The Receipt

Sebastian didn't look at him. He tapped a button on his phone, and the wall screen—a massive, hidden projector surface—flickered to life.

A document appeared. It was a deed of sale.

"The Solstice Gallery," Sebastian read calmly. "Acquired three months ago by a holding company called Vesper-Trace. Tell me, Luca, do you know who owns Vesper-Trace?"

Luca stared at the wall. The text was dense, legal jargon, but the signature at the bottom was unmistakable.

* Sebastian V. Thorne.*

"No," Luca whispered. "No, the curator... Julian... he said he loved my brushwork. He said I was raw."

"Julian is an employee," Sebastian said, swiping to the next image. "He says what he is paid to say. Just like the critics who reviewed your debut in New York."

Another document. A bank transfer record. *The Art Review Monthly*. Fifty thousand dollars for a 'featured artist' spotlight.

"Stop it," Luca said, backing away.

"And the apartment deposit?" Sebastian continued, his voice devoid of cruelty, which made it worse. He sounded like an accountant explaining a tax error. "The flat in Shoreditch? The landlord is a subsidiary of Thorne Industries. You aren't renting an apartment, Luca. You’re moving from one of my properties to another."

"I sold paintings!" Luca yelled, tears pricking his eyes. "I sold three canvases last month! To anonymous buyers!"

Sebastian swiped again.

Three receipts. *Purchaser: S. Thorne.* *Storage Location: Vault 4, Geneva.*

"I keep them in the climate-controlled vault," Sebastian said gently. "They are... sentimental to me. I like the way you paint when you’re angry."

Luca dropped the suitcase handle. It hit the floor with a dull thud.

The world was spinning. The independence he thought he had built—the late nights in the studio, the thrill of the emails from galleries, the pride of seeing his bank balance grow—it was all fake. It was a playhouse Sebastian had built for him so he wouldn't get bored.

"Why?" Luca choked out. "Why would you do this?"

"Because you wanted to feel important," Sebastian said, finally looking at him. "You wanted to feel successful. I gave you that. I gave you a career. I gave you a reputation. I gave you confidence."

"You gave me a lie!" Luca screamed. "I’m nothing! I haven't earned a single thing!"

"You earned my attention," Sebastian corrected. "That is worth more than any gallery in London."

He took a step toward Luca. "You are expensive, Luca. Your paints are imported. Your studio is prime real estate. Your lifestyle requires a certain... insulation from the world. You couldn't survive a week out there on your own merit. You’re too soft."

"I am not soft!"

"You are," Sebastian murmured. "You are silk and raw nerve endings. The world would eat you alive. I keep you safe. I keep you kept."