The morning after SURRENDER, the world could not shut up.
Articles poured in.
"Sienna Carter Redefines Erotic Art—And Herself."
"A Black Woman's Pleasure, Public and Unapologetic."
"Curator or Provocateur? Sienna Carter Makes Her Statement."
But Sienna wasn't scrolling.
She was working.
Her inbox exploded with invitations—museums, magazines, interviews, residencies. Everyone wanted a piece of her now.
Not because of Luca.
Because of her.
Still, the attention felt… sharp. Like adoration with teeth. Like being placed on a pedestal you didn't ask for.
"You're a lightning rod," her assistant said. "And people either want to touch the spark—or take cover."
One name stood out in the flood.
Malik Fontaine.
An acclaimed visual artist known for large-scale, politically charged installations. Black, brilliant, Brooklyn born and globally respected. Sharp fade, gold nose ring, fingers always stained with charcoal. A man whose art lived between protest and poetry.
His message was short:
You're not just curating culture. You're disrupting it. Let's collaborate.
Dinner? My studio. 9pm.
She paused.
Felt the shift.
Malik wasn't just interested in her vision.
He wanted to see her.
And not like the others.
Not like Luca.
Differently.
Luca noticed before she said a word.
She was more focused. More hungry. Still his, yes—but with something brewing behind the eyes. Something unspoken.
He waited until they were in bed, tangled, her head on his chest, the sweat between them still drying from round two.
"Someone's chasing you," he said, brushing his hand along her waist.
She smiled lazily. "A few people, actually."
"I meant one man in particular."
She tilted her head. "You jealous?"
"I'm aware."
"Of?"
"Someone who might offer you a version of freedom I never could."
She looked at him. "You think I want freedom from you?"
He didn't answer.
Because the truth was, deep down, Luca was beginning to realize something terrifying:
The same confidence that made Sienna choose him…
could one day give her the courage to leave him.
Later that week, she went to Malik's studio.
It was everything Luca's world wasn't—chaotic, colorful, loud with music and paint fumes and movement. Malik wore paint-streaked jeans and a half-buttoned linen shirt. He greeted her with a grin that didn't beg, but invited.
He poured wine.
Showed her the canvases he was building for his new show: Black Love in Uncivil Spaces.
"Your performance at the gallery?" he said, eyes locked on hers. "That wasn't art. That was liberation. I want it on my walls. I want you on my walls."
"Careful," she said. "You're mixing admiration with desire."
He stepped closer.
"Only if you're not feeling both."
She didn't flinch.
Didn't move away.
She liked the way he spoke to her—like she was a world he wanted to explore, not a body he wanted to claim.
And still, she thought of Luca.
Of his weight.
His worship.
His need.
But Malik? He wasn't trying to possess her.
He was offering space to expand.
And that… was dangerous in a different way.
Later that night, Luca waited up for her.
No questions.
Just silence.
But when she stepped into the room, wearing an oversized black hoodie and nothing else, he didn't touch her.
He just looked.
And said, "Did you feel seen?"
She paused.
Then nodded. "Yes. But not the way you see me."
He stepped toward her.
"Then tell me what you want from me now, Sienna."
She took his hand.
Placed it on her chest.
And said, "I want to know if you can love me out loud, and still let me lead my own story."
He kissed her.
Not hard.
But with intent.
"I'll try," he said. "But if he puts his hands on you…"
She smirked.
"I'll let you know if I want them there."
Luca growled.
And that night, he fucked her like a man determined to remind her that freedom didn't mean absence of devotion.
But even as she came on his tongue, screaming his name into the sheets—
Malik's voice echoed in the back of her mind:
"You're not just a muse. You're a movement."
And Sienna realized something she wasn't ready to admit yet:
She didn't just want to be loved.
She wanted to be followed.