. . . . How was I supposed to know he was a pervert? . . . . Two years ago, when I first met that bastard at a university fundraising gala, I thought my heart was going to burst.

Enzo Bellini, the installation artist who was the hottest name in the art world.

That was the day he looked at my photos—I was just a photography student then—and reached out his thick hand, clad in a white glove, saying he wanted to collaborate.

Late that evening, lying in bed, I fiddled with the corners of the business card he gave me until they were worn. I was so excited about the rosy future ahead of me. How ridiculous.

In just one year, I grew sick of his "art"—stripping people bare, pinning them against concrete walls, and slicing skin with bread knives—and escaped his grasp. At first, he asked me to model, then he made me strip, strike poses, and eventually took photos of me rolling around with other models. Scars began to appear all over my body.

I was mentally exhausted. I even tried to take my own life a few times. The only reason I didn't crumble was because of my boyfriend, Danny, and my friends. With the help of Raymond, a law student, I barely managed to crawl out of that pit on my own. Modeling for that bastard was never for me anyway. I was only ever interested in taking photos. Other than having a decent face and okay proportions, I had no passion for it.

Leaving that hellish year behind, I slowly began to recover through medication and my own work, returning to a normal routine. . . . ....Fuck, that should have been the end of it.

One peaceful evening, lying in bed next to Danny and lazily scrolling through my phone,

My thumb stopped on someone's Instagram story.

It was a story posted by Luca, the assistant and model who had endured the longest under that pervert.

A single line of text on a black background.

I had a gut feeling. Ah, this guy is reaching his limit too.

A man with dead eyes that reflected nothing. I first saw those eyes at the studio. As if he took after his master, he scrutinized my body as if he were examining a piece of art. That was our first meeting. Even when Danny came to pick me up at the studio, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and asking if I was okay with worried eyes, that guy stared from a distance—not at the two of us, but at Danny's hand gripping my shoulder. Like a beast famished by the sight of such unfamiliar contact.

During that year under Enzo, the only things Luca and I shared were each other's eyes and naked bodies.

And yet, what is this sense of justice I feel...

The day I stormed Enzo's villa with Danny, Luca was lying curled up on the floor next to the bed, looking up at me. There was no relief or desperation in his eyes. He only managed two words.

"Why come?"

I stayed by Luca's side in the hospital for a week, nursing him. He was a guy with no family and no friends. I even helped him get a new modeling job. I hoped he'd just say thank you once and get back on his feet. Since Enzo was completely ousted from the art world and there was no one left to torment him...

It was a pipe dream. Maybe I was just being foolish.