates through the room like a thunderclap. All flinch as his hands shoot up in surrender.
“Jesus Christ!” he shouts, his voice cracking.
“That’s one,” I say, spinning the cylinder again. “Four chances left.”
He looks around the room, eyes pleading for someone to intervene, but no one dares. Expressions waver between fear and bewildering entertainment.
“I—I’m sorry.” He trembles.
I tilt my head, eyes narrowing. “I don’t think I believe you.”
Click.
The man jumps, a strangled yelp escaping his throat.
“Three chances,” I say casually, finger on the trigger. “I suggest you try harder.”
“I’m sorry!” he says again, his voice rising in desperation. “I didn’t mean any disrespect! I swear!”
I press the barrel harder against his groin, leaning in close. “You think she cares about your intent? Do you thinkIcare?”
Click.
He’s shaking now, sweat pouring down his face. “Please,” he begs, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry! I was out of line! It won’t happen again, I swear!”
I let the silence stretch, the weight of his fear palpable. Then, with a final spin of the cylinder, I pull the trigger.
Click.
The man collapses into his chair, trembling and gasping for breath.
