Chapter 3: An Unwanted Gift

Pia

I had spent the last twenty-four hours in a state of carefully cultivated denial. The coffee, the exact order, the chilling certainty that the stranger—Ash Knight, my mind supplied, remembering the name from his business card he must have left with the barista—had done it all on purpose. It was just a strange, one-off gesture. A man with too much money and not enough sense, trying to get a rise out of me. I had thrown the cups in the trash and tried to forget about it. My art demanded my full attention, not some billionaire's mind games.

But the feeling refused to be forgotten. It clung to me, a phantom presence in my sunlit studio. I'd stand before my easel, brush in hand, ready to paint, but my gaze would drift to the large wooden door, half-expecting it to open. The memory of his eyes, so intense and possessive, felt burned into my mind. I was angry with myself for being so rattled. I, Pia Moretti, did not get rattled. I faced my demons with a scowl and a sharp tongue, not with trembling hands.

Just as I managed to get into a rhythm, the doorbell buzzed again. My entire body went rigid. I stared at the door, a cold knot forming in my stomach. It had to be him. It couldn't be a coincidence. My studio was my private sanctuary, known only to a handful of people. I wasn't expecting anyone.

I walked over to the door, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Through the peephole, I saw a delivery man holding a small, brown paper bag. This was different. No logo, no uniform. Just a messenger. My guard, though still on high alert, lowered a fraction. This felt less like a public spectacle and more like a secret delivery. With a hesitant hand, I unlocked the door, opening it just a crack.

"Pia Moretti?" the man asked, his voice neutral.

"Yes," I replied, my hand gripping the doorknob.

He held out the bag. "For you."

I took it, the paper crinkling in my hand. He didn’t wait for a signature; he just turned and walked away. I closed the door and locked it immediately, my heart still racing. My hands trembled as I opened the bag, half-expecting another coffee cup.

Instead, I found a book.

I pulled it out, my fingers tracing the familiar, worn spine. It was a first edition of The Invisible Threads of Fate, a book on surrealist art that I had spent months trying to find. I had talked about it once, months ago, to a friend in a crowded café, complaining about its rarity. I hadn't said my name or where I lived. The coincidence was impossible. This was no fluke. This was a man who not only listened, but who had the power and means to acquire things no one else could, all to get to me.

I flipped through the pages, a small, handwritten note falling from between them. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it.

You mentioned you were looking for this. I find it ironic. Some threads are meant to be seen.

—A.K.

A.K. Ash Knight.

My stomach churned with a mixture of fear and pure, unadulterated fury. The coffee was a sign he had seen me. The book was a sign he had heard me. He was in my world, listening to my most private conversations, collecting details about me. He wasn't just a stranger anymore; he was a silent, looming presence that had already breached my defenses. My sanctuary, the place I came to feel safe and unseen, was no longer mine.

I stared at the book in my hands, a priceless, beautiful gift that felt like a violation. I wanted to throw it against the wall, to rip the pages, to erase the very existence of this man who had no right to know anything about me. But I didn't. I held it tightly, my knuckles turning white, a tear of rage and helplessness stinging my eyes. He was playing a game, and I had no idea of the rules.

...----------------...

Ash

The delivery report flashed on my screen: Gift received. I smiled, a genuine, satisfied smile that rarely reached my eyes in the sterile confines of my office. Pia Moretti had the book. The second phase of my plan was complete.

The coffee delivery yesterday had been the first volley. I watched her from the car, saw the exact moment the delivery boy handed her the cups. Her surprise, followed by that magnificent fury, had been a sight to behold. She was a woman of fire, not ice, and I was going to enjoy stoking the flames.

I had learned about the book completely by chance. A few months ago, my driver was stopped at a light outside a small café near the artistic district. I had a conference call, but my attention was snagged by her voice. She was sitting with a friend, and I heard her mention her search for a rare art book, her voice filled with a passion that made me sit up and listen. The name of the book had stuck with me.

The hunt for it had been… enlightening. My usual fixers had no luck. It was a truly rare item. I had to go through several private collectors, promising a favor and an obscene amount of money, to finally get my hands on it. The chase had been exhilarating. It was the first time in a decade that a task felt like a genuine challenge, not just another check on a list.

And the book was for her. It was an act of pure devotion. While she would see it as a violation, I saw it as a promise. I listened. I paid attention. I would do anything for her. I was not a man who forgot the details. I was a man who remembered, and who acted on those memories.

My assistant came in, a tablet in his hand. “The bid for the property near the city’s art district went through, sir.”

“Excellent. I want the blueprints on my desk by noon,” I said, my eyes still on the delivery report. The property was a nondescript commercial building, but its location was key. Directly across the street from Pia’s studio.

My assistant looked confused. “The plan was to turn it into an office space, sir.”

I finally looked up at him, my expression one of finality.

“Change the plan. It’s a gallery now. Her gallery.”

He was too well-trained to show his shock. He simply nodded and left.

I sat back in my chair, a sense of deep satisfaction settling over me. Pia was trying to keep me out, to build walls, but every gift, every note, every gesture was a brick I would use to build something new. Something for her. She didn't trust men who offered everything, but I would teach her. I would teach her that my obsession wasn't about control. It was about cherishing every single, wonderful thing about her. She was my art, my passion, my perfect 100/100, and I would spoil her rotten until she had no choice but to believe me.

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