Without Your Persmission

Chapter 13: Stop Looking

The paper didn't leave my coat pocket.

I walked home with it crumpled inside my fist, the pen marks bleeding through my palm like inked veins.

It pulsed.

It wanted to be read again.

You should stop.

That was all it said. But the way it was folded, the angle it had been left—tucked perfectly in my path as if they knew my pace, the tilt of my gait, the slight rightward drag of my left foot—

It was personal.

Too personal.

And I hated that.

I hated not knowing who had written it. I hated the idea that someone had been close enough to watch me sketch, to anticipate where I'd step, to place it beneath my boot like a trap.

And more than that—I hated that the note was right.

Because I should stop.

But I wouldn't.

Not now.

Not when he had looked at me like that. Not when he had approached me in the club like we were picking up a conversation we'd been having in a dream.

Not when the curve of his mouth still lived in the back of my throat.

I should've stopped months ago.

But obsession doesn't offer exit plans.

Gretta was sprawled across my couch, surrounded by half-eaten takeout containers and some documentary about criminal psychologists. The living room smelled like mango chili dumplings and expensive incense she had burned to "raise the vibe."

"Hey," she called. "You're late."

I dropped my bag without speaking.

"You okay?" she asked, sitting up. "You look pale."

"I'm always pale."

"Okay, but now you're, like, Victorian-consumption pale. Like, dying-from-love-in-the-attic pale."

"I'm just tired."

She watched me for a beat. Her expression folded into that maternal-panic mode she rarely pulled on me—unless she really thought something was wrong.

"Did he message you?"

I blinked. "Who?"

She made a face. "You know who. The stalker."

That word tasted strange now. Sour.

"No," I lied. "No new messages."

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't lie."

"I'm not."

"You're twitching. Your 'I'm-lying' tell is twitching."

I hated how well she knew me.

"I didn't get a message," I clarified. "Not a digital one."

She frowned. "What does that mean?"

I didn't answer.

Because if I showed her the napkin, she'd do something reckless. Like take it to the police. Or try to scan it for fingerprints. Or worse, confront someone.

So instead, I changed the subject.

"How's the exhibit planning going?"

Gretta squinted at me, annoyed but predictable. "It's fine. It's not what I'm worried about."

"What are you worried about?"

"You."

"That's not new."

"Rory."

"I'm not spiraling."

"You say that while looking like you haven't slept in three days."

I opened the fridge. "That's because I haven't."

Gretta stood. Crossed the kitchen slowly. Her voice dropped a decibel, softer now, almost a whisper.

"I think... you're being watched because you're watching him."

That stopped me cold.

I turned.

Her face was wide open—sad, afraid, trying to be brave for me.

"Call it intuition," she said, "but I feel like someone's noticed you. Not just online. In real life. At the coffee shop. On your walks. Even here sometimes."

She glanced at the window. "And maybe they're watching because you've made yourself too visible."

I didn't breathe.

Because she was right.

Because I had wanted him to see me.

And I didn't know how to tell her I wasn't afraid of being watched—only of being misunderstood. Only of being seen wrong.

"Gretta," I murmured. "I think it's her."

"Alicia?"

I nodded.

She didn't argue.

Which meant she believed me now.

Two days later, Arthur Craven's invitation arrived in a heavy cream envelope that smelled faintly of oak and bergamot. The Craven crest—richly embossed in gold—spread across the seal like something from a gothic fable.

The letter was handwritten.

Not by him, I could tell. The penmanship was too meticulous.

But the words were his.

Miss Quinn,

I would be honored if you'd join us at the Rosewood Luncheon next Thursday. It's a private gathering of select patrons and artists, and your presence would be deeply appreciated.

My grandson may or may not be present, but I know he holds a fondness for your work.

In admiration,

Arthur Craven

It didn't say it outright, but I could feel it humming beneath the ink: You've impressed me. You've been noticed. The gate is open now. Come in.

I accepted.

Gretta raised her eyebrows when I told her.

"Wow. I expected more resistance."

"It's just a luncheon."

She narrowed her eyes. "With Alistair's grandfather."

"Still. It's work. Not obsession."

She studied me for a long second. Then said nothing.

⸻

The Rosewood luncheon held at a secluded garden estate just outside the city, the event was an echo of old-world wealth—manicured hedges, marble lions, imported peacocks. Everything was curated to whisper luxury without screaming it.

I wore black silk.

Simple. Severe. Like armor.

Arthur greeted me near the fountain, dressed in a deep burgundy suit that made him look more like a king than a CEO.

"Aurora," he said warmly. "You've arrived."

I bowed my head. "Thank you for the invitation."

"You were the only one I insisted on."

The other guests stared. Politely, of course. But I could feel their curiosity curling around me like smoke.

We made conversation. About art. History. Legacy.

Not once did he mention Alistair.

But I felt his absence.

Until I didn't.

Until he appeared—twenty minutes in—through a side arch, sunglasses in hand, dark suit pressed so sharply he looked carved.

He greeted his grandfather first.

Then his eyes found me.

And stayed.

We didn't speak—not yet.

But the air between us felt crackled, alive, like it remembered the club, the closeness, the way I had leaned in too far, and he hadn't pulled away.

Arthur noticed.

He chuckled quietly. "Seems the storm has met its match."

I said nothing.

Because I didn't know which of us he meant.

He didn't approach me immediately. That was Alistair's way, I realized. He moved like a storm cloud—slow, deliberate, full of unspoken threat and silent awe.

I tried not to look. I did.

But when he stepped into the courtyard, something in me twisted.

Not my stomach. Not my chest.

My sense.

He walked past clusters of guests who leaned into his orbit like moths to cold flame. Men twice his age called him "Mr. Craven," but he only nodded, his gaze already elsewhere.

He was looking for me.

I pretended to admire the glass sculpture beside the koi pond. Arthur was speaking, saying something about an exhibition in Florence, but his voice blurred behind the thrum in my ears.

Then I felt it.

That pull. That impossible certainty.

He was near.

I turned.

And there he was.

Close—too close.

He didn't speak at first. Just studied me with a kind of recognition that was too sharp to be polite.

I was the one who broke.

"You arrived late," I murmured, turning slightly toward him but keeping my body loose, indifferent. A lie.

"So I did." His voice was calm, threaded with velvet. "But not late enough, apparently."

"To miss the speeches?"

"To miss you."

I blinked, slow. "That sounds like a compliment."

"It isn't. It's just the truth."

God.

He knew how to say things that felt dangerous even when they were simple.

"Your grandfather mentioned this luncheon was important," I said. "He seems...fond of you."

His jaw flexed like he wanted to smile but didn't know how.

"He doesn't give praise freely. That you've earned it so quickly..." His eyes flicked down, then up again. "It interests me."

"So I'm a point of interest now?"

"You always were."

There it was again—that electric hum beneath his words. Not quite flirtation. Not quite confession.

We stood in silence.

I could feel our boundaries—whatever fragile illusions of propriety we kept between us—thinning.

"Have you been to one of these before?" I asked.

He looked around at the elegant decay of the garden: ancient trees, cracking marble, ivy pushing through wrought iron.

"I grew up in this estate," he said. "These luncheons were my grandfather's way of...displaying power."

"And now?"

He glanced at me. "Now I think it's his way of showing me how he plans to transfer it."

"To you?"

"Eventually."

His expression remained unreadable, but I saw something flicker—something exhausted and wistful all at once.

"You don't want it?" I asked.

"I didn't say that."

"But you didn't look thrilled."

He leaned in. Just enough for me to catch the warmth of his breath.

"Power is only useful when no one knows you want it."

I wanted to swallow. Instead, I held my ground.

"And what do you want?"

For a moment, something in him cracked.

Something unguarded passed between us like a spark—recognition, desire, a shared mirror of madness. It was gone just as fast.

He straightened.

"What everyone wants, I suppose," he said, voice cooler now. "Understanding. Loyalty. Something real."

I didn't mean to say it, but I did:

"And do you think you've found that?"

He studied me.

His gaze dropped—to my wrist, where the napkin's faint ink mark still lingered. I had scrubbed it in the bathroom but not enough.

When his eyes returned to mine, I swore they lingered.

And for a second—a breath—I thought he might ask me what it was. Might confess that he saw more than he let on.

But he didn't.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small envelope.

"Arthur wanted me to give you this," he said, tone clipped.

I took it. My fingers brushed his.

Inside was a card: You've been shortlisted for a private residency. Three months. All expenses covered.

My heart stuttered.

"I didn't apply," I whispered.

He smiled. And it was like watching a wolf pretend to be human.

"No," he said. "You didn't."

And then he walked away.

Later, back at the apartment, Gretta wasn't home yet.

I stood at the kitchen sink and stared at the envelope on the counter. The residency offer. The silent implications.

I knew what it was. An invitation disguised as a reward. A trap made out of silk and praise.

And I wanted to say no.

I wanted to burn it.

But my fingers itched.

Because three months near the Craven estate meant access. It meant proximity. It meant him.

My phone buzzed.

A message.

Unknown number.

"Nice dress. Black suits you."

I dropped the phone like it burned.

Because I hadn't taken photos.

Because no one but he had stood that close.

But he wouldn't text me.

Would he?

I stared at the message until the screen went dark.

The apartment felt too quiet.

Too seen.

And for the first time in weeks, I didn't know who I wanted it to be.

Him.

Or someone else.

Because wanting it to be him meant accepting what I was.

And wanting it to be someone else meant admitting he wasn't looking at me the same way.

And I didn't know which would be worse.

That evening, after the luncheon, I returned home.

Another note was taped to my studio door.

This time, it wasn't subtle.

This time, it said:

Stop looking, or I'll start.

And beneath that, scribbled in different handwriting—

We're the same, you and I.

I touched the paper.

It was warm.

Like it had just been placed there.