Without Your Persmission

Chapter 11: Curated Madness

I'd been here before—once.

The first time was quieter, dimmer. A private dinner in a secluded wing of the Craven Estate hosted by Arthur Craven himself. The elder patriarch had summoned me like one might summon a ghost—curious about the figure who'd haunted the art world in brushstrokes of bleakness and impossible control.

He'd liked me. Or rather, he'd liked the way I unnerved him.

I remembered the way he dabbed the corner of his mouth after a question he knew had landed like a scalpel. The way he looked at me the same way a hunter looks at a rare predator caught in an unexpected snare. There'd been something old-fashioned in his gaze—appreciation, calculation, and somewhere buried deep inside... amusement.

He hadn't needed to say it: You're not like the others.

And I hadn't said it either: Neither are you.

When I returned to the Craven Group headquarters for the official orientation, the familiarity didn't soften the building. It only made it more sentient.

As if it remembered me.

As if it, too, had been waiting.

Arthur greeted me with a warmth most wouldn't think him capable of—a slight smile, a glimmer in his eye that bordered on mischief.

"Miss Quinn," he said as I stepped into the lounge where the first-day briefing would begin.

"Arthur," I returned with a slight nod, casual enough to suggest I belonged.

"Back for more?"

"I'm a slow learner," I murmured, folding my arms across my chest.

"Or a fast strategist," he replied, gesturing to the chair beside him. "Sit. There's no need for ceremony here."

A few other artists filtered in slowly—people I didn't know and didn't want to know. I barely registered names as they were exchanged in clipped tones. Everyone seemed tense, underdressed, and overcompensating. I watched them quietly, all while Arthur leaned in.

"I was pleased you accepted the invitation," he said.

"I needed a distraction," I answered truthfully.

He chuckled. "Ah, so it wasn't the prestige."

I tilted my head. "That's the distraction."

He grinned, slow and sly. "You'll do well here. Just watch your footing. The residency is more than a studio and a stipend. It's a crucible."

"I like heat."

"Yes," he murmured. "So does my grandson."

The door opened.

I heard it before I saw it. The subtle shift in air pressure. The change in posture from the assistant seated across the room. The momentary stillness that passed through Arthur like a cold draft.

And then—Alistair Craven walked in.

He hadn't been announced. He didn't need to be. His presence arrived five seconds before he did. And when his body followed, it did so with the quiet force of a loaded weapon.

He was in a charcoal suit this time, not black, but no less severe. The kind of grey that only exists between bruises and memory. His tie was undone—not messy, no, just relaxed enough to suggest he hadn't come for business. Not officially.

His eyes locked onto mine the moment he stepped inside.

Not a flicker of recognition. Not a flicker of surprise.

Just... certainty. As if he knew I'd be here. As if he'd orchestrated it.

He greeted Arthur first with a nod that held no deference. "Grandfather."

Arthur nodded back. "Alistair."

Then—his gaze returned to me.

"I hear you've decided to join us," he said.

I didn't look away. "I needed a change of scenery."

"You picked the right cathedral," he replied, voice low and polished.

Arthur watched the exchange like a proud matchmaker.

Silence stretched—not awkward, not forced. Just taut. Like something suspended between two magnets unsure of which one would pull first.

Arthur eventually cleared his throat. "Alistair was instrumental in the creation of this program, you know."

"Noted," I said.

Alistair folded his hands behind his back. "I prefer to observe from a distance."

I smiled without showing teeth. "I'm the opposite. I prefer closeness."

A beat.

Then another.

Arthur said, "Well then. Perhaps you'll find a compromise."

I hadn't spoken to Alistair again that day.

Not with words.

But silence has its own dialect—and I knew his fluently.

He lingered just long enough to be noticed and not long enough to seem deliberate. When he left, I didn't follow him with my eyes. That would've been indulgent. That would've been obvious. Instead, I turned back to Arthur, nodding at whatever pleasant-sounding formality he was uttering. But my mind... my mind slipped sideways.

The feel of Alistair in a room was like smoke under a door. No matter how tightly I sealed myself, he still got in.

⸻

Day One

The Craven Residency program had an entire wing dedicated to its artists—a hybrid between gallery, workspace, and private retreat.

It was elegant.

Which meant I hated it immediately.

The floors were polished concrete, and the windows were vast and blinding. It was the kind of place made for curated messes. The kind of chaos that begged to be photographed.

But I unpacked anyway.

My canvases arrived before I did. So did my oils, charcoals, and gesso. Gretta had made sure of it—relentless and over-involved, as always. I'd called her briefly when I arrived.

"You sound flat," she said.

"I'm tired," I lied.

"You're in Craven's world now."

"So?"

"So—don't forget why you agreed to this. Don't lose your head."

"Too late."

I hadn't meant to say that last part out loud. But I didn't take it back either.

The first few days blurred into polite exchanges and half-formed introductions. Most of the artists were exactly as I expected—nervous, ambitious, eager to be seen. They clung to Arthur when he made his rare appearances like bees to sugar water.

But Alistair didn't come back.

And that—that—drove me mad.

Because now that I'd seen him again, now that I'd heard his voice address me, the distance I'd tried to build in my mind shattered like thin glass under pressure.

I wanted more.

And he gave me nothing.

No texts. No sightings. Not even a phantom presence at the café where I'd tracked his habits like a holy ritual. For all my calculations and maps and obsession, he disappeared like fog when I reached for him.

So I did the only thing I could: I spiraled.

⸻

Day Four

I opened the folder on my laptop labeled "Project Sketches."

Inside were not sketches. Not anymore.

They were lists.

Timelines. Reconstructed patterns. Cross-referenced sightings. An elaborate, if slightly deranged, web of names, locations, moods, and timestamps.

I didn't add anything new. Not yet.

But I stared at it longer than I should have.

Until I heard a knock on the door.

I closed the file instantly—instinctively. My heart stuttered.

When I opened the door, I half-expected him.

But it was just Naomi, the residency coordinator.

"There's a small cocktail gathering on the roof tonight," she said with a professional smile. "Arthur's requested your presence."

I blinked. "Why?"

"He said you're 'too interesting to hide.'"

That sounded like him.

I nodded. "Fine."

⸻

The sky was violet by the time I arrived.

The rooftop had been transformed into something out of a luxury brochure—string lights, soft jazz, the clink of tasteful glasses and quieter egos.

And there—across the expanse of curated beauty—stood him.

Not looking at me.

Not yet.

I moved through the crowd like a painting among sculptures, accepting a drink I wouldn't sip, smiling just enough to earn invisibility. I felt Gretta in my head, nagging me to play nice. But the truth was: I didn't care about nice.

I cared about him.

And then, finally, he glanced over his shoulder.

He didn't do a double take. He didn't raise a brow.

But I knew that look.

Recognition without surprise.

Alistair Craven had known I was coming.

He didn't approach—not directly.

But we moved around each other in calculated arcs, like celestial bodies pulled into proximity by some invisible thread. Every so often, his gaze would graze mine like static, and I'd pretend not to feel it.

I left first.

Not because I wanted to.

But because I knew he was watching.

⸻

Later that night Gretta called me again. I picked up this time.

"So?" she asked.

"So what?"

"How's Craven HQ?"

"Clean. Tall. Cold."

"And Alistair?"

"Absent."

A pause.

"Rory," she said, voice low now. "I'm serious. I don't know what's going on with you two—or if there's even a 'you two'—but it feels... wrong."

I rolled onto my side. "You always say that."

"Because I'm usually right."

I didn't answer.

"And I don't like that Alicia girl either," she added.

I sat up. "What?"

"She's too curious. She asked about you."

"When?"

"Yesterday. She said she was 'looking forward to seeing your work.' But it didn't feel like a compliment."

I clenched my jaw. "She's watching me."

"That's what I'm saying."

⸻

I barely slept.

At 3:14 a.m., I went to the common workspace.

It was dark, silent, bathed in shadows.

And yet—I felt eyes on me.

Not from the windows.

From within.

I spun once, twice. Nothing.

No Alicia. No Alistair.

But my body didn't believe what my eyes were telling it.

⸻

Just as I returned to my private suite, still shaken, I opened my laptop.

I hadn't touched it since this morning.

But it was on.

Awake.

The screen illuminated one folder.

The one labeled "Project Sketches."

It had been opened.

And there—centered, unhidden—was the timeline.

His timeline.

A sickening cold rolled down my spine.

I hadn't opened this.

I was sure of it.

And worse—there was a single note added in red text at the bottom of the file.

Just one line.

"I prefer closeness too."