Chapter 4: The Interruption

Pia

My studio had become a place of dread. Every creak of the floorboards, every shadow cast by the afternoon sun, felt like a threat. The book, still sitting on my table where I had dropped it, felt like a silent accusation. He knew my coffee. He knew the books I wanted. He was dismantling my world, one carefully placed gift at a time. The anger from yesterday had curdled into a cold, hard knot of fear. I was no longer on my own turf. He had made sure of that.

After a restless night of sleep, I had decided I couldn't stay in the studio. Not today. I needed a change of scenery, a place where he couldn’t possibly follow. I bundled up a handful of my latest sketches, planning to take them to a small gallery I knew. Maybe I could get them to look at my work, get my mind off of… him. The thought of my art, my passion, being so easily overshadowed by a man I didn’t know made my blood boil.

I chose my route carefully, avoiding the main boulevards and the cafés I frequented. I felt like a fugitive in my own city. The absurdity of it made me want to scream. A man I had never spoken to had, in two short days, managed to turn my safe, predictable life into a constant state of paranoia.

The gallery was a quiet, unassuming space tucked into an alleyway I rarely visited. I pushed open the heavy wooden door, the bell above it giving a soft chime. The space was empty except for the owner, an elderly woman named Clara who had been a mentor of sorts. I was about to walk towards her office when a voice, smooth and familiar, cut through the quiet.

“Pia Moretti.”

My blood ran cold. The sound of my name on his tongue, in this place, was a physical shock. My head whipped around, and there he was. Ash Knight. He was standing near a modern sculpture, looking at it with an expression of polite indifference. He was dressed in a dark suit, his presence as jarring here as it had been in the café. This was not a coincidence. This was an ambush.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice dangerously low. The question was a weapon, not an inquiry.

He turned, a polite, almost apologetic smile on his face.

“Looking at art, of course. My office has a new art acquisition program. I’m scouting for new talent.” He gestured vaguely at the empty walls. “The owner of this gallery is highly recommended. Though I admit, I prefer the art from a certain corner booth at a certain café.”

The brazenness of his lie made me gasp. He was making a mockery of my life. He hadn't come here to look at art. He had come here to find me. To show me that no matter where I went, he could find me.

“Get out,” I said, my voice trembling with a fury I couldn’t contain.

He didn’t move. His whiskey-colored eyes held mine, filled with a quiet calm that only infuriated me more. “Pia, I can see I’ve upset you. That was not my intention. I simply want to talk.”

“You think buying my privacy is an invitation to talk?” I spat.

“You have no right to be here. You have no right to know my name, my order, my address, or the books I want. You are a stranger, and you have overstepped every line imaginable.”

His smile disappeared, replaced by a serious, contemplative expression. He took a step towards me, and every fiber of my being screamed at me to back away, to run. But I stood my ground, my hands fisted at my sides.

“I know what this looks like,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur that was just for me. “But my intentions are not what you think. I only want to know you. To show you that not all men are after the same things. The book… the coffee… those were simple gifts. A way of saying, ‘I see you.’ Nothing more.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” I whispered, a sudden wave of fear replacing my anger. The raw honesty in his eyes was almost more terrifying than his lies. He truly believed his actions were innocent. And that made him a hundred times more dangerous.

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

Ash

The moment I saw her, a wave of calm washed over me. I had been anticipating this. I had been waiting for the exact right moment to make my presence known again. My assistant had been discreet; the delivery of the book had gone perfectly. I knew she was rattled. I knew her anger had now turned to fear. I needed to bridge the gap. I needed to move from an unseen presence to a physical one. And I knew the best way to do that was to appear here, in a space that was personal to her, yet public enough that I couldn’t be seen as a threat.

I had no interest in the art. I had no interest in the gallery. My entire world had been reduced to a single point: Pia Moretti. She was my focal point, my gravity, my beautiful, defiant muse.

She looked magnificent when she was angry. Her eyes flashed with a fire I had only seen a few times in my life, and her face, scrubbed clean of any makeup, was a masterpiece of raw emotion. When she demanded I get out, I felt a surge of pure admiration. She was a fighter. She was everything I had imagined and more.

I had rehearsed my line, the art acquisition program, a flimsy excuse that I knew she would see right through. I didn’t care. The lie wasn’t meant to deceive her; it was meant to be a polite way of entering her space. Her fury was exactly the reaction I wanted. It meant I was getting to her. It meant she was thinking about me.

When her anger turned to fear, I felt a pang of regret. I didn’t want to scare her. I only wanted to show her that my world was hers, if she would only accept it. My actions seemed twisted to her, I knew. But in my mind, they were the most natural thing in the world. I saw something perfect and unattainable, and I used every tool at my disposal to get closer to it. To me, that wasn’t a flaw. That was a mission.

I watched her body language. The way she held herself, the way she refused to back down. I saw the fear in her eyes, and I hated that I was the one who had put it there. But I also knew that her fear was rooted in a past I was not a part of. She was a fortress, and I was going to prove that I was the one person who wasn’t trying to tear it down, but to build a palace around it.

“Pia, my intentions are not what you think,” I said, and I meant it. My feelings for her were so pure, so all-consuming, that they bordered on a spiritual experience. I wanted to spoil her, yes. But the greatest spoil I could ever give her was the gift of my absolute, unwavering devotion. She would come to see that. She had to.

She didn't know it yet, but this was just the beginning. The small talk was over. The gifts were just introductions. Now, the real game began. The game of earning her trust, of chipping away at her walls, of proving that my obsessive love was not a cage, but a sanctuary. I took another step towards her, and I saw her flinch, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. It was enough. I was ready to start.

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