His Anonymous Obsession

The cursor blinks on my screen like a heartbeat, and I'm dying.

Not literally. But the way my chest tightens, breath shallow, fingers trembling over the drawing tablet-it feels close enough. The comment section scrolls past in a blur of usernames and emojis. 4.2 million people watching me create art they'll never understand is mine. Watching my hands-only my hands-because that's all they get to see.

I'm safe here. Behind the screen. Behind the name 'Veil.'

My stylus glides across the tablet, adding shadow to the portrait taking shape. A woman's face, half-obscured by smoke, eyes closed in something that might be peace or surrender. I can't decide which. Maybe both. The livestream chat explodes with heart emojis and fire symbols.

@ArtLover2024: this is EVERYTHING

@VeilStan: queen of mystery

@CreativeMinds_: show ur face queen!

My hand stills. The stylus hovers above the screen. That last comment-innocent enough, asked a thousand times before-detonates something inside my chest.

Suddenly I'm twenty years old again, standing in the college quad with my phone buzzing. Buzzing. Buzzing. Notifications flooding in faster than I can process. My face on every screen. My face twisted into something ugly, something mocking. The photoshop crude but effective. The caption: 'When you think you're hot but you're NOT.' Seventeen thousand shares. Thirty-four thousand likes. My roommate's laughter echoing from somewhere behind me.

Everyone seeing me. Everyone judging me. Everyone laughing.

I blink. Force myself back to the present. My bedroom walls. My screen. My safe space. Two AM in Los Angeles. The world is asleep except for me and these millions of strangers who don't know my face, don't know my name, don't know I haven't left this house in three days.

I lean toward the mic, keeping my voice light. Practiced. "You know the rules, lovelies. The art gets a face. I don't." I add a playful laugh that costs me everything. "Mystery is part of the brand."

The chat moves on. They always do. But my pulse is still racing, palms slick with sweat. I wipe them on my oversized hoodie-the same one I've worn for two days straight-and return to the portrait. Add highlights to the smoke. Make the shadows deeper. Lose myself in the familiar rhythm of creation.

This is where I'm powerful. Where I matter. Where nobody can hurt me.

An email notification pops up in the corner of my screen. I almost ignore it-I'm in the zone, the piece is coming together, the chat is responding beautifully. But the preview makes my breath catch.

From: D.R.

Subject: Commission Request - No Budget Limit

My mystery client. The one who's commissioned me for three years now. The one who always-always-includes a personal note that feels less like business and more like... something else. Something intimate.

I shouldn't read it now. Should finish the livestream. Should maintain professional boundaries like a normal person who doesn't get emotionally attached to anonymous email addresses.

I click it anyway.

*Veil,

Your last piece saved me during the darkest week of my life. I looked at it every morning and remembered that broken things can be beautiful. That healing is possible.

I need something that captures hope fighting through grief. Light breaking through fractures. The moment before surrender becomes strength.

No budget limit. Take all the time you need. Your wellbeing matters more than deadlines.

Thank you for existing.

- D.R.*

My throat closes. I read it twice. Three times. He always does this-writes like he knows me. Like he sees past the art into something deeper. Like these aren't commission requests but love letters disguised as business transactions.

I've never met him. Don't know his real name. Don't know his face. But I know his grief. I know his hope. I know the way his words make my chest ache with something dangerous.

Another email notification. This one makes my stomach drop.

From: St. Joseph's Medical Center - Billing Department

I don't want to open it. Want to close my laptop and pretend the real world doesn't exist. But my finger is already clicking. Already destroying my carefully maintained denial.

*Final Notice: Outstanding Balance $47,328.19*

My mother's medical bills. From three years ago. The cancer that took her. The treatments that didn't work. The hope we paid for in installments we still can't afford.

I scroll down. There's more. An attachment. I click it with shaking hands.

*Jiao's Vinyl Paradise - Notice of Foreclosure

Amount Due: $103,472.51

Payment Deadline: 90 Days*

The room tilts. My father's record store. The place my parents built together. Where my mother used to dance between the aisles, where she'd play obscure jazz albums and make my father spin her around while customers smiled. The last piece of her we have left.

One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That's what I need. Ninety days to find it.

I look at D.R.'s email. No budget limit. Even if he pays me $50,000-more than I've ever charged-it's not enough. Nothing is enough.

The livestream chat is going crazy. I've been silent for too long. My hands are frozen on the tablet. The portrait on screen mocks me-a woman half-hidden by smoke, surrendering to something inevitable.

@VeilStan: u ok queen?

@ArtLover2024: Veil? You there?

I force a smile they can't see. "Sorry, lovelies. Technical difficulties." I save the portrait and close the stream. "See you tomorrow."

The screen goes dark. Just me and my reflection in the black glass. A ghost girl in an oversized hoodie. Hair unwashed. Eyes hollow. Twenty-seven years old and living in her childhood bedroom because the world outside these walls is too dangerous.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Unknown number. I almost don't answer-never answer unknown numbers, haven't in seven years-but something makes me pick up.

"Hello?"

"Miss Jiao? This is Marcus Gray. I'm calling about an opportunity that might interest you."

My heart pounds. "I don't take unsolicited calls."

"I work for Giovanni Rivers."

The phone slips in my grip.

"Giovanni Rivers," I repeat, because my brain has stopped working.

D.R. *Giovanni Rivers.*

My mystery client-the man whose grief I've painted, whose hope I've captured in fractured light, whose messages I read like poetry-is Giovanni Rivers. Grammy-winning musician. Three-time platinum artist. The man whose face is on every magazine cover, whose voice makes my chest ache in ways I don't want to examine.

The man whose album covers I've been creating for three years without knowing it was him.

"Miss Jiao? Are you still there?"

I find my voice. Barely. "What does Giovanni Rivers want with me?"

"He'd like to discuss a unique opportunity. A business arrangement that could be mutually beneficial." Marcus's voice is smooth, professional. Like he's done this a thousand times. "I can't discuss details over the phone, but I can tell you it involves substantial compensation. Six figures."

Six figures. The medical bills flash through my mind. The foreclosure notice. My father's face when I tell him we're losing the store.

"What kind of arrangement?" My voice sounds foreign. Desperate.

"I'd prefer to discuss that in person. Would you be Haeilable for a meeting tomorrow? Say, two PM at Maestro's in Beverly Hills?"

Beverly Hills. Public. People everywhere. Cameras. Eyes. The thought makes my lungs constrict.

"I don't do public meetings."

"Miss Jiao, I understand you value your privacy. Giovanni respects that. But this opportunity-" He pauses. "How much do you need to save your father's store?"

Ice floods my veins. "How do you know about that?"

"Your father's store is where Giovanni bought his first vinyl. Back when he was nobody, just a kid with big dreams. He remembers. He'd like to help. But he needs something from you in return."

My hand tightens on the phone. "What does he need?"

"You. For six months. Tomorrow at two. I'll send a car."

The line goes dead.

I sit frozen, phone pressed to my ear, listening to silence. *You. For six months.* What does that even mean?

I should call back. Demand answers. Tell him I'm not interested in mysterious propositions from strangers, no matter how famous.

Instead, I open my laptop and type 'Giovanni Rivers' into the search bar.

Images flood the screen. Him on stage, guitar slung low, eyes closed in that way musicians do when they're lost in the music. Him at award shows in a perfectly tailored suit, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Him leaving restaurants with various women-models, actresses, fellow musicians-none lasting more than a few months.

Recent headlines: 'Giovanni Rivers and Sienna Blake Split: She Claims Abuse.' 'Is Giovanni Rivers Hollywood's Newest Villain?' 'Sources Say Rivers' Label Ready to Drop Him.'

I click on an interview from two months ago. The interviewer asks about his album art. About Veil.

"She's incredible," Giovanni says, and something in his voice makes my skin prickle. "Her art speaks to something broken in me. Like she sees the fractures and makes them beautiful. I don't know who she is, but I feel like she knows me better than anyone."

I replay it. Three times. Five. His voice is deeper than I imagined, rougher. There's pain in it. Recognition. Like we're both hiding from the same thing.

My phone buzzes. Text from unknown number: *Confirm for tomorrow? - Marcus Gray*

I should say no. Should delete the message and pretend this night never happened. Should find another way to save the store that doesn't involve mysterious six-month arrangements with damaged musicians who think they know me through my art.

My fingers type before my brain catches up: *How much?*

Response comes immediately: *$150,000*

Exactly what I need. To the dollar. How does he know?

I type: *For what?*

Marcus: *Come to the meeting. Find out. Car will be there at 1:30. Don't be late.*

I stare at my phone until the screen goes dark. Until I'm looking at my reflection again. That ghost girl with hollow eyes and unwashed hair and a life so small it fits inside four walls.

One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

My father's store.

My mother's memory.

Six months of my life.

I pick up my phone and type: *I'll be there.*

Send it before I can change my mind.

The confirmation comes back immediately: *Smart choice. Wear something nice. See you tomorrow.*

Something nice. I look down at my hoodie. Haven't worn something nice in seven years. Haven't had a reason to.

I walk to my closet and pull open the door. In the back, behind the hoodies and sweatpants, there's a black dress. The one I bought for my college graduation. The one I never got to wear because the viral incident happened two weeks before the ceremony.

I pull it out. Hold it up. The girl who bought this dress believed in herself. Believed the world would be kind.

That girl was an idiot.

But maybe-just maybe-she was also brave.

I hang the dress on the back of my door and crawl into bed. Set my alarm for tomorrow. Stare at the ceiling and try not to think about what I've just agreed to.

Try not to think about Giovanni Rivers.

Try not to think about the way his voice sounded when he said: *She knows me better than anyone.*

My phone buzzes one more time. I grab it, expecting another message from Marcus.

It's an email. From D.R.

Subject: P.S.

I click it with shaking hands.

*I met someone today. She reminds me of you-the way she sees the world, how she hides but creates beauty anyway. Strange coincidence. Or maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.

Tomorrow, I will find out what I really mean to him.*

I close the laptop and pull the covers over my head.

The car arrives at exactly 1:30.

I watch it from my bedroom window-sleek black SUV with tinted windows, driver in a suit waiting by the passenger door. My stomach clenches. This is real. This is actually happening.

The dress fits better than I remembered. Or maybe I'm smaller now. Seven years of barely leaving the house will do that. I've done my best with makeup-minimal, nothing that draws attention. Hair pulled back in a low bun. Simple black flats because I can't remember the last time I wore heels.

I look like someone pretending to be normal. Like a ghost trying to remember how to be human.

"Hae?" My father's voice from downstairs. "The car is here."

I told him I had a business meeting. An art commission. Not technically a lie. I just left out the part about Giovanni Rivers and six-month arrangements and one hundred and fifty thousand dollars that could save everything.

I grab my bag-laptop, tablet, portfolio. Armor. If this goes badly, I can hide behind my work.

The stairs feel endless. Each step down is a step toward something I can't take back. At the bottom, my father waits. He sees me and his face softens.

"You look beautiful, 宝贝." His voice cracks. "Just like your mother."

Tears burn my eyes. I blink them back. "It's just a meeting."

"A meeting where someone sends a car." He studies my face. Knows I'm hiding something. But he doesn't push. He never does. "Be careful, Hae."

"I will."

He kisses my forehead. I memorize the feeling. Just in case.

The driver opens the door as I approach. Doesn't speak. I slide into leather seats that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. The door closes with a soft thunk that sounds like a jail cell locking.

We pull away from the curb. I watch my father's store disappear in the side mirror. Jiao's Vinyl Paradise. Faded paint. Cracked windows. But still standing. Still his.

Still hers.

Traffic is light. We arrive at Maestro's in twenty minutes. My breathing gets shallower with each passing block. By the time we park, my palms are slick with sweat.

The driver opens my door. "Mr. Gray is waiting inside. Private room in the back."

Private room. Thank god. I can do private. It's the public part that destroys me.

I step out. The restaurant is exactly what I expected-expensive, exclusive, the kind of place where you need a reservation three months in advance. The hostess looks me up and down, assessing. Finding me wanting.

"I'm here to see Marcus Gray," I manage.

Her expression shifts. Professional warmth that doesn't reach her eyes. "Of course. Right this way."

She leads me through the main dining room. My heart pounds with every step. People eating, talking, laughing. Normal people doing normal things. A few glance up as I pass. I keep my eyes down, counting floor tiles, breathing through my nose.

We reach the back. The hostess opens a door marked 'Private.'

Inside: a man in an expensive suit, mid-forties, styled hair, practiced smile. Marcus Gray. And beside him-

My breath stops.

Giovanni Rivers.

He's bigger than he looks on screen. Taller. More real. Black t-shirt, dark jeans, leather jacket draped over his chair. Tattoos covering both arms-intricate patterns I want to study, want to trace with my fingers, want to capture in charcoal.

But it's his eyes that destroy me. Dark, intense, looking at me like he's trying to solve a puzzle. Like I'm something that matters.

He stands. The movement is fluid, controlled. "Hae." My name in his voice is different than I imagined. Rougher. Gentler. "Thank you for coming."

I can't speak. Can't move. Can't do anything but stare at the man whose grief I've painted, whose hope I've captured, whose messages I've read like love letters at three AM.

The man who doesn't know I'm Veil.

Marcus clears his throat. "Please, sit." He gestures to the empty chair. "Can we get you anything? Water? Wine?"

"Water." My voice comes out strangled. I clear my throat. "Please."

I sit. Giovanni sits. We're across from each other now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to see the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drum once against the table before he stills them.

He's nervous.

The thought steadies me somehow. Giovanni Rivers-three-time Grammy winner, platinum artist, man who's performed for millions-is nervous to meet me.

Marcus launches into his pitch. "Miss Jiao, I'll be direct. Giovanni needs help with his public image. Recent events have been... damaging. His ex-girlfriend's allegations, however false, have created a PR nightmare. The label is threatening to drop him if he doesn't rehabilitate his reputation."

I glance at Giovanni. He's watching me, not Marcus. Something in his gaze makes my skin warm.

"What does this have to do with me?" I ask.

"We need someone wholesome. Private. Someone who won't use Giovanni for fame because you clearly don't want it." Marcus slides a folder across the table. "Someone who needs money desperately enough to agree to an arrangement."

My fingers curl around the folder's edge. "What kind of arrangement?"

"Six months as Giovanni's girlfriend. Public appearances. Social media posts. Carefully staged relationship. In return, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Girlfriend. Fake girlfriend. Six months of pretending.

"You want me to lie." My voice is flat.

"We want to offer you an opportunity," Marcus corrects smoothly. "A business transaction. You get the money you need. Giovanni gets his reputation back. Everyone wins."

"Why me?"

Giovanni speaks for the first time since I sat down. "Because you look like being here is the last thing you want." His voice does things to me. Dangerous things. "That means you won't use me. You won't leak stories or sell photos or make this harder than it needs to be."

He's right. Being here is the last thing I want. Every instinct screams at me to run. To hide. To go back to my safe bedroom and my safe screens and my safe anonymous life.

But one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. My father's store. My mother's memory.

I open the folder. Contract. Terms. Compensation schedule. It's all real. All legal. All terrifying.

"I need to think about it."

"Of course," Marcus says. But his tone suggests he knows my answer already. "Take your time. We'll-"

Camera flashes explode outside the window.

My head whips toward the glass. Paparazzi. Telephoto lenses. Pointed at our private room. At me.

The walls close in. The room tilts. My vision tunnels.

Not now. Not here. Please not here.

But it's already happening. The panic attack crashes over me like a wave. Can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but feel the terror clawing up my throat.

The college quad. Phones everywhere. Cameras. Laughter. My face on every screen. Everyone seeing. Everyone judging. Everyone-

Warm hands grip my shoulders