5. Chapter 5 Natalie

Chapter 5 Natalie

T he gallery's marble floors feel like they’re shifting beneath my feet, like I'm on a boat in a storm. Each step is a lurch between possible success and the risk of total failure. Tonight is make-or-break for my art career. One wrong move, one misstep, and any credibility I've built will drown.

The weight of so many judgmental eyes feels like a physical burden, carving lines across my spine. I can feel every sneer, hear every whispered insult as the elite circle my blood-soaked canvases. They don't get it. These polished, bored people with their layers of fake sophistication. They can’t—or won’t—understand the raw pain and vulnerability it takes to create these works.

To them, I’m just a novelty. A pretty face with a wild streak, given just enough rope to maybe hang herself on the highest rung of the art world. Something to poke at and patronize before discarding.

"Well, well. If it isn’t the painter of penises and destruction."

The familiar drawl makes me tense before I even turn. Sienna Price, social queen and fake friend, stands there with one hip cocked, lazily waving at my work.

"Some perspective there, Natalie," she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Someone might almost think your outbursts are intentional art instead of the cries of a deeply disturbed soul."

A spike of defensiveness stabs through me, but I push it down, refusing to let her provoke me. Instead, I smile, a mix of defiance and pity for her stunted emotions.

"Why, Sienna," I say, tilting my head to take in her Botoxed sneer. "You look particularly malnourished tonight. Ongo-Bongo the cabana boy stop feeding you grapes between polishing the gold bidets?"

Her nostrils flare, eyes narrowing as she processes the jab. But I'm not done. "But I guess calories are the least of your worries," I continue, lips twitching. "With those personal videos from the yacht party making the rounds online. Tell me, was that battery-soldered look intentional, or just the result of cheap collagen and too much degrading sex?"

A red flush climbs her neck as my words hit home. For a moment, she looks like she wants to attack, but the watching crowd holds her back. Her need for their approval outweighs her anger.

Cold sweat trickles down my back. Sienna watches me with a narrowed, reptilian gaze.

"Look at you," she sneers. "Spacing out like a true junkie, as always. Is this what passes for professionalism in your world? No wonder your paintings are all the rage—they drip with the psychosis of their maker."

Every bit of pride shrivels. She’s right. I am psychotic, a broken creature clawing for validation through my art. Paintings born from my own chaos, fit only for the scrutiny of equally damaged souls.

Sienna’s grin widens as she sees my despair. "That's right, you little freak. I see it in your eyes, that realization. You don’t belong here. You’re just a strung-out has-been getting a last encore before the final curtain."

Her words batter me like physical blows. I step back, trying to retreat where her venom can't reach.

"Enough."

The voice cuts through the noise, sharp and commanding. I know that voice. I’ve felt its pull since I first saw its owner across the gallery. He moves through the crowd like a predator, calm and confident. His dark eyes lock on me, stripping away everything until only my raw need remains.

Sienna tries to speak, but he silences her with a look. The crowd parts, leaving just the two of us. His sandalwood scent wraps around me, mixing with the spice of danger.

"You're upset," he says softly, his words a caress against my neck. It's not a question. Of course, I'm upset, shattered by Sienna’s attack. Just like always, beneath my thin layer of confidence.

Because she’s right. I don’t belong here, no matter how many velvet ropes or bottomless bank accounts let me in. Not with the chaos raging beneath my skin, in every brushstroke.

His hand cups my chin, lifting my face to his. His gaze is intense, consuming. "Don’t listen to the petty jackals, beloved. Their jealousy and hate mean nothing."

His fingers trace my jaw, his touch both soothing and burning. "You are an artist. Transcendent. They can’t comprehend your work, let alone aspire to it."

I stare into his eyes and understand. He sees me, my whole fractured self. Not just the paintings that got me here, but the pain behind them. The darkness in my soul that needs destruction and rebirth more than anything.

For a moment, I'm lost in his gaze, drowning in the promise of understanding, of acceptance. His touch ignites something within me, a hunger I've never dared to acknowledge.

But then his fingers tighten on my jaw, just shy of painful. A glint of something feral flashes in his eyes, a hint of the predator beneath the sensual veneer.

And just like that, the spell is broken.

What am I doing? This man is dangerous, a stranger who's already wormed his way under my skin with a few honeyed words. I can't let him pull me in, can't surrender to the dark temptation he represents.

Panic rises in my throat, cold and sobering. I twist out of his grip, stumbling back a step.

"I...I can't," I rasp, my voice trembling. "I don't even know you. I'm not...this isn't..."

I turn on my heel and flee, my heart pounding and my skin burning with the memory of his touch. I can feel his eyes on me as I go, heavy with promise and threat.

But I don't look back. I can't. If I do, I'm afraid I'll be lost forever.

I run, pushing through the crowd, my heels clicking on the marble floors. The air feels thick with judgment and curiosity, every whisper and side-eye a stab in my already raw nerves. I need to escape this place, this suffocating pit of artifice and pretense.

I burst through the doors and into the cool night air. It feels like a slap, sharp and bracing, but not enough to clear the fog in my head. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I stumble down the steps, desperate for distance, for space to think.

But he’s there, relentless. His footsteps are steady, unhurried, echoing behind me. No matter how fast I run, I can’t outrun him. His presence is a shadow, a force of nature I can’t escape.

“Natalie,” he calls, his voice a dark whisper in the night.

I spin around, my back against a cold stone wall, nowhere left to go. He’s closer now, close enough that I can see the intensity in his eyes, the hunger. It’s terrifying and intoxicating all at once.

“Why are you running?” he asks, his voice soft but commanding.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “I don’t know,” I admit. The truth feels like a confession, raw and vulnerable. “Maybe because I’m scared.”

He steps closer, his gaze never leaving mine. “Scared of what?”

“Of you.” I gesture between us, the electric tension that crackles in the air. “Of everything you represent.”

His eyes darken, a flicker of something dangerous and primal. “And what do you think I represent, Natalie?”

“Destruction,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Chaos. A world I’m not sure I can survive in.”

He smiles, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. “Or maybe you’re afraid because you know you belong in it. Because you know you can thrive in it.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. Is that it? Am I afraid because I see a reflection of my own darkness in him? Because I sense that he could drag me down into the depths, but also lift me to heights I’ve never imagined?

“I don’t know,” I say again, my voice barely audible. “I just don’t know.”

He’s so close now, his body heat radiating against me. His hand reaches out, fingers brushing against my cheek, and I shiver at the contact. It’s gentle, almost tender, but there’s a promise of something more, something wild and untamed.

“You do know,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. “You’re just afraid to admit it.”

His eyes darken, a dangerous glint sparking in their depths. "Don't pretend you don't feel this, too. The pull between us, the gravity that's drawing us together."

I shake my head, the denial a fragile shield against the truth he's laying bare. "No. I value my autonomy too much to be tied to danger like you. I won't let you drag me down."

His expression hardens, the predator emerging fully now. "You're already in the darkness, Natalie. I'm offering you a way to navigate it, to harness it. Together, we could create something magnificent."

I swallow hard, the weight of his words pressing down on me. "I won't be consumed by you," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

His grip tightens on my wrist, a blend of command and frustration. "I'm not asking you to be consumed. I'm asking you to embrace who you are, without fear. To unleash the power within you."

I stare into his eyes, the battle raging inside me. Part of me is drawn to him, to the danger and the promise of understanding. But the other part, the part that values my freedom and fears the loss of control, resists with all its might.

"Let me go," I demand, my voice stronger now, filled with the resolve to maintain my autonomy.

For a moment, he holds my gaze, his grip unyielding. Then, with a frustrated growl, he releases me. "Very well, Natalie. But know this: running won't save you from what you are. It will only delay the inevitable."

I take a deep, shuddering breath, my resolve hardening. "I'll face it on my terms, not yours."

He nods, a faint smile playing on his lips, tinged with both admiration and warning. "Very well. But don't be surprised when our paths cross again. The pull between us is stronger than either of us can deny."

With that, he steps back, giving me the space I need to breathe. I turn and walk away, my heart pounding and my mind racing. The night is far from over, and the darkness still looms, but for now, I have a moment of clarity—a fleeting sense of control in a world teetering on the edge of chaos.

I walk away from him, my steps measured and deliberate, even as my heart races and my mind whirls. The night air feels cool against my flushed skin, a stark contrast to the heat that lingers from his touch. I can still feel the weight of his gaze on my back, the unspoken promise—or is it a threat—that this is far from over.

But I refuse to look back. Refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply he's rattled me. I keep my head high and my shoulders straight as I hail a cab, the city lights blurring into a neon kaleidoscope as we speed towards my apartment.

It's only when I'm safely locked behind my own door that I allow myself to crumple. To press my forehead against the cool wood and let the shudders wrack my frame, the adrenaline draining away to leave me hollow and shaken.

What the hell just happened? Who was that man, with his dark eyes and his darker promises? And why did every fiber of my being sing with recognition, with a bone-deep knowing that terrifies me more than any physical threat?

I push off from the door, my legs unsteady as I stumble towards the bedroom. I need sleep. Need to forget, just for a few hours, the siren call of his words and the traitorous heat they ignited in my veins.

But even as I collapse onto the mattress, still in my gala dress and heels, I know it's futile. He's already under my skin, a splinter in my mind that I can't seem to extract.

As I finally drift off, it's to the echo of his voice in my ears. The phantom press of his fingers on my wrist, branding and inescapable.

And in my dreams, the darkness takes shape around me, pulling me under with seductive whispers and the promise of a twisted salvation.

I wake up to the sound of sirens, their wailing a familiar lullaby in this hellhole of a city. For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, trying to remember what it feels like to give a damn.

It’s been easier lately, what with my mysterious benefactor playing fairy godmother. But I know better than to trust it. In my experience, there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Sooner or later, the bill always comes due.

I roll out of bed with a groan, my joints popping like bubble wrap. Thirty’s still a few years off, but my body feels like it’s been through the wringer. Hazards of the starving artist lifestyle, I guess.

My phone’s blowing up as I stumble into the kitchen, the texts piling up like a Jenga tower. More from Mark, my agent.

“OMG Nat, you won’t believe this! Your whole REBORN series just got snapped up. 6 figures, babe!! ?????? Call me, we need to celebrate!”

I stare blankly at the words, waiting for my sleep-deprived brain to catch up. Six…figures? For my paintings, I poured my blackest bits of soul into? It feels like some sick cosmic joke.

With shaking fingers, I set down the phone. Ever since this mysterious benefactor started playing fairy godmother, my skin won’t stop crawling. Eyes constantly burn holes in the back of my neck, even in the safety of my apartment.

I shudder, pushing away the paranoid thoughts buzzing like wasps in my skull. Stop being so fucking ungrateful, Natalie. This is everything you busted your ass for. Take the money and run.

Except running is the last thing I can do, tethered to this hellhole by some unseen force. Maybe it’s my penance for all the bullshit I pulled to get here. Or maybe the universe just gets off on dangling temptation in front of girls like me, only to snatch it away.

The ancient coffeemaker sputters to life, its hiss soon drowned out by an urgent pounding at my door. The sound shoots ice through my veins, rooting me to the linoleum.

Every hair on my body is telling me to grab the knife and get the fuck out of Dodge. I’ve watched enough true crime docs to know better than to answer…but another part of me knows that I would never be able to escape him anyway.