4. PURCHASE GONE WRONG

Arianna

“That will be one hundred fifty dollars for this piece,” I said, a smile stretched across my face as I handed Charles the carefully wrapped artwork. He sat opposite me in the bustling coffee shop, his dark suit a stark contrast to the bright chatter and steaming cups around us. He had a penchant for the macabre, a taste for the unsettling, which was precisely why he was drawn to my collection. This particular piece, a painting I had almost hesitated to display, was a swirling vortex of rotten apples, each core disturbingly replaced with meticulously rendered human organs.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, I question the wellspring of my creativity. Where do these grotesque images originate? Lately, it felt as though the muse had taken a decidedly darker turn. My art, once tinged with shadows, was now embracing the abyss. And this painting, even for me, felt like a descent into something… deeper.

Charles placed the packaged artwork gently on the floor beside his chair, a small, almost reverent gesture that didn’t quite align with the gruesome subject matter.

Retrieving his wallet, his gaze met mine, and a dark glint flickered in his eyes. “You know,” he began, his voice a low hum that seemed to cut through the café noise, “you deserve more than 150 hundred. I’ll take it for one thousand dollars. I truly admire your work.” He punctuated his words with a wink, a gesture that felt oddly out of place in this exchange. He extracted the money, a thick wad of bills, and reached across the small table, taking my hand to press the cash into my palm.

I sat there, completely dumbfounded, staring at the money nestled in my hand. One thousand dollars. For a painting born from the darkest recesses of my imagination, a painting that might very well be a reflection of something deeply unsettling within me. Charles, with his dark glint and generous offer, had purchased more than just a piece of art. He had bought a fragment of my shadowed mind, and in doing so, had left me grappling with the unsettling price of my own darkness.

Closing my palm instinctively around the money, I felt the weight of it, both literally and metaphorically. Charles leaned closer, his voice dropping even lower, almost conspiratorial. “Don’t be shocked. I’m just happy that I’ve found someone who creates something so unique, but beautiful in a way.”

There it was again, that flash in his eyes. This time, though, the warmth of the initial interaction had dissipated, replaced by something colder, more calculating. His touch, initially just a gesture of handing over money, now felt lingering, possessive. Something shifted in the atmosphere, a subtle but undeniable unease that prickled at my skin.

“Uhh… thank you,” I stammered, attempting to pull my hand away, but his grip tightened. “But I really can’t accept that. Thank you for your… generosity though.” My smile felt strained, artificial.

“Nonsense, Arianna. I insist you take it. Consider it a gift,” he said, his voice firm, almost forceful. He pressed his fist down on mine, ensuring I wouldn’t drop the unexpected fortune. Just then, like a lifeline thrown into turbulent water, my phone started ringing, its shrill tone cutting through the stifling tension that had begun to coil around us.

“Oh, excuse me,” I blurted out, a nervous laugh escaping my lips.

Charles offered a wide, understanding smile and finally released my hand. Relief washed over me, so potent it almost made me sway. Phew.

The word echoed silently in my mind, a small whisper of escape in the face of a growing, nameless dread. But even as I reached for my ringing phone, the weight of the thousand dollars in my hand was a constant, tangible reminder of the darkness I both created and, perhaps unknowingly, invited into my life.

Still holding the money, I grab my buzzing phone. Without even glancing at the screen, I jabbed the ‘accept’ button. Anything for a distraction.

“Yes? Arianna Capri is listening,” I announced, injecting warmth into my voice, still beaming at Charles to maintain the illusion of comfort, of control. Then, a voice, a low, resonant rumble against my ear, a voice I’d never heard before, froze the smile on my face like winter frost.

“I will fucking kill him if he keeps touching you.” The words were a raw, guttural growl, laced with a violent possessiveness that sent a shiver of ice down my spine.

My breath hitched in my throat. Who was this? And how could he possibly see? My eyes, wide with shock, flickered to Charles. He had noticed my sudden stillness, the way my smile had evaporated. His brow furrowed, and I saw his hands clench into fists on the polished coffee shop table. A primal tension coiled in the air between us, thick and suffocating. As if sensing my gaze, Charles’s knuckles loosened, and he forced a smile, a strained, questioning look in his eyes.

“Baby, focus on me. Not him,” the voice purred, a startling shift in tone.

It was still deep, still rich, but now it was laced with a silken persuasion, like the whisper of a serpent. Gentle, yet undeniably deadly. The devil himself is calling, indeed. A strange, disconcerting warmth bloomed low in my belly. My toes curled involuntarily. If the situation weren’t so fraught, a dangerous thrill might have taken hold. But this was no time for misplaced arousal. This was a stalker, a phantom threat materializing through my phone, while a very real predator sat across from me. I was trapped in a bizarre tableau of fear and unwanted attention.

Swallowing hard, forcing air back into my lungs, I managed a shaky, nervous laugh. “Oh, honey. I thought you were at work,” the words tumbled out, clumsy and nonsensical, even to my own ears. What sort of ridiculous charade was this?

A dark chuckle, devoid of humor, resonated in my ear. Strangely, it offered a perverse kind of reassurance. “Stop being cute,” he murmured, then silence for a heartbeat before the anger returned, sharper this time. “If you’re uncomfortable, please leave the coffee shop. I don’t fucking like his hands on you.”

Leave the coffee shop. As if it were that simple. As if Charles would just let me go. But the words, the fierce protectiveness in them, landed with an unexpected weight. He was watching. Somehow, impossibly, he was watching. And in that unsettling realization, a flicker of something akin to relief sparked within me. A hint of jealousy in his voice. Possessiveness. Dangerous, yes, but also… a form of vigilance. If something truly happened, this unseen, volatile man would know. He was right about one thing: I was profoundly uncomfortable.

“Oh, honey, you’re so funny,” I continued the pathetic charade, my smile stretched thin and brittle.

“Will you come get me after I finish? I remember I have another client, but she lives an hour away. Maybe you can give me a ride?” Lies, flimsy as spiderwebs, spilled from my lips, each word a desperate attempt to construct a narrative that would defuse the tension, make Charles believe I had somewhere else to be, someone else to see.

“I know you’re just pretending, but fuck…” His voice softened again, laced with a genuine, aching remorse that was almost disarming. “I would come right away if something happened to you, so you need to get him to leave you alone before I come and let you see me. It’s too soon, love.” Too soon for what? For him to reveal himself? For whatever twisted fantasy he had concocted in his head? The word ‘love’ hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, yet tinged with that same unsettling undercurrent of protectiveness.

“Arianna? Everything okay?” Charles’s voice, closer now, sharp and edged with suspicion, cut through the phone conversation.

He was leaning forward, his eyes narrowed, tapping his fingers restlessly against the table. The casual facade was crumbling. I knew, with a chilling certainty, that the moment we were out of public view, his polite demeanor would shatter. He was coiled, ready to strike. A bitter thought surfaced: maybe all my clients were like this, unhinged in some fundamental way, drawn to the very vulnerability I projected.

“Okay, honey, I’ll wait for you,” I chirped, injecting false enthusiasm into my voice as I ended the call.

Locking the screen of my phone, I forced a bright, apologetic smile at Charles. “Thank you so much for the money, Charles, but I really have to rush. My other client, Amy, is expecting her purchase to arrive any minute, so we need to part ways now.”

“That was your husband?” His words hung in the air, thick and heavy, after the casual question that had instantly tightened the knot of dread in my stomach. It wasn’t the question itself, but the way he asked - the slow nod, the unwavering gaze, the almost imperceptible easing of tension in his shoulders before his eyes locked onto mine.

“Yes,” I managed to lie, the word a fragile thing against the sudden thunder of my own heart. “Why?”

The question was innocently phrased, but the air around us crackled with anything but innocence. Had he overheard something in my hurried phone call? The tremor in my voice, the forced cheerfulness that barely masked the underlying fear? Or was this simply Charles being Charles – probing, unsettling, always just a little too close for comfort? The money he’d just given me for the painting felt clammy in my hand, tainted with a creeping unease. Each bill felt dirty.

Then, it came. The scowl contorted his features, his fists clenched once more, a visible restraint against something simmering beneath the surface.

“You never said anything about being taken.” His voice was low, dangerous. “The last time we talked, you said you had all the time in the world for my painting because you’re single, that you don’t have much better to do than paint. So I’m curious, where did this husband of yours appear from? Did he drop from the sky or something, knowing full well you have no ring on your finger?” The words were spat out, laced with accusation and a possessiveness I hadn’t anticipated, but perhaps, in some naive corner of my mind, should have.

His pointed words hit me like a physical blow. Shit. Shit. Shit. My carefully constructed façade was crumbling, the flimsy walls of my lie starting to cave in. I needed to think, to deflect, to escape.

“I’m sorry if I’m being rude, but that isn’t really your business if I’m suddenly seeing someone,” I started, attempting a shaky bravado. “But if you’re so curious,” I continued, improvising wildly, “then I can tell you that this relationship is… recent. Very recent. Actually, it was love at first sight. He already proposed, and I just call him my husband because we are getting married next month. As for the ring,” I gestured to my bare fingers, “I don’t wear it for safety reasons. You know how it is...the thievery on the streets has been pretty often these past months."

Even to my own ears, the fabrication sounded ludicrous, a patchwork of desperate attempts to mask the truth. Yet, a strange, perverse pride swelled within me.

Wow, I thought, almost detachedly, I’m actually quite good at lying when my life depends on it.

“Love at first sight, you say?” He didn’t sound convinced. Not even remotely. His tone dripped with skepticism, every syllable a challenge.

“Yes,” I affirmed, attempting a bright, brittle smile. “So, please, I really need to excuse myself. I have a client who is waiting.”

Politely, forcing a smile that felt alien on my face, I started to stand. In the same instant, he mirrored my movement, but his was faster, more predatory. His hand shot out, clamping around my wrist, yanking me forward, closer to him.

“Is that the thanks I get after I’ve given you a gift?” His grip tightened, his eyes boring into mine.

Oh no. This was escalating, and the phantom weight of another presence, another fear, crashed down on me. The one I desperately tried to keep at bay, the stalker whose shadow haunted my every move. I wasn’t ready for him. Not now, not here. Or was I? Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat.

“Let go of my hand,” I hissed, the words forced through clenched teeth.

“I think you’re just playing hard to get, sweet cheeks, aren’t you?” A chilling chuckle rumbled from his chest as he pulled me closer, yanking me against his side.

He wrapped an arm around my waist, staging a grotesque parody of a loving embrace. To anyone watching, we might seem like a couple, playfully close. But beneath the surface, a war was raging. I loathed his touch, every point of contact, the clammy pressure of his hand on my wrist, his arm heavy across my ribs.

I fucking hated it.

A desperate, irrational thought flickered through my mind. For a fleeting, insane second, I wished my stalker would appear. My twisted knight in shining armor, riding in to slay this particular demon. Just the sheer desperation of the thought sent a shiver down my spine. Fuck, I was panicking.

My spine was rigid, every muscle screaming in protest as his hand snaked its way down my back, tracing a sickeningly suggestive path.

“Come on, Arianna. I see the way you bat your eyelashes at me, that little innocent act. You know you want to explore our relationship further.” His breath was hot against my ear, the words thick with gruffness, and he continued, a chilling proposition, “I could even invite another, so you’re comfortable.” He smiled then, a predatory, knowing smile that sent a fresh wave of nausea through me.

Another? What in God’s name was he even suggesting? My lungs seemed to have forgotten how to function, air refusing to enter. I struggled, pushing against him, but his grip was like iron. Escape felt impossible.

“Cat got your tongue? Don’t worry, it will be fun.” He snatched the money from the table, his hand brushing roughly against mine, and started dragging me, his strides fast and purposeful, towards the back of the café, towards the alley, towards his car.

For a terrifying moment, a stark clarity pierced through the panic – this could be it. The last time anyone would see me in public.

“Please, don’t,” I begged, finally finding my voice, a raw, desperate plea as he yanked me towards the passenger door. “My husband… my husband will come. You’ll be sorry you did this and –”

The slap was sudden, brutal. My head snapped to the side, the world tilting, and a searing pain erupted across my cheek. Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and stinging, betraying the fragile composure I was desperately trying to maintain.

“Shut up with your lies,” he snarled, his voice a venomous hiss. “There is no fucking husband.” He shook me again, his grip bruisingly tight.

He wrenched open the car door, the smell of stale leather and something vaguely chemical hitting me in the face. Silently, a new, terrifying wish took root. For once, just this once, I wanted my stalker to come and get me. I really, truly wanted him. The irony was a bitter, chilling taste on my tongue. In the face of one danger, I found myself yearning for the shadow of another. And in that moment of utter helplessness, the true depth of my fear unfurled, a dark blossom in the pit of my stomach.