HIS PRICE OF DESIRE

APPREHENSION

I did not go home immediately. I walked through Tribeca streets with twelve thousand five hundred dollars in my bag, my mind racing too fast to bother with subway schedules or the cold of the October wind gusting through my sweater.

Damien Vale had touched me. Not inappropriately, just adjustments to my position, professional and necessary. But I could still feel the warmth of his hands on my shoulders, the brief pressure of his fingers against my chin as he'd turned my head to better capture the light. All the touches had been soft, precise, and in some manner that made it worse. As if he was holding himself back from something.

*I am reminded of someone.*

Who? And why wouldn't he give it to me? The idea spun in my head like a bird trying to find a branch. Everything was wrong and right simultaneously. Wrong for the sneakiness, the regulations, the look Damien had given me as if he were committing my face to memory. Right for the cash in my wallet, the chance to stay in school, the salvation I'd hoped for.

My phone was ringing. Maya again: *Where are you? You said you were coming home.*

I glanced at the clock and gasped at the realization that it was almost nine. I'd wandered for over an hour, lost in thought. I texted back: *Sorry. Got distracted. Almost there.*

By the time I walked into our apartment, going up four flights of stairs, Maya was waiting for me at the door. She greeted me immediately as soon as she spotted me, her face scanning my face for signs of trauma or disaster.

"You're okay?" she asked. "Really okay?"

"I'm fine. Maya, I'm just fine."

"It's been over two hours since your last message. I was calling the police."

I set my bag on my bed gently, too aware of the envelope inside. "The meeting was longer than I expected. We had to go over the contract and then we did the first session."

"First session? Lila, you actually did it? You signed?"

"I signed." I took the envelope out and passed it to her. "And he paid me."

Maya opened the envelope and her eyes grew wide. She sat down with a thud on her bed, staring at the stack of bills as if they would disappear if she even blinked.

"This is real money," she whispered.

"Twelve thousand five hundred dollars. First of four payments."

"Oh my God." She stared up at me. "This is really happening."

"This is actually happening." I sat beside her, suddenly depleted. The adrenaline that had sustained me the entire evening was draining away, leaving me trembling and empty.

Maya put the money back in the envelope and handed it to me with respect, as if it were sacred. "Tell me everything. Start at the beginning and leave nothing out."

So I did. I told her everything: the building, the doorman, the elevator that swung open into his penthouse. I described the artwork, the studio, the way Damien had installed me in the chair with all those sharp, deliberate motions. I outlined the contract and its strange terms: no prying into his personal life, complete discretion, professional boundaries at all times.

"He said I reminded him of someone," I said, "but he wouldn't say who. And Maya, the way he looked at me. Not creepy exactly, but intense. Like he was searching for something in my face."

Maya sat silently for a long time, absorbing everything. "Did he do anything wrong? Touch you anywhere he shouldn't?"

"No. Nothing like that. He was completely professional."

"But?"

"But something wasn't right. Not threatening, just. I don't know. Like there is something I am being left behind."

"Maybe you shouldn't go back," Maya suggested politely. "We can figure something else out. Student loans, payment plans…"

"Maya, I have a contract. A legal contract with a confidentiality agreement. I cannot suddenly change my mind about this."

"Oh yes you can. Contracts can be broken."

"Not without consequences. And in addition." I'd allow my voice to trail off, not knowing how to explain the feeling I'd had in Damien's studio. That something important was happening, that I was on the cusp of something which would rearrange everything.

"Besides what?" Maya prompted.

"I want to go back," I admitted quietly. "I know that makes me stupid or irresponsible, but I need to know what this is. Why did he picked me? What he sees when he looks at me."

Maya's eyes scanned my face with an expression that I couldn't quite read. Concern, yes. But something else too. Understanding perhaps. Or resignation.

"Promise me you'll be careful," she finally said. "Text me during each session. If something feels off, get out at once."

"I promise."

That night, I lay awake. My brain relived the evening in fragments. Damien called out my name. The scratch of charcoal across paper. The weight of his eyes. I found myself wanting to know what he'd drawn, how he'd perceived me, if the sketch was something real or something invented.

*You paint what you feel, no matter how dark or hard.*

He'd said he could see it in my paintings. But what did my paintings reveal about me? What had I silently painted onto those canvases and thought secure because they were abstract, symbolic, hidden in shape and hue?

I turned over and looked at my phone. Close to two in the morning. I had to get to work in four hours. But sleep was out of the question.

Instead, I stood up quietly and went over to the studio corner where I kept all my art supplies. I grabbed a sketchbook and pencil and sat cross-legged on the floor and let my hand wander freely.

I drew Damien's studio from memory. The windows, the easel, the chair I'd occupied. And then I started to draw his face, trying to put onto paper what I'd observed. The angles of his jaw. The intensity of his eyes. The line of his mouth drawn tight in a thin line that suggested he didn't smile often.

But I couldn't manage it. Every rendition I drew looked either too harsh or uninteresting, missing some essential element that made him what he was. Writing three pages full of failed attempts, I gave up and closed the sketchbook.

When my alarm clock jolted me awake at five-thirty, I was certain that I had only slept for a whole two minutes. But I lurched to my feet, got dressed, and stumbled to work at the coffee shop. The morning rush was as terrible as it ever was, a never-ending stream of orders that all blended together. But today was different. Today I had twelve thousand five hundred dollars in my underwear drawer back home. Today I had a secret.

"You sound distracted," Sarah remarked during a brief pause at ten.

"Just tired."

"You're always tired these days. Are you okay?"

No, I wanted to reply. I'm floundering and I've finally managed to get my head above water for a moment, and I'm scared of what that means.

But what I did instead was just smile and say, "I'm fine."

I walked to the bank for lunch and deposited the money. Watching my account balance change was strange. I paid three months of rent in advance, sent utility money, and grabbed groceries on the way home that had actual vegetables and protein. Maya was at work when I got back, so I put everything away and then just sat on my bed, staring at my phone.

Thursday. Thursday was the second session. Two days hence.

I even thought about sending a text to Professor Chen and thanking him for the experience. But how do I phrase that? *Thanks for introducing me to a mysterious billionaire who treats me like a ghost?*

Instead, I powered on my laptop and did what I'd been avoiding. I looked up more about Damien Vale.

This time I actually dug deeper. I went past the front page of search results, past the typical Forbes bio and society mentions. I found a fifteen-year-old interview, before-hermit, before he'd gotten so private. There, teenage Damien mentioned creating his company from the ground up, of a desire for security and control in an increasingly mad world.

The interviewer asked him about his family, and Damien's reply was direct: "I had a sister. She died when I was twenty-one. That taught me that nothing in life is permanent, and the only thing we can do is ensure we're as prepared as possible for tragedy."

A sister. He had a sister who had died.

*You remind me of someone.*

My stomach dropped. Was it all about that? Did I look like his dead sister? That's why he'd chosen me, why he studied my face so closely?

I kept searching, trying to find out about the sister. But there was nothing. No name, no description, no obituary that I could find. It was as if she'd been erased from the records.

The deeper I went, the more questions I had. And the further I understood Damien Vale's closely held mystery wasn't just about being a reclusive billionaire. He was hiding something. Something pertaining to his sister, to loss, to the tragedy that he'd mentioned in that old interview.

And yet, I was part of it somehow.

My cell phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: *This is Damien. Professor Chen gave your number. I just wanted to let you know that our next session is Thursday at 7pm. Get here on time.*

I scanned the message, my heart racing. He had my number now. He could call me any time he pleased.

I replied: *I'll be there.".

His answer was swift: Good. I'm enjoying it immensely, continuing your portrait.

Your portrait. Not a portrait. Your portrait. As if it were mine, somehow, even though he was the one painting it.

I hung up the phone and pressed my hands against my eyes. What was I doing? Why did I find myself drawn to this strange, intense man and his secrets? This was the way it was going to be: a job, good money, professional distance. But every aspect of Damien Vale was not easy.

Thursday couldn't arrive soon enough, and I was dreading what that would mean.