Page 52 of The Art of Obsession

A sound from the hallway makes me freeze. Soft, deliberate footsteps, growing closer.

My breath catches, and the air feels suddenly heavier, charged with an energy that prickles along my skin.

Cherry grins, her form flickering like a dying lightbulb.Showtime, doll, she whispers, her voice echoing in my mind as she fades into the shadows.

I’m not a doll. Not to him.

I turn toward the door, heart pounding, as the footsteps stop just outside. The handle turns slowly, and I brace myself, every nerve on edge.

The door creaks open, and Acheron steps inside, his presence filling the room like a storm. A storm who worships me with his eyes.

22

She’s Not Ready. But she knows

Chapter Playlist:

“Centuries” – Fall Out Boy

“Lovely” – Billie Eilish – Lauren Babic & Seraphim Cover

ACHERON

It’s time.

I can’t delay any longer.

When you’re working with powerful and connected clients, who pay you well, you cannot afford to make them wait too long.

Everleigh has been waiting for me. For hours, she has roamed the room, inspecting the various artifacts, occasionally writing down notes. But her fidgety body language, her anxious expressions, and how she wraps herself in a duvet as if cold…they convey everything.

Other than disrupting one truffle from the table, she’s eaten nothing. And she never stops looking at the door.

She knows. She’s not ready. But she knows.

I enter the exhibit hall—set up much like a dining theater. It hums with quiet power and wealth, every seat occupied by a man who commands his own empire. Mafia dons, billionaire art collectors, corporate titans, and political puppeteers. All here at my invitation. In my domain, they are mere spectators. They’ve paid handsomely for tonight, not just for the exhibit but for the privilege of being part of something no one else can touch. Dorian sits in the front row.

For the present, the exhibit walls are black. Eager tension thickens the room.

Gloved hands folded behind my back, I pace before the exhibit, surveying the waiting audience. As usual, I am masked and in full performance garb.

After a grand meal from a six-figure chef, my clients are presented with cigars and their drink of choice. Once the staff departs, all eyes are on me as I stand before the exhibit, a revolver now gleaming in my hand.

I tap my wrist to summon the simple command for the black walls of the exhibit to clear. Possession, carnal and violent, overcomes me at the change in the spectators from their dilated pupils to their overeager posture.

Everleigh is sitting at the writing desk, her eyes fixed on the ledger. She shed the duvet, leaving her in nothing but her slip and dark waves scattered about her arms. But her movements are robotic at best. She’s trying too hard to focus.

“Gentlemen,” I begin in a steady voice. “Tonight marks the beginning of a series that will redefine the boundaries of art. What you are about to witness is not a performance, nor a spectacle. It is art in its purest form—raw, visceral, and alive.”

No mere sport. Nor the crudeness of pornography. No cell phones or photography of any kind are permitted. Not even the darkest of BDSM clubs can give this experience. Nor would any night with a high-class call girl.

A few murmurs ripple through the room, appreciative but impatient.

After allowing the anticipation to build, I continue, “This series is titled “The Art of Obsession.” It will explore the depths of human emotion, the fragility of connection, and the beauty of surrender. It is not for the faint of heart, nor the crude of mind.”

Most nod, their expressions carefully neutral. But there’s always one.

From the middle of the table, a portly man in a tailored suit leans back in his chair, a smirk pulling at his lips. He’s a mid-level player in a crime syndicate, here only because of a favor owed. His voice cuts through the air, thick with mockery.