Chapter 3
Raven
I didn't sleep a wink.
Sitting in my office's leather chair, I'd been staring at that blood-stained tattoo machine for six straight hours.
The wound on my palm throbbed dully, reminding me of everything that happened last night.
She actually fucking stabbed me.
Strangely, I wasn't angry. Instead, I felt something I couldn't quite name... respect?
"Mr. Crimson, the negative press coverage is getting worse." My assistant Kevin burst through the door, clutching a stack of printed news articles.
I didn't look up: "Read them."
"'Business Mogul Imprisons Female Artist,' 'Raven Crimson's Dark Side,' 'The Sick Control Fantasies of the Powerful'..." Kevin's voice grew quieter with each headline.
Every title was harsh, but I found myself lacking my usual explosive rage.
"More?"
"Some netizens are saying you're... you're treating that woman like a sex toy." Kevin swallowed hard. "Should I contact PR to issue a statement?"
I was silent for a long time. Before, I would have immediately ordered all negative coverage buried, but now...
"Mr. Crimson?"
"Forget it." I said flatly. "Remove some of the surveillance from her room."
"What?!" Kevin's eyes went wide. "Mr. Crimson, that's too dangerous!"
"Leave the living room cameras. That's enough." My tone brooked no argument. "She's not a zoo exhibit."
Kevin's jaw dropped, clearly shocked by my decision.
"Also, upgrade her living conditions. Whatever she wants, give it to her."
"Mr. Crimson, are you sure this is wise?"
I looked at the wound on my palm. That needle had gone deep, but her final "I'm sorry" had gone deeper.
"Just do it."
That evening, I went to the tattoo studio to check the equipment setup. Passing by the living area, I heard water running in the bathroom.
I was about to turn and leave when I heard Rose call out loudly: "Oh shit, forgot to grab a towel..."
Her voice carried obvious testing undertones.
Was she testing me?
I pushed the door open and walked in, intending to hand her a towel—
Then I saw her.
Water droplets cascaded down her body, glistening under the lights. She turned to look at me, her eyes gleaming with defiance.
This was definitely a trap.
I immediately turned around, feeling blood rush to my head: "Sorry, I thought you needed a towel."
"I thought someone like you would..." her voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Would what? Take advantage?" I kept my back to her, voice cold. "I want your skills, not your body."
I heard the rustle of a towel behind me.
"You can turn around now."
I turned to see her wrapped in a bathrobe, wet hair clinging to her shoulders. Her expression was complex, like she was reassessing something.
"You're not what I imagined." she said slowly.
"What did you imagine?"
"A monster. A pervert. A rapist."
I let out a bitter laugh: "Maybe the first two descriptions are accurate."
She stared at me for a moment, then walked toward the tattoo station: "How's your hand?"
I glanced down at the roughly bandaged wound: "It's nothing."
"Sit down." She pointed to the chair. "Let me rebandage that properly."
I froze. She wanted to tend to my wound? The woman who wanted to kill me yesterday was now offering to take care of me?
"It's fine."
"Sit down." Her tone was more insistent. "That needle went deep. If it's not treated properly, it could get infected."
I hesitated, then sat down.
Rose brought over a medical kit, carefully unwrapping the bandage on my hand. When she saw the deep puncture wound, her brow furrowed.
"I'm sorry." she said softly. "Last night I... lost it."
"You had every right to lose it." I watched her focused expression. "I imprisoned you."
She began cleaning the wound, her movements gentle: "Why? Why imprison me?"
That was a difficult question to answer. I was silent for a long time.
"Because of your work." I finally said. "I've seen many artists, but you're different. Your work has... soul."
"That's even more reason not to imprison an artist." As she applied antiseptic ointment, her fingertips lightly brushed my skin. "Art needs freedom."
A strange current shot through my entire body from the point of contact. I struggled to keep my expression neutral, but my heartbeat began to accelerate.
"Maybe... you're right."
She paused, looking up at me: "What do you mean?"
Our eyes met, close enough that I could see every fleck of light in hers.
"Maybe I should use a different approach." My voice was somewhat hoarse.
"What approach?"
"Persuasion, not force."
Her hand paused on my palm, then continued bandaging: "What if I refuse?"
This question created unprecedented panic in my chest. Before, I never cared about anyone's refusal, but now...
"That's your right." I said.
She finished bandaging but didn't immediately release my hand. We just looked at each other quietly.
"Your hands are cold." she said softly.
"They always are."
"Why?"
I thought of the scars on my back, of those unbearable memories: "Some people are just born heartless bastards."
"I don't think so." She still held my hand. "Heartless bastards don't tremble from pain."
She'd noticed? Noticed that I'd been trembling?
"Rose..."
"What?"
"Thank you." I said quietly. "For bandaging my wound."
She released my hand, a slight blush appearing on her face: "You're welcome. After all... I was the one who hurt you."
I stood up, preparing to leave. At the doorway, I stopped:
"Starting tomorrow, you can move freely around this area. Just... you can't leave the building yet."
She looked at me in shock: "Why?"
"Because..." I kept my back to her, "because I'm starting to believe that real art isn't created through fear."
After saying this, I quickly left the tattoo studio.
Walking down the hallway, I realized a terrifying truth: I was beginning to care about what she thought. Not just her skills, but her as a person.
This feeling was more unsettling than any business risk.
Warmth spread through my palm—the lingering heat from her touch.
Maybe I wasn't as much of a heartless bastard as I thought.