Hold Still

The warehouse sits at the edge of the arts district, unmarked except for a rusted number above the loading dock. I check my phone twice before stepping out of the Uber, certain I've got the wrong address.

Thirty-one years in the art world, and I've never been nervous walking into a studio. I've faced down temperamental sculptors, negotiated with reclusive painters, convinced a famously paranoid photographer to let me represent his estate. But this is different.

This time, I'm not the dealer. I'm the canvas.

The heavy door groans when I push it open, revealing a converted industrial space flooded with natural light from skylights three stories above. The space has been divided into three distinct areas—a photography setup with softboxes and seamless backdrops to my left, an easel and painting supplies in the center, and a sculptor's platform surrounded by clay and wire armatures to my right.

Three men turn at my entrance.

"You must be Camille." The voice comes from the photography corner. Soren Lindqvist unfolds himself from behind a camera rig, tall and angular, with close-cropped silver-blond hair that makes his pale blue eyes startling. He moves like someone who's spent his life behind a lens—deliberate, economical, seeing everything. "You're early."

"Force of habit." I extend my hand, and his grip is cool, precise. "I've admired your work for years. The Fragments series—"

"We don't need to do that." He cuts me off, not unkindly. "You're not here to buy anything."

A laugh echoes from across the space. "Ignore him. Soren thinks small talk is inefficient." Julian Marchetti approaches with the easy confidence of a man who knows exactly how beautiful he is. Dark curls, warm brown skin, a smile that probably got him out of trouble his entire life. His paint-stained fingers wrap around mine with unexpected gentleness. "I, however, think small talk is foreplay. Welcome to our madhouse, bella."

"And I think you're both exhausting." The third voice is deep, quiet, accented with something Eastern European. Nico Volkov doesn't approach, just watches from his sculptor's platform with arms crossed over a chest that strains his threadbare t-shirt. He's built like he works with his hands for a living—because he does. Dark hair, darker eyes, a jaw that could cut glass. "She's here to work, not to be charmed."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive," Julian protests.

I clear my throat. "Maybe someone could tell me what exactly the work entails?"

Soren gestures to a sitting area near the windows—mismatched furniture, a coffee table covered in sketches. "Sit. We'll explain."

I settle onto a worn velvet couch while the three of them arrange themselves around me. Soren takes the c...