Chapter 5 The Art Of Restraint

The next morning, you wake to the scent of citrus and bergamot, soft light slipping through drawn curtains. The bed is too perfect, untouched except for the faint crease where you turned restlessly through the night. You feel it before you see it-that awareness that you are not alone in this house, even when silence pretends you are.

Your contract is folded neatly on the nightstand. Still unsigned on the second page. Still binding.

You shower. You don't linger. The water is hot, stinging, almost punishing. You stare at the fogged mirror afterward, expecting to see someone else. But it's still you. Hair damp. Eyes sharp. Lips bitten.

You get dressed slowly, deliberately. No cameras here, no dress code outlined for this part. But you know better now. Every choice is seen.

When you finally step into the hallway, the entire house feels like it's watching. Marble floors stretch into long corridors. Walls whisper wealth in the quiet language of oil paintings and collector's frames. He's everywhere, even when he's nowhere in sight. Like the place was built around him. Around you.

You find Adrian in the atrium, seated in a chair so angular and modern it should be uncomfortable. Of course, he looks at home in it.

He's reading the paper.

Real paper.

Who even does that?

You hesitate in the doorway.

He doesn't look up. "Sleep well?"

"No."

The corner of his mouth lifts. "Good."

You move closer, barefoot against polished stone. The air between you shifts again. Not hot. Not cold. Just thick.

"You disappeared after the sketch room," you say.

"I didn't disappear," he replies, flipping the page. "You walked away."

You want to argue. But he's right. You had walked away. From him. From that gallery of obsession. From the heat between your thighs and the fire in your throat.

"You left me there alone," you say instead.

"I warned you," he says, voice low. "You entered that room, you don't come out the same. I wanted to see if you would."

You cross your arms. "And?"

He finally looks up. Those eyes. Dark, unreadable.

"You're still deciding."

He folds the paper with slow precision and stands. He's dressed in black slacks and a charcoal sweater, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His forearms are dangerous. Veined. Strong. That tattoo from last night just peeks out, taunting you.

He walks past you.

You follow.

Not because you want to. Because he doesn't ask you to.

The hallway leads to a different wing. You haven't been here before. The air smells like wood and varnish, cool and clean.

He opens a door.

Inside is a studio. Large canvases, some covered, some exposed. An easel waits at the center, surrounded by light and silence.

You step inside, drawn. "Yours?"

"Yes," he says.

You turn slowly, taking it in. "I didn't know you painted."

"You never asked."

There's a canvas in the corner, half-completed. Charcoal smudges trail from one edge. There's something urgent about it-like it was abandoned mid-thought.

You step toward it.

He stops you with a single word. "Don't."

You freeze. Look back.

He's watching you the way he did that first day in his office. Calculated. Intent.

"You're not ready to see it," he says.

Your lips part to protest, but then you see something in his eyes-something protective, not cruel.

"You'll see it," he adds. "Eventually."

Everything is eventually with him. Eventually, you'll stay. Eventually, you'll give in. Eventually, he'll have you.

You glance back at the canvas, throat tight. "So what now?"

He steps forward again, close enough to feel. "Now," he murmurs, "I teach you patience."

He lifts his hand. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, slow. Nothing more. But it burns.

You stay perfectly still. He doesn't kiss you. Doesn't touch you again. Just watches the war behind your eyes.

He smiles, faint and cruel and beautiful.

Then he turns.

And leaves you there.

Alone in a room full of things he won't show you yet.

You don't follow him this time.

You stand there, in the silence of the studio, surrounded by blank canvases and unfinished thoughts, and you try to breathe through the sharp edge of want carving down your chest. Patience. That's what he said.

But what he means is control.

You pace once, twice, then stop in front of the forbidden canvas. You don't touch it. But you look. Long enough to feel its gravity pull at your curiosity. What did he paint? What is it about you-or for you-that you're not ready to see?

Your hands twitch. You force them still.

Eventually.

The word follows you through the hall, the house, into the sprawling open library where the windows spill golden morning across Persian rugs. You don't know where Adrian went. Or if he's watching. But you feel the camera of his presence trailing your every move.

On a shelf, you find a book you once owned. Dog-eared and cracked at the spine.

You don't remember telling him you liked it.

You sit and read it anyway.

One hour passes. Then another.

It's almost worse this way-his absence. You begin to understand the rhythm of him. That he can command a room without entering it. That his silence means something. That he waits because it builds you into something volatile. Desperate.

When you finally rise and return to your room, a box is waiting on the bed.

No note.

Of course.

Inside: silk.

A dress, midnight blue, delicate and fitted. Thin straps. A backless cut. And folded beneath it, a pair of heels-stiletto, sleek, red-soled. Beside it, a slip of paper.

Dinner. Seven o'clock. West wing dining room.

Your hands shake slightly as you set the invitation down. You don't know what he'll do. What you'll do.

What's worse-you don't know what you want him to do.

You bathe this time. Not for him. For yourself.

That's what you tell yourself, anyway.

You let your fingers linger at your throat, at your collarbone, where you imagine his hands might fit. When you slip into the dress, it hugs your curves like a promise. The heels make you taller, thinner, more dangerous than you feel.

When you reach the dining room, he's already seated.

Wine in one hand. A candle lit. That black shirt again-no tie, first button undone. The tattoo peeking.

He stands when you enter.

His eyes trail down, then up.

He says nothing.

But his silence speaks.

You walk the long stretch of table. Sit across from him.

He pours the wine.

And smiles, slow. "You're learning."

You raise an eyebrow. "To follow orders?"

"To anticipate them."

You sip the wine. It's rich. Dark. Like his voice.

The dinner is slow. French. Five courses. He never rushes, never breaks eye contact too long. You catch yourself watching his hands. The way he cuts his food. The way he uses silence like a scalpel. Every moment feels curated. Choreographed.

And then-dessert.

He lifts his wine, swirling it lazily. "Do you know what I like best about restraint?"

You blink. "No."

He leans forward, voice velvet-wrapped iron.

"It sharpens the hunger."

Your breath catches.

His gaze dips to your mouth.

And in that moment, you know-this is still only the beginning.

You can't eat anymore.

Not because the food isn't exquisite-it is. Rich, layered, meant to be savored slowly like everything else Adrian touches. But because his words have settled too heavily in your chest.

It sharpens the hunger.

He watches you across the table like you're something he hasn't quite decided to consume yet. The kind of man who doesn't rush dessert when he knows he can keep it indefinitely. The candlelight licks the edges of his jawline, throws shadows across his cheekbones, lights up the silver rim of his cufflinks.

You're not even sure what you're hungry for anymore.

"Tell me something," he says, tapping his fingers against the wine glass stem. "Why did you really sign it?"

You hesitate.

There were a thousand reasons.

None of them good enough.

"I didn't want to keep struggling," you say quietly. "And maybe... I was curious."

"Curious?" He leans back in his chair. "About what?"

You meet his eyes, finally. "About how far I could go before I stopped being myself."

That makes him smile. Not with his mouth-he never really smiles there-but with the sharp gleam in his eyes, like the answer pleased him more than it should have.

"You've barely begun," he murmurs.

A beat of silence.

Then, he rises, circling the table slowly. Your spine straightens even before you feel him at your back. He doesn't touch you. Just stands behind your chair, the warmth of him brushing the bare skin of your shoulders.

"You wore the dress," he says softly.

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because you told me to."

"Wrong answer."

He leans in, the tip of his nose ghosting your temple, not touching-never touching-but burning all the same.

"You wore it because it made you feel something," he whispers. "Because when you looked in the mirror, you saw the woman I see."

You swallow hard.

His hand finally moves. Not to you. To the chair. He turns it gently, swiveling you to face him. You look up.

And then he kneels.

Again.

The second time since you arrived.

But this isn't surrender-it's possession disguised as reverence.

His hands rest on your knees. The dress has slid up your thighs. He hasn't even looked down.

He doesn't need to.

"You're shaking," he says.

You nod.

"Good."

He brushes one knuckle along the side of your thigh. Just once. Light as breath. No pressure. No claim.

Just suggestion.

"Do you know how long I've imagined this?" he says, his voice low. "Not touching. Not yet. Just waiting. Knowing that one day you'd be here. In this house. Wearing what I picked. Tasting what I serve. Sitting still because you want to see what happens next."

You clench the edge of the seat.

He stands slowly, towering again. Looks down at you like you're a poem he hasn't decided to end.

"You have no idea what I'll do to you, Selena," he says softly. "But you'll beg me to do it."

You believe him.

God, you do.

And worse-you want to know what it is.

He steps away.

"Go to bed."

Your chest tightens. "Just like that?"

He doesn't answer. Doesn't look back.

He leaves.

And this time, you are the one left starving.

You lie in bed that night wide-eyed and breathless with nothing but the moonlight and the echo of his words pressed against your skin

You'll beg me to do it

You don't know what it is and that terrifies you almost as much as it thrills you

The room is too quiet too cold too large without his presence but even in his absence Adrian lingers

In the taste of the wine on your lips

In the ache he didn't touch

In the weight of the silk dress discarded on the floor like a question you haven't yet answered

You dream of mirrors

Of him behind you again only this time he doesn't stop

Only this time your voice doesn't tremble it breaks

You wake up sweating fists clenched against the sheets legs twisted in the tension he's left behind

And you swear you can still hear his voice in your ear

By morning there's a package waiting by the door

No knock

No footsteps

Just presence

Inside you find art supplies-fresh paints brushes charcoal even the kind of expensive sketchbook you'd never buy for yourself

And a note

Use your hands Selena

That's how I want to see you next-painted in color

You don't know what he means by that

But part of you does

You take the supplies to the sunlit corner of the room and stare at the blank page like it's another version of yourself daring you to start again

The day stretches on with no sight of him

But every hour you feel him more

In the patterns of the house

In the sound of your own heartbeat

In the colors you choose without realizing why

By dusk you've filled two pages with charcoal-portraits mostly

One of them has his mouth

Another has his eyes

You don't know what the third one is

But it makes you blush when you cover it

Then

Just before night swallows the last light from the windows

The intercom crackles to life

One word

"Come"

Your pulse trips

You follow the sound through the house down a corridor you haven't seen yet

Through tall black doors into a room that smells of leather and faint smoke

His study

He's at the desk

Reading

Glasses perched low on his nose

Tattoo ink flashing beneath his rolled sleeves

He doesn't look up right away

But when he does

It's like gravity resets itself around him

"I want to show you something," he says

He stands

Moves to the far wall

And presses something on the shelf

You don't expect it to swing open

Behind it

A hidden room

A vault of sorts

Lit by a single hanging bulb

You step inside slowly

The walls are covered with paintings

Of you

But not the way you see yourself

The way he sees you

Fierce

Soft

Bent

Rising

Some of them are raw

Some cruel

Some almost tender

You gasp

He doesn't explain

Just stands behind you and waits for your breath to return

"This is why you're here," he says finally "So I can finish the last one"

Your lips part "What's the last one?"

He leans closer

Whispers

"The version of you that begs"

You stare at the walls and wonder if it's truly you in those frames

You see versions of yourself you didn't know existed until now-kneeling in shadows lips parted caught mid-motion in some unnamed surrender

A profile tinged in red

A body bent to the rhythm of hands that never appear in the painting

But you know they're his

The gallery is a secret and a shrine

And every brushstroke feels like a prophecy

"You've been painting me," you whisper "All this time"

His eyes don't flinch

"Before I even had your name"

You turn to him then

Slowly

Like you're afraid of what it means if you don't

"I didn't give you permission," you say

He smiles-just barely

"No"

"But I didn't ask"

Your heart pounds

You should leave

Turn around

Run back through the hallway

Shut the door on this room and everything it's starting to awaken in you

But you don't move

You can't

Instead you step closer to the last easel in the corner-half-covered with a cloth

Your fingers hesitate over the edge

He watches you

You pull it back

The canvas is blank

Completely

Untouched

Clean

And it shakes you more than all the others

"Why this one?" you ask

He walks toward you slowly

Each step deliberate like a decision

He stands just behind your shoulder again

"It's the only one I want you to paint"

You glance at him

He nods at the easel

"You'll know when you're ready"

You don't understand what he means but your pulse does

It flutters like wings against a ribcage not made to hold them

You leave the vault without speaking

Feeling stripped even though he never laid a hand on you

That night you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for hours

And for the first time

You don't wonder what Adrian Cavalli is going to do to you

You wonder what he's already done