My father’s so-called generosity was nothing new. When he got attached to people, he helped them using his connections. All under his control. Of course they never knew that.
He wanted them to feel as though they were in charge, and their efforts got them where they wanted to be, not the money and resources he poured into it himself. It was selfish and generous at the same time.
“Well, yes, actually. They‘re both impressive and lovely young women who did their best to feed my ego, and you, son, create extraordinary works of art only to store them away in my warehouses, which you have yet to pay rent on, might I add.”
I actually rolled my eyes this time. “Take it out of the trust account you beg me to use on a daily basis. I’m not interested in your charity case.”
“Just look her up and see what she and her assistant are capable of. If you’re not a fan, then it’s no problem. Her name is Rosenna Hart.”
Dropping my pencil, I turned to my computer once more and reluctantly searched for the woman online. The first thing that popped up was the website of her three locations. The advertising was solid, but I wasn’t too keen on actually doing anything. Going to her “About Me” section, I laid eyes on the woman herself.
Rosenna. She was the embodiment of a woman. Classy, determined, charming… all from the single picture, I could tell she was a force to be reckoned with. Her biography discussed in detail her education, company goals and passions, connecting it all to her Filipino and Albanian roots. They were somewhat phased out of her now modern life with her parents, but she still held dear to said roots as they inspired her love of art.
Her demeanor in her photos was what some might consider aggressive or assertive, but her features and smile were all too soft, innocent, captivating…alluring. I couldn’t help but examine every inch of her, her beautifully layered hair always done to perfection in each photo and her facial features delicate and sharp, nothing short of what one would callperfection.
I’d never given women too much of my time. As my father put it, I was too busy putting my emotions into my art that I didn’t have enough to spare for others. Art in all of its forms made me understand what it meant to be passionate, angry, and even happy at times. Even if I couldn’t truly feel in those ways.
I wasn’t the most expressive growing up, and to channel that, I drew, painted, and sculpted my feelings and emotions. Afterward, I would analyze my art to understand what it meant to be sad, what it meant to be happy… what it meant tofeel.
This could explain why my father walked on eggshells around me and let me live as a full-time artist. He told me I didn’t have to worry about money as a child, so I never did, and as a result, I wasn’t materialistic. I didn’t have urges for things that people often desired: sex, money, power. It was all arbitrary.
This woman, however, made me finallyfeelsomething. Something almostdark… as I analyzed her every curve as if she was truly art. This…feeling… wasn’t healthy, I would assume, as I briefly imagined her pinned under me as I fucked her little cunt relentlessly or choked her as she gazed up at me submissively.
Something about potentially dominating or cherishing such a powerful woman did something to me. I wanted to make her fuckingsqueal, to break her, use her… The urge clawed at my chest. The thought of her under me, coming apart because of me…fuck. Just looking at her made my cock twitch. I had neverfeltthis way before about anyone or anything.
“Schedule the meeting,” I groaned with a rather sudden raspy and dry throat.
“On second thought, no.”
My grip on the phone tightened. “Why the fuck not?”
“You sound excited. You don’t get excited, Beckham.”
I found a few of her social media links and continued digging into her life through the screen.
“Well, maybe I had a change of heart,” I muttered, gazing at her while she stood next to a man in a wedding dress.She’s fucking married.What the fuck does he have that I don’t?
Going through more of her photos, I noticed there wasn’t much romance between the two of them. At least, that’s what it looked like. They had different last names, for God’s sake.What kind of marriage was this?
While I didn’t truly know how to “feel” romance or love, I knew what it looked like and how to let it speak through art.
This is a broken marriage.She needs an out. She needs to know she‘s worth more than this broken relationship. She needs me to show her…
She needs me to fuck her into oblivion until the only thing she can think about is me.
“Beckham,”my father said, bringing me out of my thoughts.
“Schedule the meeting, Father.”
Entering the museum, I was decently impressed by the art Rosenna had been able to acquire and display. The architecture and level of detail in the arrangement was impressive. Elegant. Thoughtfully curated. But none of that mattered, far lower on my list of concerns at the moment.
My father sent along a few of his associates, with which I had no real problem as my objective wasn’t truly to be anyone’s client. It was to finally meet the woman who had been tormenting my mind for the last fucking week.
“Welcome, gentlemen. Please make yourselves comfortable. My name is Kira, and I will be assisting in today’s meeting and tour,” Rosenna’s assistant said with a smile.
I simply followed as we ascended the grand steps to the next floor.
She soon began introducing the group, and that’s when my eyes locked on her at in the middle of the gallery hall. Rosenna…
