In the opulent offices of the Mephistopheles Gallery, Demi paced back and forth, her Louboutin heels clicking against the polished marble floor. The space, once a testament to her power and influence in the art world, now felt like a gilded cage. Priceless artworks adorned the walls, each one a reminder of the deals she had brokered, the souls she had helped to ensnare. But today, their beauty seemed hollow, their value diminished in the face of her growing unease.
She held her phone to her ear, her face a mask of barely contained frustration. The voice on the other end belonged to Nathaniel Blackwood, one of the gallery's most prestigious collectors and a man not accustomed to being denied.
"Yes, Mr. Blackwood, I understand the demand is high," she snapped into the receiver, her usually smooth tone frayed at the edges. "But Mr. Brinkston's output has... decreased recently. No, I can't just make him paint faster. It's a delicate process."
She fell silent, listening to the angry tirade on the other end of the line. Her free hand clenched into a fist, manicured nails digging into her palm, leaving crescent-shaped indentations. The pain was grounding, a reminder of the very real consequences she faced if she failed to deliver.
"I assure you, we are doing everything in our power to meet the market's needs," Demi continued, forcing a note of confidence into her voice. "Mr. Brinkston's new direction is... challenging, yes, but it's generating unprecedented buzz. The scarcity only drives up the value. Think of it as an investment, Mr. Blackwood. When he does produce a new piece, its worth will be immeasurable."
As she continued to placate the irate collector, Demi's gaze drifted to a small, ornate mirror hanging on the wall. It was an antique piece, its frame adorned with intricate carvings of writhing figures – souls in torment, she had always thought. For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of movement in its depths, a pair of burning eyes watching her. She blinked, and the image was gone, leaving her to wonder if it had been a trick of the light or something more sinister.
"I have to go," she said abruptly, cutting off Blackwood mid-sentence. "I'll be in touch about the commission. Yes, you have my word. Goodbye, Mr. Blackwood."
She ended the call and approached the mirror cautiously, her heart pounding in her chest. The office suddenly felt colder, the shadows in the corners deepening as if in anticipation. "Sir?" she called softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are you there?"
For a long moment, nothing happened. Demi stared at her own reflection, noting the lines of stress around her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands. Then, slowly, the surface of the mirror began to ripple like disturbed water. The image of her face distorted, melting away to reveal the visage of Mr. Morningstar.
But something was different. The devil's usually handsome features seemed gaunt, his skin ashen. The aura of menace that typically surrounded him was diminished, flickering like a candle in the wind. There was a tightness around his eyes that Demi had never seen before, a hint of... was it fear?
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"Report," he commanded, his voice lacking its usual silken quality. It sounded strained, as if speaking required great effort.
Demi swallowed hard, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Alex's output has slowed considerably. He's focusing on... different subjects now. Corrupt businessmen, disgraced politicians. The art world is eating it up, calling it a bold new direction, but..."
"But what?" Mr. Morningstar's eyes narrowed, flashing with a hint of their old fire.
"The paintings lack the same... vitality as his earlier works," Demi continued, choosing her words carefully. "They're technically brilliant, but they don't have that same soul-capturing quality. And he's become more reclusive. That curator, Emma Thorne, she's the only one he seems to let in anymore."
Mr. Morningstar was silent for a long moment, his image in the mirror flickering like a bad television signal. When he spoke again, there was a dangerous edge to his voice that sent chills down Demi's spine. "This is unacceptable, Demi. We had a deal. The boy's talent is meant to be feeding our cause, not dabbling in social commentary."
Demi felt a bead of sweat trickle down her spine, her designer blouse suddenly feeling constricting. "I understand, sir. What would you like me to do?"
"Remind him of his obligations," Mr. Morningstar snarled, his face contorting with rage. "And if he won't listen to you, perhaps it's time I paid him another visit. We cannot allow this rebellion to continue."
The mirror's surface went dark abruptly, leaving Demi alone with her racing thoughts and growing fear. She stared at her reflection, now restored, and barely recognized the woman looking back at her. How had it come to this? When had the thrill of power and success been replaced by this gnawing dread?
As she turned away from the mirror, Demi's gaze fell on a small, inconspicuous painting hanging in the corner of her office. It was one of Alex's early works, from before his deal with Mr. Morningstar. The piece depicted a young artist, standing at a crossroads, his face a mixture of hope and uncertainty. Looking at it now, Demi felt a pang of something she hadn't experienced in years – regret.
She moved to her desk, sinking into the plush leather chair. Her hand hovered over the phone, torn between her duty to Mr. Morningstar and a growing sense that something was terribly wrong. The art world she had once ruled now felt like quicksand beneath her feet, and she was sinking fast.
As the afternoon sun cast long shadows across her office, Demi made a decision. She would visit Alex herself, one last time. Not to threaten or coerce, but to understand. And perhaps, though she hardly dared to hope, to find a way out of the infernal bargain that now threatened to consume them all.
With trembling hands, she reached for her phone, ready to set in motion a chain of events that would either be her salvation or her damnation. The game was changing, the players shifting, and Demi knew that her next move could alter the course of not just her fate, but the fate of the art world itself.
As she dialed Alex's number, the ornate mirror on the wall seemed to darken, as if watching, waiting to see which path she would choose in this dangerous dance between art, ambition, and the infernal.