After Harold finally left, Sophia allowed herself five minutes of pure, unadulterated fury.
"AHHH..." She screamed and paced her living room like a caged animal, hands clenched into fists as she replayed the afternoon's events and catalogued everything that had gone wrong.
He was here, she reminded herself, trying to salvage something positive from the disaster. He was worried enough to help me, to come into my space, to stay until he knew I was safe.
But the knowledge felt hollow against the larger failure of her plan. Worse, she now had to maintain the fiction of her fainting episode, which meant appearing weak and vulnerable rather than confident and seductive. Harold would probably check on her periodically over the next few days, and James would likely be extra cautious around her, treating her like an invalid rather than a potential romantic partner.
The whole thing was a disaster from start to finish.
Sophia slumped onto her couch, staring at the scattered sketches that James had undoubtedly seen during his brief time in her apartment. Had he recognized himself in her work? Had he understood the depth of her artistic obsession with him, or had he been too focused on her apparent medical emergency to process what he was seeing?
Either way, the afternoon had brought her no closer to her goal of seducing James Mitchell. If anything, it had probably reinforced his perception of her as someone who needed help rather than someone who could offer him the kind of sophisticated partnership he probably craved.
As the evening light began to fade through her north-facing windows, Sophia found herself back where she'd started that morning, frustrated, obsessed, and no closer to making James hers than she'd been three weeks ago.
But she wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.
Back in his own apartment, James stood in his shower letting hot water cascade over his shoulders as he tried to process the afternoon's unexpected drama. Sophia's collapse had been genuinely frightening, the way she'd gone completely limp in his arms, the pallor of her skin, the shallow quality of her breathing.
Thank God for Harold's medical training and willingness to help. James had felt completely out of his depth dealing with a potential medical emergency, especially one involving someone whose relationship with him was already complicated by boundary issues.
Those sketches in her apartment had been impossible to ignore, even in the midst of his concern for her wellbeing. Page after page of studies focused on him, his face, his hands, his expressions captured with the kind of obsessive detail that made his skin crawl. This was exactly why he'd warned her to maintain distance.
She's been watching you even more than you realized, James thought as he worked shampoo through his hair. Drawing you without permission, studying you like a specimen rather than treating you like a person.
The behavior was a clear violation of the boundaries he'd tried to establish during their difficult conversation weeks earlier. Apparently, her promises to back off hadn't extended to her artistic work.
James tried to summon the anger or discomfort he knew he should feel about this violation of his privacy. But instead, he found himself thinking about the quality of the sketches themselves, the obvious skill and attention to detail, the way Sophia had captured expressions and gestures he wasn't even aware he made.
There was something flattering, almost seductive, about being seen with such intense focus by someone who clearly found him worthy of artistic study. It was narcissistic to admit, but James couldn't deny the ego boost that came from knowing someone considered him beautiful enough to draw again and again.
Don't let flattery cloud your judgment, he warned himself as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair. Artistic obsession isn't the same thing as healthy romantic interest.
But even as he tried to maintain appropriate boundaries in his thinking about Sophia, James found his mind drifting back to Victoria and the promise of whatever pursuit she had planned for him. The contrast between the two women was stark, Sophia's desperate, invasive observation versus Victoria's confident, possessive claim.
One felt like being studied under a microscope. The other felt like being claimed by a predator who knew exactly what she wanted and had the power to take it.
James stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, his inexperience with romantic situations making him even more uncertain about how to navigate these complex dynamics. Almost twenty-seven, having never dated anyone, he felt completely out of his depth with both women, though for vastly different reasons.
But the exercise felt hollow compared to the memory of Victoria's hands on his skin, her teeth at his throat, the absolute certainty in her voice when she'd declared him hers.
Soon, he told himself again as he moved toward his bedroom to get dressed. Whatever Victoria has planned, it will be soon.
The anticipation was almost overwhelming, but James forced himself to be patient. Victoria Sharp had never failed to deliver on a promise in all the years he'd known her professionally. There was no reason to think she would start now.
As the evening deepened around him, James settled in to wait for Victoria's next move, trying not to count the hours since her declaration or check his phone every few minutes for signs of contact.
Patience, he reminded himself. The best things were always worth waiting for.
And Victoria Sharp was definitely worth the wait.
The delivery came at precisely nine o'clock that evening, just as James was beginning to resign himself to another night of waiting. The doorman's call from the lobby made his heart jump with anticipation.
"Mr. Mitchell? There's a delivery here for you. Should I send the courier up?"
James's pulse quickened as he buzzed the delivery person up, his hands slightly unsteady as he waited by his door. When the knock came, he opened it to find a uniformed courier holding an elegant black box tied with silver ribbon.
"James Mitchell?" the courier asked.
"Yes, that's me."
"Sign here, please."
James signed the electronic pad with trembling fingers, accepted the box, and closed the door behind him. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears as he carried the package to his living room.
Inside the black box, nestled in tissue paper, lay a silk tie in deep midnight blue exquisite quality, the kind of luxury item that probably cost more than most people's weekly salary. But it was the card that made James's breath catch in his throat.
Written in Victoria's precise handwriting were just seven words: Consider this my first offering. — Victoria
James lifted the tie from its tissue paper nest, the silk sliding through his fingers like liquid. It was beautiful, elegant, and unmistakably expensive, exactly the kind of gift Victoria Sharp would choose. However, more than that, it was a promise, a declaration of intent that made his heart pound erratically against his ribs.
First offering. The words implied so much more to come, a campaign of seduction that would be as strategic and relentless as everything else Victoria did.
James sank onto his couch, still holding the tie, his inexperience with romantic relationships making this gesture feel both thrilling and overwhelming. He had no frame of reference for this kind of pursuit, no previous experience with being courted by someone so sophisticated and determined.
But as he sat there in his apartment, Victoria's gift in his hands and her promise echoing in his mind, James felt something shift inside him. The anticipation was still there, stronger than ever, but now it was joined by a deep, thrilling certainty.
Victoria Sharp was coming for him, and she was just getting started.