Chapter 3: A Public Display

Chapter 3: A Public Display

The ghost of the crimson velvet armchair lingered in the corners of Clara’s vision. The memory of her own surrender, so vividly replayed, had left her breathless and dizzy. The first photo had been an ignition, the second a deliberate choice to step into the flames. What could possibly come next? The shoebox on the floor was no longer just a collection of memories; it was a narrative, a map of her own remaking, and she felt a desperate, almost sick compulsion to follow it to its conclusion.

Her fingers dipped into the box a third time. The Polaroid she pulled out was brighter, more crowded than the others. It depicted a scene of sparkling social energy. A younger Clara, her hair elegantly swept up, stood beside a beaming Julian Croft. He looked impossibly handsome and distinguished in a dark, tailored suit. She was wearing a simple but elegant emerald green dress, a glass of champagne in one hand, her smile a little too bright, her eyes holding a feverish glint that the camera’s flash had captured perfectly. They were surrounded by blurred figures and abstract paintings, the background clearly a lavish art gallery opening.

To any casual observer, it was a picture of a proud professor and his promising student protégée. A testament to academic mentorship. But Clara knew what was happening just outside the frame. She knew the truth behind her flushed cheeks and wide eyes. Because she remembered the relentless, secret pressure of his hand.

The beige silence of her apartment evaporated, replaced by the cacophony of clinking glasses, pretentious laughter, and the low, self-important hum of the art world elite.

---

The dress was new. Julian hadn’t bought it for her, but he had “suggested” the style and color. “Emerald green,” he’d said over the phone, his voice a silken command. “It denotes wealth, refinement, but also new life. It will contrast beautifully with the chemise.”

And so, she wore it. The black lace chemise from the velvet study was a secret second skin beneath the respectable silk of the dress. It was her armor and her chains, a constant, private reminder of who she belonged to as she stepped into the blindingly bright, intimidating world of the Lachlan Gallery opening.

The gallery was a sea of black suits, avant-garde jewelry, and air kisses. Famous artists, wealthy patrons, and influential critics drifted through the space like sharks in a designer tank. Clara felt small, an imposter in her sensible heels. Her desire was simple and overwhelming: she wanted to be worthy of this world, worthy of being on his arm. The obstacle was the world itself. Every person here was a potential threat, a witness. One wrong move, one lingering glance, and their secret would detonate, destroying his career and her future.

Julian was in his element. He navigated the crowd with an easy, charismatic grace, a king holding court. He introduced her to a stern-looking museum curator, his hand resting proprietarily on the small of her back. “This is Clara Evans,” he announced, his voice smooth with pride. “One of the most naturally gifted students I have ever had the pleasure of teaching. Her eye for composition is sublime.”

Clara murmured a polite, flustered greeting, her cheeks hot with a mixture of pride and terror. As the curator launched into a monologue about post-modernist deconstruction, Julian’s hand began its slow, deliberate descent. Hidden by the angle of their bodies and the press of the crowd, his fingers slid from the silk at her back, down over the curve of her hip, until they rested on the top of her thigh.

Her breath hitched. She froze, her champagne glass trembling slightly in her hand. He didn’t stop. His fingers began a slow, torturous exploration, tracing patterns on the silk of her dress, the pressure just enough to let her feel the heat of his touch through the fabric. He was still smiling, nodding along to the curator’s words, his eyes sparkling with intellectual engagement. No one could see a thing.

Her mind screamed. He wouldn’t. Not here. Not now. This was a new level of his instruction, moving the lesson from the safety of his private study to the most public stage imaginable. He was composing a scene of utter depravity right under the noses of his peers. His fingers crept higher, inch by agonizing inch, until they brushed the hem of the black lace chemise hidden beneath her dress.

A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through her. Shame, hot and suffocating, warred with a rising tide of pure, molten arousal. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm against his secret cadence. He was proving his point: he could touch her, possess her, anywhere, anytime. She was his, even here.

“A photo!” A chirpy freelance photographer materialized before them. “Professor Croft, with your lovely student? For the university arts blog?”

Panic seized Clara. She couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly smile for a camera while his thumb was now stroking the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, a lazy, deliberate circle of fire. She wanted to bolt, to run, to disappear.

Julian’s hand tightened ever so slightly, a silent command to stay. To perform. He turned his most charming smile on the photographer. “Of course.” He looked down at Clara, his eyes locking with hers. They were filled with dark, triumphant fire. A silent message passed between them: Show them how brightly you can burn. Show them our art.*

She took a shaky breath. And she did it. She turned to the camera and smiled, a wide, brilliant smile that didn’t reach her frantic eyes. The flashbulb popped, a blinding white light that seared the moment into eternity. In that split second, she was two people: the respectable art student, smiling for the blog, and the secret creature being brought to the edge of ruin by her master’s hidden touch. She was a public display.

---

Clara dropped the Polaroid onto the pile with the others. A wave of dizziness washed over her as the memory receded, leaving the hollow echo of its thrill. That night, after they’d escaped the gallery, the exhilaration had finally crested over the shame. She hadn’t just survived the risk; she had reveled in it. The feeling of being his secret, of holding this explosive, decadent truth while navigating a world of polite lies, had been the most potent drug she had ever tasted.

He had paraded her like a prize, and she had loved it. That was the turning point. It was the moment she stopped being afraid of the fire and started craving the inferno. She had been pushed further into his world, not by force, but by her own dawning, terrifying desire.

She looked at the shoebox, at the remaining stack of Polaroids. The lessons had clearly become more intense, more dangerous. The public display was just another step. Where had he taken her next? What other compositions had he created?

A strange sense of dread mixed with her anticipation. With a determined breath, she reached for the next piece of her past.