CHAPTER 2: Desire is art

CHAPTER 2: Desire is art

Mia's Point Of View:

Mornings were meant to be beautiful. But this one had forgotten its purpose. It felt hollow, soulless.

I stretched, the cracks in my bones echoing through the empty apartment.

My hands trembled against the delicate curtain fabric as the image of the black car from yesterday slammed back into my mind, like waves breaking against a shore.

Every time I closed my eyes, that car appeared.

But maybe it was nothing.

“It's not always about you, Mia,” I convinced myself.

As I drew the curtains, expecting the usual blinding light that reminded me of my misery, I was met with the opposite. The morning was dull. Gray instead of golden.

I closed my eyes and let out the last air in my lungs. Even then, light managed to bleed through the cracks of my lids. When I finally turned to the clock, it read 11 a.m.

Yet outside looked like 5 p.m.

I could already smell the boredom ahead in the day. Quiet, uneventful, and exactly what I needed.

I dragged myself to the bathroom to get ready for the day, mostly so I wouldn’t end up smelling like something that could make onions cry.

I dressed carefully. Ash-gray trousers that used to be black, paired with a plain white shirt that once belonged to Mom. Only, it wasn’t really white anymore, more like a tired shade of uneven brownish cream.

Still, they were my best clothes. They’d seen more days than the calendar itself.

I tucked my sketchbook in my bag.

It was now 12 PM.

Oh, how my eyes stung from lack of sleep. But here I am, surviving on barely four hours of sleep, as I was painting all night.

Sleep wasn't an option. Never. Not when Mom's face would haunt me. Her fragile, trusting, waiting eyes. It fueled my resolve, yes, as well as the kind of guilt that made me feel indebted.

I stared at the cracked phone screen one last time with my bag in my other hand.

“Half a million dollars for a painting. It sounds insane. But so does losing her.”

The dull weather gave me one more reason to walk. Not that I had another choice, I couldn’t afford a ride anyway.

I followed the map on my phone. It took me about an hour to get there, but something felt off the moment I arrived. The place wasn’t an art gallery, or anything remotely related to art.

Not even a random cafe or a lame restaurant.

It was a high-end hotel. The kind of place I had no business being in.

The hotel was so luxurious and spotless, I looked like junk left in the wrong place. Everything felt…. too quiet. Even the people’s clothes seemed muted, elegant. I was the only noise in the environment.

Still, I walked in. The slap of my flip-flops against the marble floor echoed louder than I wished. Each step sounded like a reminder that I didn’t belong there.

My grip on the bag tightened, a failed attempt to squeeze out the humiliation.

The more steps I took, the more necks turned, despite the fact that only a few people were around. Of course, the place wasn’t crowded. Rich people like them didn’t crowd, they belonged.

“Fuck.” I muttered under my breath, but the marble walls betrayed me, catching it and throwing it back louder than I intended, turning my whisper into an echo.

At that moment, I was so done.

Good thing I got to the receptionist desk.

“Welcome, Mia Carpenter.” She greeted me.

The fuck?

How did she know my name?

I cleared my throat, trying to bury my uneasiness. My eyes drifted to her desk. She flinched, quickly moving to close the record book in front of her. But just before she did, I caught a glimpse of a small image tucked inside.

I’d recognize that picture anywhere. It was the same one I’d uploaded on my work profile online. Rihanna must’ve printed it out and handed it to her for identification. But why would she go that far?

That was so questionable.

I pulled a smile over my face like a mask.

“How may I help you?” She added nervously.

“I came to see Rihanna Voss,”

She barely let me finish before sliding a key card toward me, her eyes darting around as if to make sure no one was watching.

Suspicious.

She then pointed toward a man across the hall. He was standing by the elevator entrance, waiting, almost like he’d been expecting me.

I nodded, walking quickly to the man.

He pressed the elevator button and motioned for me to step in. The doors closed behind us with a low hiss. He hit the button for the fourth floor, and the elevator began its slow climb upward.

Ding.

The doors split open. We stepped out.

The air smelled faintly of perfume and metal. Pure luxury.

We stepped into a passage that stretched both left and right, lined with doors on each side, perfectly arranged, perfectly identical. The symmetry was almost unsettling, too flawless to be real. Some of the doors led to elevators too.

And the silence? Heavenly. Almost sacred.

The man stopped before a door at the end of the hall and took the key card from me. He tapped it against the card reader. It beeped, and the lock clicked open.

I pushed the door slowly.

A woman stood inside by a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, staring down at the city below.

“You're here,” She said without even turning to look at me. She made a gesture, then the man turned and left the room, shutting the door behind.

I swallowed, unsure of what to do.

“Tea?” she asked, eyes still fixed on the city below.

“No, thank you. I’m fine. I’d rather we begin this meeting immediately.” I replied, my voice sharper than I intended.

I looked away, letting my gaze wander around the room.

The small flower pot on a stand beside the bedside lamp, the expensive paintings lining the wall.

Finally, something that made sense. Art. Something that actually aligned with what I came here for.

She turned, catching my gaze. Rihanna was elegance itself. About mid-thirties, sleek ginger hair, green eyes, a sharp smile. Just like her profile image online.

Her eyes swept over me from head to toe. “Stunning.”

My brows twitched, but I quickly reached into my bag, pretending to look for my sketchbook, desperate to shift the air.

“That’s enough for the job,” she said before I could move another muscle.

What?

“Sit,” she commanded, gesturing toward two brown leather chairs with golden metal legs. Between them stood a small table of the same design.

On it sat a box of condoms and a few scattered contraceptive pills.

At this point, I had too many questions, but only one truly mattered: What the fuck?

I sat regardless, keeping my hands to myself, as if the table was forbidden.

She sat on the other chair, facing me.

“How old are you?” She began.

“I'm twenty-one,” I answered, forcing a smile.

“Do you live alone?” she questioned

“Yes,”

“Are you in a relationship?”

“No, I'm not,”

“Why do you need the money?”

I hesitated, but answered anyway. “My mom. She needs surgery in a few days, and I’m running out of time. I don’t want her to die.”

She nodded slowly. “Desperate enough for the job. Perfect.”

A quiet panic crawled up my spine, but I forced a polite nod, pretending I understood what she meant.

Rihanna stood and took a step closer, her heels barely making a sound against the marble. Her voice became motherly.

“You seem like someone who deserves more than what life’s been giving,” she said, her words dipped in sympathy. “All that talent, that consistency, and yet the world overlooks you. It’s unfair.”

She turned to the table, picking up the box of condoms and carelessly setting it aside like it was nothing. “I work with exclusive clients,” she continued. “People who appreciate beauty. Beauty pays bills.”

“They pay for…. experiences, in a private setting. They pay for beauty.”

Rihanna turned to face me again, “And you have that. You just don’t realize what kind of value it holds yet. Our clients pay well for company, very intimate company.”

I raised a brow, putting one and one together.

Beauty. Money. In private. Clients.

Prostitution? Prostitution.

“Are you talking about….. sex?”

The left corner of her lips curled into a smirk as she raised her hands, clapping like a Disney princess. “Beauty plus brains.”

“I thought this was about art.”

I froze. “I thought…” My voice cracked before the sentence could find its strength. “I thought this was about art.”

Rihanna tilted her head, studying me like I was some naive little girl who still believed there were monsters under her bed.

“Oh, it is,” she whispered softly. “Desire is art.”

My mouth went dry. I shook my head, clutching my bag to my chest. “That’s not what I came for.”

“But it’s what you need.” She retorted almost immediately like she had rehearsed the script.

The words landed like a slap.

Again…. What the fuck??

My teeth ground as rage burned in my chest, “I didn't stay a virgin all these years only to become a slut,” I retorted.

“A virgin? Even better. Presents are better when unwrapped. Clients would pay a million easily for your first time.”

It wasn’t what she said, it was how she said it. Like she’d been doing this for years. Like there was a market for everything, even innocence. Like she'd memorized the price tags for everything.

“This meeting is over!” My voice came out louder than I expected, but anything to shut her up.

I shot up from the chair, my heart pounding. I shoved past her. But Rihanna didn’t flinch. She didn’t even raise her voice.

“A chance to use what you have to get what you want,” she continued behind me, her words stuck to me like a tattoo.

My steps quickened as I crossed the room toward the door.

I couldn’t believe I’d thought the deal was legit. I should’ve known.

“Remember your mom. Your deadline. Then remember the money.” Her voice was smooth as silk. “One million dollars. Look at your page, zero visibility.” Pure manipulation.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Rihanna added softly. “But if you walk out that door, your mother dies.”