ONLY DREAMS OF YOU

Rain lashed against the dorm window like angry tears. Staria Thorne pressed her clay-smeared palms to the cold glass, watching neon signs bleed into the wet Manhattan streets below. The voicemail echoed in her skull: "48 hours, Staria. Tell your stepfather his debt to the Morettis is due. Or we collect you." She hadn’t slept in three days. Not since the dreams returned vivid, violent strokes of a man with ice-blue eyes and a scar cutting through his brow. Last night, she’d dreamt of blood on canvas, his voice snarling Italian curses as glass shattered A knock rattled her door. Professor Alden stood soaked, guilt twisting his face. "They found me at the gallery, Staria. Jason Moretti’s men. He wants to see you. Tonight." The Moretti Tower pierced the storm clouds, a steel monument to old-world power. In the penthouse foyer, Staria dripped rainwater onto marble floors, her thrift-store coat a stain against gilded mirrors. "Signorina Thorne." The voice was winter deep, controlled, lethal. She turned. Jason Moretti dominated the room. Black tailored suit, jet hair swept back, eyes like Arctic ice. The scar on his brow exactly as in her dreams gleamed under the chandelier. He circled her, a predator sizing up prey. "Your stepfather owes my family two million dollars. He claims you’re his only asset." Staria lifted her chin. "I’m not a commodity." A flicker in his eyes surprise? Amusement? He slid a contract across a obsidian table. "Sign this. Three years as my wife. Your stepfather’s debt vanishes. Your tuition? Paid. Your mother’s medical bills? Covered." Her breath hitched. Wife? "Why?" He stepped closer. Rainwater from her hair dripped onto his Italian loafers. "Because I saw your sculpture at NYU’s exhibit. ‘Shadow Self.’ You see darkness, stellina. I need that vision." Her dream flashed his hands covered in blood, the scar gleaming under gallery lights. She recoiled. "I’d rather starve." Jason gripped her wrist. Cold. Unyielding. "The alternative is your stepfather’s fingers in a box. Your mother’s clinic losing funding. Your scholarship revoked." His thumb brushed her pulse point. "Sign. Or I enforce worse terms." Alone in a guest suite bigger than her entire dorm, Staria stared at the contract: "Article 4: The Wife shall reside at the Husband’s primary residence. Article 7: The Wife shall produce quarterly artworks for Moretti Holdings..." A knock. Jason stood in the doorway, holding a small canvas. *Her canvas. It showed a man falling from a skyscraper, blood streaking the glass the nightmare she’d painted last week. Jason’s voice dropped to a whisper. "Who is this?" "You," she breathed. "From my dreams." Silence crackled. He stepped inside, shutting the door. "I dream of you too. Standing in a burning gallery, holding a palette knife like a weapon." He traced the falling man on her canvas. "This is my uncle. He dies next Thursday." Staria’s blood froze. "How do you?" "Because I kill him." Jason’s eyes locked on hers, blazing with terrifying certainty. "Our dreams are prophecies, stellina. And you just painted my future."