Page 93 of His to Possess
"She's doing well," August said, filling the silence. "The project is coming along nicely. She seems happier."
I gripped the phone tightly, fighting the urge to demand more information. To ask if she mentioned me. If she still wore that haunted look I had seen in her eyes that last night in Paris.
"That's good," I managed to reply, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears.
August hesitated then, his tone softening. "I could talk to her, if you want. Let her know…"
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. I took a breath, steadying myself. "No, thank you. I made her a promise. I intend to keep it."
Now, standing in this opulent ballroom, surrounded by the artistic elite of Chicago, I felt the weight of that promise crushing me. It would be so easy to seek her out. To see for myself if she was truly happy, truly thriving. But I wouldn't. I couldn't.
I turned my attention to the packed space, my senses on high alert. Something was off. There was an undercurrent of excitement, a buzz of anticipation that I couldn't quite place.
Trying to shake off my unease, I focused on Luka's latest works. The massive canvases dominated the space, demanding attention. I always admired Luka's ability to capture raw emotion in his art, but tonight… tonight felt different.
I approached the nearest piece, a swirling vortex of deep reds and blacks. The brushstrokes were violent, almost savage in their intensity. It was as if Luka had unleashed some primal fury onto the canvas. I leaned in closer, noticing the subtle layers beneath the chaos. There was a method to this madness, a controlled descent into darkness that spoke to something deeper.
Moving to the next painting, I was struck by a change in tone. The colors were muted, grays and blues creating a somber atmosphere. But there was an underlying tension, a barely contained energy threatening to burst through the subdued palette. It reminded me of the moments before a thunderstorm breaks, that electric charge in the air.
As I studied each piece, a pattern emerged. There was anger here, yes, but it wasn't mindless rage. It was focused, purposeful. And beneath that fury, I sensed something else—a profound longing, an ache so visceral it made my chest tighten.
I had never seen Luka's work quite like this before. It was always provocative, pushing boundaries and challenging perceptions. But this felt personal. Raw. Like he had laid his soul bare on these canvases for all to see.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I couldn't shake the feeling that these paintings were trying to tell me something, a message hidden in plain sight. But what?
My thoughts were interrupted as Luka appeared at the top of the grand staircase, commanding the attention of the entire ballroom. The assembly erupted in applause, their excitement palpable. I couldn't help but notice a large curtain behind him, no doubt concealing his latest masterpiece.
Tristan materialized at my side, followed closely by Colton, Nolan, and Remy. Their sudden proximity set me on edge. Something about their demeanor didn't sit right with me, but I pushed the thought aside, focusing on Luka.
As Luka bowed to the adoring masses, a hush fell over the venue. The air crackled with anticipation. I found myself holding my breath, my body tense with a mixture of curiosity and dread. What game was he playing tonight?
Luka's voice cut through the silence, his tone smooth and confident. "Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed patrons of the arts, I welcome you to an evening of revelation."
I studied his face, searching for any hint of what was to come. His eyes scanned the assembly, and for a moment, I swore they lingered on me. A chill ran down my spine.
"Tonight," Luka continued, "I unveil not just a new piece, but a new perspective. A journey where beauty and darkness intertwine."
The gathering hung on his every word. I felt Tristan shift beside me, a subtle movement that spoke volumes. My friends exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable.
I watched intently as Luka continued, his voice carrying a weight I had never heard before.
"These past six months have been transformative for me," Luka said, his eyes scanning the audience. "My work has always delved into the depths of human nature, but recent events have pushed me to explore new territories."
He paused, and I felt my heart rate quicken. Something about his tone set me on edge.
"Violence, revenge, justice, these themes permeate the pieces you see around you," Luka gestured to the surrounding canvases. "But they're not just abstract concepts. They're visceral experiences, born from a world where the line between right and wrong is often blurred."
The audience murmured, clearly captivated. I gripped my champagne flute tighter, my knuckles turning white.
Luka's expression softened slightly. "And yet, amidst this darkness, I found an unexpected source of light. A woman who challenged everything I thought I knew about control and freedom, confidence and vulnerability."
My stomach twisted. A new muse. Of course. I shouldn't be surprised. Luka was always finding inspiration in the most unexpected places, using them to express in his artwork.
"She became more than just a subject," Luka continued. "She became a mirror, reflecting back the complexities of human desire and the power dynamics that shape our lives."
I scoffed inwardly. How poetic. But I couldn't shake the unease building within me.
The assembly buzzed with excitement. I heard whispers about Luka's new muse, speculation about her identity. I rolled my eyes, unimpressed. It was all part of the game, the mystique artists cultivated to sell their work.
