HIS PRICE OF DESIRE

ENCOUNTER

I learned the first thing about Damien Vale was that he did not even have an online presence.

Maya and I spent two hours digging through search results, finding the same handful of articles replicated on different sites. Forbes featured eight years ago when he sold his technology company. Brief mention in ARTnews regarding an unidentified buyer at a Sotheby's auction. Society page photos taken at charity benefits where he stood behind the background, by himself, always dressed in black, his face turned away from the camera as if he had a clear idea where they were and how to avoid them.

"This is creepy," Maya said, browsing through images. "Who lives like that? No social media, no interviews, no friends on pictures."

"Maybe he just values his privacy."

"Or maybe he has something to hide."

I studied the only clear photo we could find. A business headshot, snapped for the Forbes feature. Dark hair. Strong jawline. Eyes that seemed to look through the camera rather than at it. He was handsome in an unforgiving, standoffish manner. There wasn't anything on his face that screamed warmth or humor or any of the things that made humans human.

"He's thirty-six," I learned from the article. "Made his fortune in data security software. Sold the company for eight hundred million dollars when he was twenty-nine. Ever since then, he's given himself over to his private collection of art."

"What kind of art does he have?"

"It doesn't say. Everything about his collection is private."

Maya leaned back against her pillow. "So let me get this straight. A rich guy nobody knows anything about is paying you fifty thousand dollars to model for paintings nobody will ever see."

Phrased like that, it did sound insane.

"Professor Chen said the contract was legit," I replied weakly.

"Legit does not mean safe."

I closed my laptop and rubbed my eyes. It was long past midnight, and I had to open the coffee shop at six o'clock the next morning. But I also knew that I wouldn't be sleeping. My mind was working overtime with possibilities and horrors and that deadly, desperate hope that just kept whispering: *This could save you.*

"What if I meet him somewhere public first?" I asked. "Before I do anything. Just to see what he's like."

"He wants you to come to his place. That's what Professor Chen said."

"Then I'll say I need to meet somewhere public first. If this guy's serious, he'll agree."

Maya stared at my face for a long time. "You've already decided to do this, haven't you?"

Had I? Maybe. The moment I saw that number, fifty thousand dollars, something within me shifted. I'd worked two years swimming in debt and exhaustion, watching my dream slip farther away with each semester. This was a lifeline, and I was too exhausted to question it adequately.

"I need this, Maya."

"I know." Her tone was subdued. "I just don't want you to get hurt."

"It's modeling. Just sitting still while someone paints. What's the worst that could happen?"

The question hung there, unspoken, because we both knew there were plenty of bad answers.

I barely slept at all that night. As soon as I was in bed, all I could see was the face of Damien Vale from this photo, cold and remote, and I wondered what he actually desired. No one shelled out fifty thousand dollars to just paint a bad art student. There had to be a purpose to it, something he'd chosen me for.

*He said he saw something in your self-portrait.*

That portrait was the closest I'd ever come to creating a truly intimate work. I'd painted it while I was having a bad time that winter, when loneliness and economic pressure had gotten so bad they were almost unbearable. The face in the portrait was mine, but there was something bare in the eyes, something vulnerable and terrified that I usually hid.

What had Damien Vale seen in it? And why did he paint me because of it?

The next day crawled by with agonizing slowness. My day at the coffeehouse was endless. Every customer who came in took forever. Every tick of the clock teased me. I kept checking my phone, waiting for the call from Professor Chen at any minute, telling me it had all been a mistake, that Damien Vale had changed his mind.

But the call never came.

At four o'clock, I sent a text to Professor Chen: *I'd like to accept. Can we schedule a meeting?*

His reply came quickly: *Great! Mr. Vale would like to see you at his place this evening at 7pm. I'll send you the address and contract information.*

My hands shook as I read the message. This evening. In three hours, I would be meeting Damien Vale.

I left work early under the pretext of a headache which wasn't exactly a lie. My head was pounding with anticipation and tension. I showered and changed at home three times before settling on dark jeans and a simple black sweater. Professional but not too keen. I didn't want to appear like an artist, but like someone who didn't urgently need money.

Even in desperation for money.

Maya rose and observed me preparing with nervous eyes. "Text me for an hour. If I don't receive your reply by ten, I am calling the police."

"That's dramatic."

"Promise me, Lila."

"I promise."

The address Professor Chen had sent was in Tribeca, the most expensive section of Manhattan. I took the subway and walked the last few blocks, my heart picking up speed with every step. It was a former warehouse, and the door was small and unobtrusive with a doorman who could double as a bodyguard.

"Lila Monroe," I said, trying to sound more even than I felt. "I'm here to see Damien Vale."

The doorman peered at his tablet and nodded. "You're booked. Top floor." He handed me a key card. "The elevator requires that. It'll take you directly up to the penthouse."

Penthouse. Of course.

The elevator was small and thin, all glass and steel. I swiped the key card and pressed the single button. When the doors closed behind me, I caught a glimpse of my frightened face in the mirrored walls.

The elevator rode up smoothly, silently. I mentally counted the floors. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. How high was this building? My ears popped with the altitude.

Finally, the elevator stopped. The doors opened.

And I just strolled into Damien Vale's home.

The space was cavernous and light, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a stunning view of the city lights below. Walls were covered in paintings, dozens of them, possibly hundreds. There were familiar names. Rothko. Basquiat. De Kooning. All originals, all of them. They were worth millions.

But I barely noticed the painting. Standing squarely in the center of the room, looking me up and down with a glare that stole my breath, was Damien Vale.

He was larger than I'd imagined from the photographs. At least six-two, with broad shoulders and a presence that dominated the huge room. He was wearing an all black, black shirt and black jeans, and somehow the sheer starkness made him more menacing than if he were less.

But it was his face that stopped me in my tracks. The photographs hadn't captured the angled planes of his face or the manner in which his black eyes had pierced me, reading the things I never intended to let anyone see.

"Miss Monroe." His voice was low and controlled, each phrase painstakingly chosen. "Thank you for coming."

I stepped out of the elevator on shaking legs. The doors rolled shut behind me with a soft hiss, and I was suddenly, completely conscious that I was alone in this man's private space, thirty floors above the city.

"Thank you for the opportunity," I managed to say.

He stepped closer, and I fought not to take a step back. He gazed into my face for an uneasy, long time. I felt exposed, taken apart, like something under a microscope.

"You look just the way I imagined," he said at last.

Something in the tone of his words made me feel a shiver. Not fear, but warning. A voice in my head that sounded like Maya: *Get out. Leave now. This is wrong.*

But I didn't go. Instead, I heard myself say, "What do you mean?"

Damien Vale smiled, and the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Come with me," he said. "We have much to discuss."