The Last Donation

Chapter 4 Painted with Desire

The lock clicked. Before I could say anything, Alexander kissed me. The restraint he had shown during the examination was gone, and the force of it took my breath away.

I tightened my fist around his tie and pulled him closer.

He backed me against the examination bed, one hand in my hair as he tilted my head. Ten years with Julian had left me untouched except by needles. Alexander’s hands made me feel wanted.

A sob caught in my throat. His kiss softened, and his fingers moved from my jaw to my neck, then down my arm. When he reached the faded needle marks, he stopped.

He looked at the marks, then bent and pressed his lips to them. No one had ever touched that part of me with care. My grip on his tie loosened.

The office still smelled of antiseptic, and his glasses were still lying beside my chart. He undressed me slowly. For once, I did not feel like a body waiting to be used.

The next morning, I stood before the cheap bathroom mirror in my apartment. My lips were swollen. Dark marks covered my neck and collarbone, crimson against my pale skin.

A year earlier, I had sat in a vinyl hospital chair after an emergency donation for Mia. My arm throbbed, and every time I lifted my head, nausea forced it back against the chair.

Through a half-open door across the hall, I had seen Mia laughing over a luxury travel site.

She looked perfectly well as she tried to choose between skiing in Aspen and a beach holiday in the Maldives.

I touched the marks on my neck. The needle scars recorded what had been taken from me. These marks came from something I had chosen. I wanted both on a canvas.

Alexander called later that day. “I’ve arranged a studio for you. Top floor, north-facing light. The best in the city.”

It was generous, beautiful, and too close to the life I had just left.

“Thank you, Alexander. No.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “No?”

“I just escaped one gilded cage. I won’t walk into another.”

He was quiet long enough for me to wonder whether I had offended him. Then he laughed.

“As you wish, Chloe. Then you’ll have to earn it yourself.”

I bought the largest canvas my savings could cover. For days, I worked until I forgot to eat and slept only when my hands cramped.

Black, gray, and stark white covered the canvas. I layered the colors until the surface carried the weight of ten years in hospital rooms.

Through the center, I drove a s***h of deep crimson: the needles, the humiliation, and Alexander’s mouth against my scars.

I called it *The Crimson Marks*.

My phone rang as I finished the last stroke. The number was unfamiliar.

“Am I speaking with Chloe Reed?” The man on the line sounded brisk and professional.

“This is Damien Croix, chief curator for the Vance Art Gallery. We received your submission. We would be honored to feature it in our upcoming *New Voices* exhibition.”