His Anonymous Obsession

"Giovanni Rivers," I repeat, because my brain has stopped working.

D.R. *Giovanni Rivers.*

My mystery client-the man whose grief I've painted, whose hope I've captured in fractured light, whose messages I read like poetry-is Giovanni Rivers. Grammy-winning musician. Three-time platinum artist. The man whose face is on every magazine cover, whose voice makes my chest ache in ways I don't want to examine.

The man whose album covers I've been creating for three years without knowing it was him.

"Miss Jiao? Are you still there?"

I find my voice. Barely. "What does Giovanni Rivers want with me?"

"He'd like to discuss a unique opportunity. A business arrangement that could be mutually beneficial." Marcus's voice is smooth, professional. Like he's done this a thousand times. "I can't discuss details over the phone, but I can tell you it involves substantial compensation. Six figures."

Six figures. The medical bills flash through my mind. The foreclosure notice. My father's face when I tell him we're losing the store.

"What kind of arrangement?" My voice sounds foreign. Desperate.

"I'd prefer to discuss that in person. Would you be Haeilable for a meeting tomorrow? Say, two PM at Maestro's in Beverly Hills?"

Beverly Hills. Public. People everywhere. Cameras. Eyes. The thought makes my lungs constrict.

"I don't do public meetings."

"Miss Jiao, I understand you value your privacy. Giovanni respects that. But this opportunity-" He pauses. "How much do you need to save your father's store?"

Ice floods my veins. "How do you know about that?"

"Your father's store is where Giovanni bought his first vinyl. Back when he was nobody, just a kid with big dreams. He remembers. He'd like to help. But he needs something from you in return."

My hand tightens on the phone. "What does he need?"

"You. For six months. Tomorrow at two. I'll send a car."

The line goes dead.

I sit frozen, phone pressed to my ear, listening to silence. *You. For six months.* What does that even mean?

I should call back. Demand answers. Tell him I'm not interested in mysterious propositions from strangers, no matter how famous.

Instead, I open my laptop and type 'Giovanni Rivers' into the search bar.

Images flood the screen. Him on stage, guitar slung low, eyes closed in that way musicians do when they're lost in the music. Him at award shows in a perfectly tailored suit, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Him leaving restaurants with various women-models, actresses, fellow musicians-none lasting more than a few months.

Recent headlines: 'Giovanni Rivers and Sienna Blake Split: She Claims Abuse.' 'Is Giovanni Rivers Hollywood's Newest Villain?' 'Sources Say Rivers' Label Ready to Drop Him.'

I click on an interview from two months ago. The interviewer asks about his album art. About Veil.

"She's incredible," Giovanni says, and something in his voice makes my skin prickle. "Her art speaks to something broken in me. Like she sees the fractures and makes them beautiful. I don't know who she is, but I feel like she knows me better than anyone."

I replay it. Three times. Five. His voice is deeper than I imagined, rougher. There's pain in it. Recognition. Like we're both hiding from the same thing.

My phone buzzes. Text from unknown number: *Confirm for tomorrow? - Marcus Gray*

I should say no. Should delete the message and pretend this night never happened. Should find another way to save the store that doesn't involve mysterious six-month arrangements with damaged musicians who think they know me through my art.

My fingers type before my brain catches up: *How much?*

Response comes immediately: *$150,000*

Exactly what I need. To the dollar. How does he know?

I type: *For what?*

Marcus: *Come to the meeting. Find out. Car will be there at 1:30. Don't be late.*

I stare at my phone until the screen goes dark. Until I'm looking at my reflection again. That ghost girl with hollow eyes and unwashed hair and a life so small it fits inside four walls.

One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

My father's store.

My mother's memory.

Six months of my life.

I pick up my phone and type: *I'll be there.*

Send it before I can change my mind.

The confirmation comes back immediately: *Smart choice. Wear something nice. See you tomorrow.*

Something nice. I look down at my hoodie. Haven't worn something nice in seven years. Haven't had a reason to.

I walk to my closet and pull open the door. In the back, behind the hoodies and sweatpants, there's a black dress. The one I bought for my college graduation. The one I never got to wear because the viral incident happened two weeks before the ceremony.

I pull it out. Hold it up. The girl who bought this dress believed in herself. Believed the world would be kind.

That girl was an idiot.

But maybe-just maybe-she was also brave.

I hang the dress on the back of my door and crawl into bed. Set my alarm for tomorrow. Stare at the ceiling and try not to think about what I've just agreed to.

Try not to think about Giovanni Rivers.

Try not to think about the way his voice sounded when he said: *She knows me better than anyone.*

My phone buzzes one more time. I grab it, expecting another message from Marcus.

It's an email. From D.R.

Subject: P.S.

I click it with shaking hands.

*I met someone today. She reminds me of you-the way she sees the world, how she hides but creates beauty anyway. Strange coincidence. Or maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.

Tomorrow, I will find out what I really mean to him.*

I close the laptop and pull the covers over my head.