Page 21

Sophia

I stand in front of the final canvas of my commission, my brush poised above the vibrant swirl of colors that represents the complicated dance between love and technology. It's ironic. The subject matter so closely mirrors my own tangled relationship with Adrian. I let out a soft sigh, taking in the nearly finished piece. There's an energy to it, a certain vitality that I've never achieved before.

I have to admit, despite everything, I've never felt so free, so liberated in my creativity. Without the weight of financial stress and housing uncertainty, I've been able to pour all of myself into my art. It's exhilarating... and guilt-inducing.

I owe this freedom to Adrian. He's been nothing but supportive these past days—attentive, patient, even tender. The once-cold billionaire has shown me a side of him I never expected to see. He's listened to me ramble about color theory and composition, his piercing gray-blue eyes reflecting genuine interest. He's offered me comfort when I've doubted myself, his touch firm yet reassuring.

Yet every time we touch or he smiles at one of my sketches, a pang of guilt tightens in my chest. This comfort was bought with Daniel's destruction—his reputation shattered by anonymous tips and whisper campaigns orchestrated by Adrian himself.

I've kept this guilt hidden from Adrian—tucked away beneath warm smiles and light kisses—but it weighs heavily on me. The secret gnaws at me each time I look into his eyes or feel his arms around me.

I lower my brush to the canvas again, the soft swish of bristles against the surface the only sound in the room. My mind spins with thoughts of Adrian—the good and the bad intertwined like the patterns before me.

But no matter how gentle he's been or how much he seems to care for me now, there's one truth I can't escape, one truth that spoils these tender moments and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

I can't forgive him.

I can't forgive him for what he's done—to Daniel, to me. I can't forgive him for the way he manipulates people's lives, bending them to his will. I can't forgive him for using his power and influence to control those around him.

And the worst part? The part that scares me the most?

I'm starting to fear that I might not want to.

So where do I go from here? What happens after I finish?

A soft knock on the studio door pulls me from my thoughts. I glance over to see Mara stepping inside, her poise immediately changing the room's atmosphere.

"Mara," I greet softly.

I keep my focus on my work, mixing shades of blue and gray.

"Sophia," she replies, stepping further into the room. "I wanted to see how the final piece is coming along."

"Almost there," I say, gesturing toward the nearly completed piece. Her eyes take it in, a small smile playing on her lips.

"It's stunning," she murmurs, genuine appreciation in her voice.

Our relationship has shifted from wary indifference to something almost friendly. She's become my connection to the world outside this studio, delivering updates about my upcoming exhibition—easily restored, it seems—and news from the art scene.

"Thank you," I reply, forcing a smile onto my face.

"So, have you heard about the new installation at the Modern?" Mara asks, perching herself on a nearby stool. Her usual sharp demeanor softens as she settles in.

"No, I've been..." I wave my hand at the canvas, "preoccupied."

"Oh, you have to hear about this. Remember that sculptor everyone was buzzing about? She's created this incredible piece that responds to people's movements."

I set my brush down, drawn in despite myself. "The one who did the water reflection series?"

"Yes! She's completely outdone herself this time." Mara's eyes light up. "The whole gallery transforms based on the viewers' positions. It's like being inside a living artwork."

"That sounds amazing," I say. "How did she manage the technical aspects?"

"That's the brilliant part. She collaborated with this tech startup..." Mara launches into the details, her hands moving animatedly as she describes the mechanics behind the installation.

"Who's coming to the opening?" I ask, cleaning my brush.

"Everyone who matters in the art scene. Though..." She pauses, a sly smile crossing her face. "There's this new gallery director who's causing quite a stir. Apparently, she's been poaching artists from established galleries."

"Really? That's bold."

"Bold is putting it mildly. The stories I've heard would make your head spin."

Mara shifts in her seat, her expression turning serious. "Speaking of bold moves... I heard Daniel Harper's latest exhibition got canceled."

My hand freezes on the brush I'm cleaning. The comfortable atmosphere shatters.

"What?" My voice comes out small.

"The gallery cited 'artistic differences,' but word is he's been blacklisted." Mara's eyes fix on my face. "No one will touch his work now."

I turn away, pretending to focus on organizing my paints. "I hadn't heard."

"Really? I thought you two were close once."

"That was a long time ago."

"Funny how things change so quickly in this industry." She drums her manicured nails against the stool. "One day you're on top, the next..."

"Did Adrian tell you to bring this up?" I face her, my jaw tight.

"Adrian doesn't tell me what to say, Sophia." She stands, smoothing her tailored pants. "His work is being pulled from permanent collections now. Even if he changed his name, he'll never sell another painting."

The thought of Daniel in his studio, staring at empty walls where his dreams once hung... it's too much. My success suddenly tastes like ash in my mouth.

Mara seems to realize where my thoughts are going as she watches me closely.

"Sophia—" she begins, but I hold up a hand to stop her.

"No need to apologize," I say, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. I don't want her pity or sympathy. I just want... I don't know what I want.

Mara shifts gears quickly, diving into the details of the exhibition. But her words become a distant hum in my ears as my mind races with the implications of Daniel's complete destruction.

How did it come to this? When did I become complicit in another artist's downfall? What am I supposed to do now?

I stare at my art after Mara's footsteps fade down the hall. It's a representation of everything I've gained—and lost. Each stroke of blue represents a compromise, every splash of red another piece of my soul traded away.

The paint feels tacky, not quite dry. Like Adrian's influence, it clings and marks everything it touches. The technical perfection of the piece mocks me—achieved through his resources, his control, his manipulation.

Walking to the studio door, I peer out into the vast expanse of the penthouse. It's a kingdom Adrian rules through circuits and secrets. His world is pristine, every variable accounted for. Including me.

I remember Daniel's warnings about Adrian's darker dealings, how he uses his AI to manipulate markets and destroy lives. Now I've watched it happen firsthand—seen how efficiently he crushed Daniel's career, erasing years of work like deleting unwanted files.

Back at my canvas, I run my hand along the frame. This piece represents everything Adrian wanted—the perfect fusion of art and technology, emotion and control. But it also contains fragments of Daniel's ruined career, each color tainted by the knowledge of how I obtained this opportunity.

I pick up my brush again, but my hand trembles. I can't do this anymore. I won't be another perfectly controlled variable in Adrian's equation, another piece of art he can own and manipulate.

I straighten my spine. The path ahead terrifies me—exposing Adrian means losing everything I've gained—the studio, the commission, the freedom from financial worry. But I can't build my success on the ruins of another artist's dreams. I won't let my art become a monument to Adrian's power over others.

It's time to reclaim my voice.

* * *

Morning light fills the room, catching dust motes that dance above my finished piece. I sip coffee from the expensive machine Adrian bought last week, the same brand I mentioned loving. The rich aroma fills my nose as I stare at my completed work.

My phone buzzes with another message from the exhibition organizers. Final preparations are underway. In three days, the world will see what I've created under Adrian's watchful eye.

I set the cup down and walk to the closet he's filled with designer clothes in my size. There are silks and cashmeres I never asked for, chosen to match my style while elevating it to his standards. The message is clear: He's crafting a space for me here, expecting me to slot perfectly into his world.

Last night, I found a schedule on his desk. My name appeared throughout the next month—gallery openings, private showings, dinner reservations. He's planning my future without asking.

The coffee turns bitter in my mouth as I look at the canvas. The piece is everything he wanted, a masterful blend of emotion and technology. It's also the last thing I'll create in this perfect prison. Whatever comes next, I know I won't be waking up here tomorrow.

I trace my signature in the corner, the paint still tacky under my fingertip. The quiet of the penthouse presses in around me, broken only by the soft whir of surveillance cameras tracking my every move.

They might record my every move, but they don't see what's coming.

The coffee grows cold beside my canvas as I check my phone again. 9:47 a.m. Adrian's board meeting starts at 10.

My heart pounds as footsteps echo down the hall. The door opens, and Mara's voice carries through the penthouse.

"The car's ready, Mr. Vale."

Adrian's response is clipped, preoccupied. Their voices fade, followed by the soft click of the front door. I cross to the window, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. Below, Adrian's black Mercedes pulls into traffic, carrying him away from what I'm about to do.

I count to 60 before moving. The hallway stretches before me, each step taking me closer to his private study. The door opens with a soft whisper—no need for force, not when I have the code he trusted me with last week.

His leather chair is still warm when I sit. My fingers shake as I type in his password. The moment I watched him enter it—my lips pressed against his neck, his guard down—burns in my memory. The screens flicker to life, bathing me in their cold blue glow.

Files upon files spread across the monitors. Each folder contains someone's life, stripped bare and categorized. My own folder sits prominently on the desktop, the largest by far. I push down the bile rising in my throat.

The encrypted email templates are ready on my laptop. I picked out three journalists, chosen for their track records with whistleblowers. My fingers fly across the keyboard, copying files, compressing data. The progress bar creeps forward as each piece of evidence transfers.

Surveillance footage, financial records, blackmail material, it's all here. I can barely wrap my head around the AI algorithms he used to track movements, predict behaviors, manipulate lives. The scope of his control network stretches far beyond what even I imagined.

A soft ding signals the completed transfer. First folder: done. Second folder: complete. The final archive is larger, taking precious seconds I can't afford to waste. The last file transfers just as a notification pops up on his screen—his calendar logging that the board meeting has ended early. The time stamp shows it was 10 minutes ago.

Shit.

But I have what I came here for.

I eject the USB just as I notice a group of folders. I quickly click in, not wanting to waste this moment. Patient data streams across one monitor, showing survival rates jumping by 40 percent with Adrian's diagnostic AI. Another screen shows security protocols protecting schools, hospitals, power grids.

My hands start to shake. The USB drive burns in my palm like a live coal. These aren't just corporate files—they're lifelines. A video feed shows a little girl receiving treatment, her doctors conferring over tablets running Adrian's software. In another window, researchers collaborate across continents, their breakthrough drug trials guided by his AI.

"Oh God," I whisper, sinking deeper into his chair.

Thousands of employees' faces flash past, not just tech workers, but janitors, cafeteria staff, security guards. People supporting families, paying mortgages, sending kids to college. I think of their children, their elderly parents depending on them.

The numbers scroll endlessly: diseases caught early, treatments optimized, lives extended. Adrian's obsession with control has built something bigger than his darkness.

I pull up more files, searching desperately for a way to separate Adrian's personal violations from the legitimate work saving lives. There has to be a middle path, a way to stop him without destroying everything good his company has built.

The USB drive slips from my trembling fingers. I catch it before it hits the floor, clutching it to my chest. The weight of thousands of lives presses down on me. I can't be responsible for that much collateral damage. I won't.

But I also can't let Adrian continue using his power to control and destroy people at will. There must be another way, something targeted. Something that stops the abuse without shattering the foundation supporting so many innocent lives.

The elevator dings in the distance. I try to close all the files with shaking hands, my mind racing. But my heart stops as the study door swings open.

Adrian fills the doorway, his tall frame casting a shadow across the room. Our eyes lock, and I can't breathe. The USB drive burns in my palm like a brand of guilt.

His gaze sweeps over the scene—me in his chair, his private files splashed across the monitors, the damning evidence of my betrayal laid bare. The silence pulses between us, each heartbeat an eternity.

I want to speak, to explain about the lives his work has saved, about finding another way, but my throat closes around the words. His eyes drift to the drive in my hand, and I see something crack in his facade.

The gentle man who held me last night vanishes. His jaw tightens, and a coldness creeps into his expression that makes my skin crawl. The transformation is subtle but complete—like watching ice crystallize over deep water, beautiful and terrifying.

"Sophia." He speaks my name like it's foreign to him now, each syllable sharp.

I press back into his leather chair as he steps into the room. His movements are deliberate, predatory. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the stillness.

My fingers clench around the USB drive—this small thing that could destroy him, that could save others from his control, but would devastate countless innocent lives in the process. I've never felt more trapped, more foolish.

Adrian reaches behind him and turns the lock. I'm alone with him now, sealed in his private domain where he holds all the power. Where he's always held all the power.

His eyes never leave mine as he takes another step forward. I see now how badly I've miscalculated. I thought I could outsmart him, could find a way to fix things without destroying everything. Instead, I've walked straight into the lion's den and shown my hand.

The air grows thick with tension as Adrian advances, his expression carved from stone. I've seen his darkness before, glimpsed it in moments of passion or anger, but this is different. This is pure, cold fury wrapped in deadly control.

I've betrayed him, and now I'm trapped here with the consequences of my actions.