38. Obsessions Gallery

CHAPTER 38

Obsession's Gallery

WREN

The darkroom’s red light bathes everything in a bloody glow. I haven’t slept. I’ve spent all night coaxing moments from paper, watching her emerge from the chemical bath—each print more intoxicating than the last. Moments she wishes she could forget. Moments I will make sure she never can.

Her shock at finding me in her room.

Her trembling surrender outside her window.

The way fear and desire danced together in her eyes, her pulse racing beneath my fingers as I kept her on the edge.

The moment she came in the car, her body writhing under my touch, her eyes wide as I captured every second with my camera.

Now I’m in my bedroom, photographs strewn across the desk in front of me. They’re carefully arranged to tell a story—the evolution of my claim. Candid shots of her dancing, her body arching in exquisite lines when she thought she was alone. Walking home, head down, shoulders curled inward. And then, last night, her surrender bathed in moonlight, each frame capturing another piece of her—the invisible girl I’m dragging into the light.

"Beautiful." I lift one of the photographs. Her eyes are locked on the camera, her hair wild around her shoulders, lips swollen from my kiss. Every part of her I want to possess is frozen forever in a single frame.

But it’s not enough. This is just the beginning.

"Have you slept at all?" Monty’s voice interrupts from the doorway. He leans against the frame, eyes scanning the gallery I’ve created. His expression shifts as he takes in the sheer scope of it. The photographs, and the detailed plans.

"I’ll sleep when everything’s perfect." I glance at him, my fingers tracing the edge of a photograph where moonlight caught the fear in her eyes. A smile curls my lips as I pick up my favorite. Ileana, outside her window, half-naked under the streetlight’s glow. The longing on her face, the parting of her lips. She doesn’t even realize how much she’s already given me.

"Jesus, Wren," Monty says, his voice quieter now. "You’ve never been this focused before. This is … intense."

"She has layers no one else does." I trace her silhouette. "Everyone else is shallow, predictable. Boring. But her? She’s been taught to fade, to hide. And now ..."

"Now she’s yours?"

"Not yet." I smooth the crease my fingers made on the edge of the photograph. No marks. Not until I choose to leave them. "But she will be. Every photograph, every stolen moment—they’re all steps toward making her crave my attention more than she fears it."

Monty steps closer, his gaze sweeping over the photographs pinned to the wall. His brows furrow as his attention lands on a sequence of her, captured mid-dance.

"You’ve been busy," he mutters, a touch of unease creeping into his voice.

"You knew what this was the moment it started."

"Yeah, but this?" He gestures toward the photographs, the meticulous plans spread across the desk. "You’ve taken it to another level."

"She demands it," I reply, my voice even. "Every layer of her needs to be uncovered, revealed. That takes time and dedication."

Monty doesn’t reply immediately, his jaw tightening. He picks up a photograph—one I chose for its relative innocence—and studies it.

"Where’s this heading?" he asks eventually, setting the photograph back down. "You’ve never done anything like this before."

"Because no one else has been worth it. Come see what I’ve done with the rooms."

Monty follows me out of the bedroom, down the hall.

“The whole floor?" he asks, his eyes scanning the empty spaces across from mine.

"It’s a gallery," I reply, pushing open the first door. The black walls inside make the space feel endless, a perfect contrast to her pale skin in the photographs. "Every detail of her story will be preserved. Every piece of her I uncover, documented."

Monty stands in the doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets.

I move to the next door, gesturing inside. "This room is for her dancing. Every leap, every turn, every time she loses that careful control." I step back into the hall, opening the final door. "And this room ..." My voice softens, a smile tugging at my lips. "This is for the hunt. When she realizes there’s nowhere left to hide."

Monty exhales hard. "You’ve gone all in on this one."

"She deserves it."

We return to my room, and I pull out the blueprints I’ve drawn up. The darkroom is only the start. Each space has been carefully planned to document a different aspect of her surrender.

"The main gallery for the photographs. The darkroom for processing new ones. And the ballroom …" My finger stops on the largest space. "This is where I’ll make her face herself. Where I’ll make her see who she really is."

The dress I bought yesterday hangs in my closet, deep blue silk that will cling to every curve. I remember the way her fingers stroked over the silk when she saw it in the store. Soon, she’ll wear it for me. Soon, everyone will see what I’ve uncovered.

I bend, pulling out the box that arrived yesterday. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, lies the final piece of my plan. A black leather-bound album, its pages thick, waiting to be filled with the story of her transformation—from invisible girl to mine.

Monty’s gaze shifts to the files spread across my desk. "What are those?"

"Her father has spent years hiding her. Teaching her to be a ghost." I pick up a document, one that outlines every detail of her past. "I’m going to make her visible. Make her real."

My obsession burns hotter, my need to capture everything. Her fear, her fight, her surrender is consuming me. I want each step of her descent documented, every piece of her stripped away until there’s nothing left but what I choose to preserve.

"Wren …" There’s uncertainty in his eyes as he takes in the photographs, the plans, the rooms designed for her.

"Six A.M. tomorrow." I smile, my gaze fixed on the photograph in my hand. "That’s when I start dismantling every illusion of what she thinks her life is."

Monty leaves sometime in the afternoon, but I barely notice. My focus is on perfection. Hours pass as I arrange and rearrange the photographs, planning how I’ll document tomorrow’s performance. The leather album lies open on my desk, waiting to be filled with the next chapters of our story.

The sun sets as I make my final preparations. My pretty Ballerina is trying so hard to hold herself together. To pretend she can still hide from me.

She can’t.

She never could.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

But she will.

One photograph at a time. Until there’s nothing left but what I choose to own.

What I choose to break. And what I choose to rebuild in my own image.