Malik's next invitation arrived in a black envelope:
"I want to create art that people feel in their bones.
Meet me at my studio tomorrow—midnight.
Come ready to blur every line."
Sienna held it in her hands, her pulse quickening.
She didn't tell Luca about it.
Not yet.
Not until she knew what she wanted.
She stepped into Malik's studio at exactly midnight.
Candles burned, sandalwood incense thick in the air, music vibrating low with deep bass and sultry vocals.
Malik stood shirtless near a massive blank canvas, charcoal in hand, skin illuminated in bronze and shadow. Every muscle defined, tattoos across his chest and shoulders like scripture.
"You came," he said softly.
"I had to see what lines you want blurred," she replied.
He stepped toward her, his voice rich, warm.
"Between performance and passion. Between art and sex. Between us, and everyone who watches."
She took a slow breath. "What exactly are you proposing?"
He smiled slightly, eyes burning. "A live exhibition. You, me, the canvas, and nothing else. Our bodies as brushes, your skin as poetry, your submission as resistance. A visual poem of Black desire, intimacy, and surrender."
"You want to touch me," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," he admitted. "But not just to possess you. To honor you. Publicly."
Sienna's throat tightened.
She thought of Luca—of his possessiveness, his intensity. But Malik's offer was different. He wasn't demanding she choose him over Luca.
He was inviting her to choose herself.
To make something the world couldn't forget.
And Sienna knew she wanted that—badly.
When she told Luca, he didn't rage. He didn't shout. He just listened quietly, a vein pulsing in his temple.
"You want this," he said finally.
"I want to do something radical," she answered softly. "Something that shows the world I'm in control of how they see me."
He stood. Paced. Then turned sharply. "And it has to be with him?"
"Malik isn't trying to replace you."
"No, he's doing something worse," Luca growled. "He's offering you freedom I never even thought you wanted."
Sienna moved toward him.
"Freedom isn't about leaving you. It's about choosing myself—and knowing you trust me enough to come back."
His jaw flexed. "If he crosses a line—"
"He won't," she whispered. "And if he tries, you'll be right there to remind me exactly who I belong to."
Luca's eyes softened slightly.
"You don't belong to anyone but yourself."
She cupped his face.
"That's why it's you I'm coming home to."
The night of the exhibition, the gallery overflowed.
No phones.
No photos.
Just energy and expectation, pulsing thick in the air.
Sienna stood naked behind a silk curtain, heart hammering, skin oiled, hair twisted into long locs cascading down her back. Malik waited, skin equally bare, charcoal and paints arranged around them.
When the curtain rose, the audience gasped softly.
Sienna's eyes met Luca's immediately—dark, unreadable, powerful at the back of the room.
Then Malik began.
Not with rough hands. With reverence.
He traced her body gently with charcoal. Shoulders, breasts, stomach, thighs. Then paint—deep reds, rich purples, strokes slow and sensual. His hands moved confidently, respectfully, but charged with eroticism.
He guided her to lie on the canvas, pressing her skin against fabric, capturing imprints of her shape. Each touch electric, every movement deliberate, intimate yet controlled.
The audience watched breathless.
When Malik leaned in, lips inches from her neck, she felt the intensity rise. But he didn't kiss her. He whispered softly, so only she heard:
"You're magnificent."
She met Luca's gaze across the room again.
He was tense—but captivated. Watching another man celebrate the woman he loved without restraint, seeing her power magnified by someone else's hands.
It hurt.
But he couldn't look away.
Afterward, applause thundered through the gallery.
Luca walked straight to her.
Malik stepped aside without a word, nodding respectfully.
"You were incredible," Luca said, voice rough.
She touched his face gently, paint still streaked across her fingertips.
"Did it hurt?" she whispered.
"Yes," he admitted. "But I've never been prouder to watch someone claim their own freedom."
He kissed her deeply—there, in front of everyone. Not to reclaim her.
But to show he never lost her at all.
Malik watched silently, smiling slightly. Not bitter. Not jealous.
Just knowing exactly what he'd done.
He'd given Sienna Carter a stage.
And she had burned brighter than ever.