Chapter 3

Luna’s POV 

I was still in bed, hair a tangled mess, when the email came. I had only just woken up a few hours ago but was too lazy to get up from my bed of comfort.

Subject: Private Commission Inquiry.

Sender: A.M. Córdoba.

At first, I thought it was one of those spam. The kind of automated request that ends up offering exposure instead of a paycheck— which I obviously didn’t want. But when I opened the message, my breath caught.

It was short. Direct. No flattery. No bullshit.

“I was at your show last night. One painting held me longer than any other. You know which one. I’d like to commission a private piece—no gallery, no press. Discretion is important. If you’re open to this, reply with your availability and studio address.

—A.M.”

There was a number at the bottom.

I stared at the screen, my heart thrumming like a second heartbeat between my legs. It was him. The man in the black suit. The one who’d stared at my painting like it whispered something only he could hear.

I re-read the message three times. No first name. No pleasantries. But somehow, that made it hotter. Like he didn’t need to charm me. Like the attraction was mutual, understood, already decided.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, my other arm in between my thighs as if to calm it down.

My rent was overdue. My fridge was half-empty. My phone was constantly threatening to be cut off. I had not made any sales in the long run.

And yet, none of that drove my reply.

I just wanted to see him again.

“I’m available tomorrow at noon. Studio address attached.”

I hit send before I could overthink it.

Then I stared at the screen until it faded to black.

By the time he arrived, I’d changed my outfit three times.

I finally settled on a fitted black tank top with paint smears I didn’t bother to wash out and loose, low-rise linen pants that clung to my hips just enough. Casual, but not careless. I tied my curls into a loose knot and let two strands fall free, brushing my cheekbones.

My studio looked like chaos curated on purpose—canvases propped against every wall, charcoal sketches pinned along the exposed brick, dried paint splattered like a crime scene. I didn’t tidy. I wanted him to see it as it was. Raw. Like me.

At exactly 12:00 p.m., he knocked.

No buzz. No delay.

I opened the door, pulse hammering beneath my collarbone.

He stood there in another dark suit, this time no jacket—just a pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His eyes were the same. Sharp. Heavy. The kind of gaze that pinned you in place without touching you.

“Miss Luna?” he said, his voice a low drawl that wrapped around my name like a ribbon.

I nodded, stepping back to let him in.

He entered without hesitation, and I realized something in that moment—he was used to being invited into places he didn’t belong. And people always let him.

I closed the door after him almost immediately.

For a beat, we stood in silence. He scanned the room—not the art, but me, my mess, the air.

“Coffee?” I asked, breaking the quiet.

“No,” he said, then added, “Thank you.”

I was practically out of coffee so he did me a favor by saying no, unknown to him.

He turned toward one of the larger canvases—a nude stretched over a chair, her eyes glazed with pleasure and pain. My chest tightened.

“You paint like someone who’s never been satisfied,” he murmured.

My stomach flipped.

“You think I haven’t?”

He tilted his head. “Have you?”

I didn’t answer.

He walked toward the far wall, where the red painting hung—her, the one that had stopped him cold at the gallery.

“You knew I was coming,” he said. “This wasn’t here in the photos online.”

“No,” I admitted. “I saved it.”

“For who?”

“I don’t know.”

His lips curved slightly—half a smirk, more like a secret than a smile. He knows.

“I’d like a private piece. Something only I’ll see.”

“What kind of piece?”

He finally looked at me.

“I want you.”

My breath caught.

“Me?”

“I want you to paint yourself. As you are. As you want. But I want it done in front of me. No sketches. No drafts. No days alone in the studio. I’ll be there. Every moment. Watching.”

A chill prickled my skin. Feeling like a drop of cold water drop done my spine.

“You want to watch me paint… myself?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He stepped closer, the heat of him brushing the edges of my restraint.

“Because your body tells a story your eyes won’t admit,” he said. “And I want to see what happens when you finally stop hiding.”

I should’ve said no. It was too intimate,too raw, too invasive.

But the part of me that always ached, that always burned under the surface—I couldn’t silence her, she kept agreeing to him.

“How long?” I asked.

“As long as it takes.”

“I don’t sleep with clients,” I lied.

“I’m not asking you to.”

But his eyes said he would—if I offered. Almost like he had done this before.

He handed me a slim envelope.

Inside: ten crisp €500 notes.

A down payment.

My hands shook slightly as I slid them back inside the envelope.

“When do we start?” I asked.

“Tomorrow. Same time.”

He turned to leave, and I followed him to the door, pulse racing.

He paused on the threshold, then looked back at me.

“I’ll bring lunch.”

Then he left. He might have noticed the emptiness of the studio and offered a treat.

I closed the door, pressed my back to it, and slid down to the floor, the envelope clutched to my chest.

This is crazy even to me. What the hell had I just agreed to?

And why did I want it so badly I could barely breathe?