Page 4 of His to Possess
"Mr. Compton." A crisp voice cut through the chatter. I turned to see Evelyn Blackwood, CEO of a tech empire and occasional business rival. Her blonde hair was pinned up in a neat and elegant twist, with small diamond earrings gently swaying from her ears. She wore a deep maroon dress that shimmered softly in the light, designed to command attention. "I didn't expect to see you here. I thought there would be too many abstract pieces for your taste."
I smiled, all teeth and no warmth. "Evelyn, always a pleasure. I find it pays to diversify one's interests. You never know when an unexpected treasure might catch your eye."
Her lips quirked. "Indeed. Well, may the best bidder win."
As she sauntered away, a familiar tingle of anticipation rose through me. The hunt was on, and I intended to emerge victorious. My fingers twitched slightly, and I forcibly stilled them. Control. Always control.
I continued my circuit of the room, exchanging pleasantries and veiled compliments with equal charm. The soft murmur of conversation and the delicate clinking of champagne flutes created a symphony of wealth and power. It was a dance I knew well, one I had perfected over years of practice.
As I neared the painting once more, I allowed myself a moment of reflection. Past acquisitions flashed through my mind—priceless artworks, rare antiquities, and yes, women whohad met my exacting standards. Each one was a carefully chosen addition to my collection and a testament to my power and discernment.
The crowd parted before me as I approached, sensing the intensity that simmered just beneath my polished exterior. I could feel their eyes on me, their curiosity and fear a palpable force. Most of them, more than likely, wondered why I was here, what piece had caught my attention, and just how much money they would have to pay to outbid me on it. My lips tugged upward at the thought. As if I'd ever allow for that to happen. I had my sights set on a new prize, and nothing would stand in my way.
I stood before the Veiled Maiden, and the world around me faded away. Time slowed to a crawl as I drank in every exquisite detail of Volkov's masterpiece. My eyes traced the delicate brushstrokes, marveling at the interplay of light and shadow that brought the canvas to life. Art like this was one of the rare things in my life that brought me joy, and was meant to be in my possession.
The subject's expression captivated me—a perfect blend of abandon and submission, half-hidden behind that thin veil. It was haunting, alluring, and utterly mesmerizing. I could almost feel the texture of the paint beneath my fingers, though I wouldn't dare touch it. Not there, not yet.
I imagined this painting hanging in my private study, bathed in carefully calibrated lighting that I controlled with the touch of a button. Mine to admire whenever I chose, mine to show off to select guests, mine to keep hidden from the world if I so desired.
As I studied the woman in the painting, I reflected on the women I had collected over the years, each one chosen with the same discerning eye I used for my art. I remembered molding them and shaping them to fit my exacting standards. The thrill of control and possession washed over me. In that regard, as wellas all the others, I was also a man of particular taste. Each of these women had something that caught my eye. Something that separated them from the rest.
I thought about the one with her porcelain skin and eyes like emeralds. She had been so eager to please at first, malleable as clay in my hands. But in time, she began to resist, to assert her own will. I remembered the disappointment I felt when I realized she no longer fit the role I had crafted for her.
Then there was the one whose fire I had thought would never dim. I had relished the challenge of taming her spirit and bending her to my will. For a time, she had been perfect—passionate yet obedient, a living work of art. But even she eventually failed to meet my standards.
A familiar hunger stirred within me as I gazed at The Veiled Maiden. It was a craving for something new, someone new to possess. I could feel it building, a delicious tension that made my fingers twitch with anticipation. I savored this moment, knowing it was fleeting, and wanting to draw out the sensation for as long as possible. If there weren't women to stir my collector's interest, at least the art would fulfill my soul.
My eyes roamed over the canvas once more, noting every nuance, every subtle detail. I committed it to memory, adding it to the catalogue of beauty I kept locked away in my mind. This piece would be mine; I had no doubt. And once it was in my possession, who knew what—or who—might catch my eye next?
The hunt, after all, was half the pleasure.
I sensed his presence before I saw him. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, a primal warning of an approaching predator—one that matched my own tendencies. I turned, my face a mask of practiced civility as August Mendelson sauntered towards me.
"Rex," he said, a shark's smile playing on his lips. "What a pleasure to see you here. I didn't realize you had an interest in Volkov's work."
I inclined my head slightly, my hand turning into a fist. "August. I could say the same about you. I thought your tastes ran more contemporary."
He chuckled, the sound grating against my nerves. "Oh, I'm full of surprises, my friend. One never knows what might catch my eye."
"Indeed," I replied, my tone ice-cold. "Though I wonder if your sudden interest in classical works stems from genuine appreciation or other motivations."
August's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "Now, now, Rex. Are you suggesting I might have ulterior motives? That's not very charitable of you."
"Charity isn't my strong suit. You know that better than most."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Speaking of things, we both know, I couldn't help but notice your… extracurricular activities haven't slowed down. Tell me, how is your latest acquisition faring? Still shiny and new, or has the luster worn off already?"
My jaw clenched, but I forced a smile. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to. Perhaps you're projecting your own proclivities onto others?"
"Oh, come now. We both know you have a penchant for collecting more than just art. Though I must say, the Veiled Maiden would make a lovely addition to anyone's collection. I might just have to bid on it myself."
The threat in his words was clear, and anger coursed through me. I highly doubted he was actually interested in the Veiled Maiden. It was more about challenging me and thinking he could win. He couldn't. He wouldn't. "By all means," I replied, my voice dripping with false politeness. "Though I'd hate to see you stretch yourself too thin. After all, quality always comes at a price."
His eyes glittered dangerously. "A price I'm more than willing to pay. For the right prize, of course. You, of all people, surely understand that."
We stood there, locked in a silent battle of wills, the tension between us thick enough to cut with a knife. The other guests gave us a wide berth, sensing the undercurrent of hostility beneath our polite smiles.
"Well," August said finally, raising his glass in a mock toast. "May the best man win."
