Kate Chilton felt old. She had been thirty-nine for four years. It was her opinion that she hardly looked older than thirty, but then again . . . that was her opinion. Perhaps she'd gained some gray hairs over the past couple of years, but those had been expertly covered with dye from a box. Perhaps, too, her eyes had begun to look a little like they had pouches hanging beneath them, but that was easily fixed with a surgical procedure. And she had the money; money wasn't the problem. The problem was her psyche. Because she knew that the moment she went under the knife, she'd have to realize she was getting older. It frightened her to no end. Gray hairs were easily denied; cheap hair color and a wash and presto! No more gray. She could convince herself quite simply that she had no gray hair. But eye and neck and arm pouches were another matter altogether. They couldn't be hidden or covered up without a procedure, and Kate wasn't entirely sure she was ready to admit age was getting the better of her. Her mind was still twenty-five; she couldn't figure out what cruel greater power had made the decision to torture human beings by aging their physical selves but leaving their mental selves as youthful as ever. There was something so terrible about it, and sometimes Kate woke up in the middle of the night with anxiety attacks, sweating and heart palpitating, from nightmares of being a wrinkled, lonely mess on her deathbed.

On the outside, she showed no signs of fearing her impending age. Everyone else saw Dr. Chilton as an accomplished, strong, composed woman with a career she had mastered and a powerful position in the city's art circles. She was someone who possessed clout in her field; she was the perfect professional businesswoman. She had earned her Ph.D. some years back and recently decided to add teaching to her repertoire of positions. She'd been in office and management jobs for a while and had wanted to pad her bank account by teaching a class here and there. Additionally, she'd been hoping to work her way into university staff in case there came a time when she'd have opportunity to move up. Becoming a university chancellor or even a dean wasn't too far-fetched.

The truth was, Kate hardly knew what she wanted anymore. She had always been unsatisfied with herself—had always gained new aspirations moments after fulfilling old ones. In her college days, she'd eagerly gobbled up the information in her classes as if it was food and she was starving. Every new fact and idea had fascinated her. She'd graduated summa cum laude, at the top of her class, with a double major in art history and civil engineering. From there, she'd worked on various construction projects, at first at entry level and eventually in management. She'd been in charge of equipment and materials—knowing what needed to be used when and how much should be on hand—and ensuring that completed projects were safe and expertly constructed. She had worked on everything from barn-houses to high-rises to sculptures erected in parks and plazas, and it had been the latter she'd loved most. Because of her experience in art history, Kate enjoyed working with sculptors and their pieces. At one point, after working several years in engineering and dabbling in various written works, she'd obtained her masters in journalism and had been picked up as a syndicated columnist whose purpose it was to discuss art. She'd quickly gained prestige with the papers for which she worked. Such pursuits led her into her early thirties. After she had gained her masters, though, Kate had experienced a depression. Multiple factors had attributed to it, but the result was that now, after going to so much trouble to succeed in her career, she wasn't sure what to do with herself. She'd heard that women didn't really figure out what they wanted to do with themselves until their thirties, which gave her some hope, but she knew she couldn't just sit around and wait for an epiphany; she needed to keep herself busy so she wouldn't think about it. So she went for her Ph.D., and this time, she'd gone into art and sculptural education. This development, she figured, would lead her into whole new fields. Recently, after gaining that Ph.D., she'd been employed at Corland University as adjunct faculty, teaching two courses a year in addition to carrying on with her syndicated column and occasional art projects. For her column, Kate had had to keep up with the art world. She didn't mind doing so because she loved art. Over the years, she had attended exhibits, gallery balls, charity affairs, private opening parties, and a menagerie of other such events in order to gain material for her column. In the process, she'd made a name for herself. People knew Kate Chilton. They either loved or hated her, depending on how exactly their names, if mentioned in her column, were referenced. It couldn't be denied that Kate Chilton held power. A word of hers could either elevate or damn an artist; however, people fervently sought her judgment. Local artists were virtually invisible unless mentioned amongst her critiques, and even though they risked fading into oblivion if she didn't appreciate their work, it was a risk they all knew they had to take if they wanted to get anywhere at all.

In spite of her successes and contrary to the impression others had of her, Kate was unfulfilled. Over the years, she'd been with a number of men—not like her sister, though . . . never like her promiscuous little sister. Kate, who was able to predict outcomes and chart her course with less improvidence, had dated little in college. She had had no serious relationships, because she'd never really had the time to maintain them. As she'd gained prestige for her writing and her views had become highly sought, she'd found it quite easy to associate with and date just about anyone who was trying to win her good graces. It had never led to problems. Kate had never had time for men, and she knew the majority of them only wanted to get close to her in order to be favorably recognized in her column. Whereas some women might have been insulted or even hurt by the fact that men used her, she was neither. In fact, she had always been able to see through their aims and had long ago become successful at turning the users into her used. Kate felt loyalty to no man, but she knew how to pretend she did. She could convince anyone that he was the best thing she'd ever had. She never became emotionally involved, so she could easily cut ties with any of them when she grew bored or the association became too complicated. Subsequently, Kate had no true connection with any man. She at times was depressed by this fact, but she also felt empowered by it. No one would ever be able to break her. She was unbreakable . . . or so she'd always thought. Her ever-increasing age was like a poison only she sensed, slowly deforming her body and weakening her power; at some point, she'd be unable to hide the fact that she was, at the most basic level, a lonely, embittered woman without any friends to speak of.

She'd become a hedonist during the most recent months of her life, singling out things that would make her feel youthful. She'd spent money on ridiculous little getaways and jewelry she couldn't afford. She'd splurged on rare and expensive wines and foods, treating herself to dinner almost every other night. She'd bought clothes and lingerie that she knew were far too frilly and young for her only to return them the following afternoon, when her rationality kicked in. Her habits had become frivolous and financially daring, but Kate didn't know what else to do in order to convince herself she could defy age.

She was thinking all these things about her past—entirely consumed by them—when her new protégé walked into the room. Kate was careful not to look up from her work. She didn't want to insinuate that she cared about his presence. He was a rather lovely human being, she thought. Oscar was slender and sinewy, with a creamy olive-colored skin and boyish, softly curling hair that seemed to lay around his face like silken waves. He was the embodiment of youth. Kate recalled vaguely that, once back in her college days, she'd read The Picture of Dorian Gray, and the title character was supposed to have been an Adonis figure, perfectly formed and exuding an unstained, innocent boyishness that allowed him to get away with almost anything. If she had been a casting director for a film version of that novel, there was no question in her mind that she would have chosen Oscar for Dorian's role. He seemed so naïve. So untouched by age or ugliness. She was terribly jealous of him for it, though he little knew, and it was her jealousy that had led her to snatch up a few of his pieces one night and put them on auction. He'd thought she'd had no choice but to fill some blank spaces in a show, but Kate was good at pretending.

She wasn't entirely sure how her envy of him had led her to promote his work. When people were jealous of someone, it was more likely that they'd attempt to destroy the object of their spite or at least avoid them (if they had the willpower to do so). But the last thing Kate wanted to do was destroy Oscar. As strange as it was, she didn't want to harm him—she wanted to control him. She wanted to work her way into his life in such a way that he'd be utterly unable to part from her. It wasn't a romantic desire or even a sexual one, Kate thought—not really. It was more a need to subjugate the thing she envied in order to convince herself that she was capable of doing so. And he was so young, and so trusting, and so inexperienced . . . she would have him eating out of her hand in no time. To bend Oscar to her every little whim would be as close as she could come to defying her own demons; this was what Kate knew though couldn't directly form with her thoughts or words. She just had a sense that she had to do this. She'd known it since first seeing the young man. And she was even more certain of success now, seeing as he was already buying into her every move.

Her first test had been that night of the auction. Kate had known very well that Oscar would be working late in the classroom that evening. She'd overheard him talking with another student and had leapt at the opportunity: she'd be attending an auction that night, and the event's coordinator was someone attempting to win her good graces, so she knew she could easily convince him to add two small sculptures to the line-up. She'd told Oscar that it was all a rush—there were holes in the program!—but that had been an easy lie, and he'd willingly fallen prey to it and offered some old pieces. They'd been crap, Kate thought, pure crap—but it didn't matter. For some reason they'd sold at high prices, and she didn't question the matter. While the art world was her business (and one she loved for its lucrative functions), Kate personally cared little for the aesthetic purposes of paintings and sculptures and the like. She understood what she wrote and taught only in the sense that she knew art; she didn't necessarily like it. Anyhow, the boy had fallen for it all, and she'd lured him in. Soon, she'd be able to play him like a puppet.

"I'm here . . . you wanted to see me?" he said, approaching the desk and seeming deflated to not have been noticed.

Kate smiled inwardly, then remembered the news she had for him and looked up. "Oh! Hello, Oscar, I hardly saw you there. Yes, yes. I have a bit of odd news, and a bit of good news . . . and then a bit more good news. Good news first?"

He smiled as she got up from her chair and walked around the desk to sit on the front of it, inches away from where he stood. She removed her glasses and waited for an answer.

"Definitely, always good news first," he replied, trying to avert his eyes.

She crossed her legs and her black patent pumps glistened with reflected light. She always dressed professionally, even to come to her messiest class. "Best news of all is that I have a check for you."

"A check?"

"Of course! For your recent commission."

Oscar smiled and looked irresistible. "Did he like them?"

Kate shrugged her shoulders. "As far as I can tell, he worshipped them. The man had someone pick them up for him; I don't know where they went after that, but who cares? He paid you enough, that's for certain." She leaned across her desk, shuffled some papers, and picked up an envelope. "Check's inside. I think you'll find the amount to your liking. And it should help you pay for some materials for your next commission."

Taking the check from her extended hand, Oscar lit up in delight. "Another one? Already? How so soon?"

"Don't worry about that. I already told you that I have connections. This one will go in a gallery upstate. Apparently, the buyer is looking for something that functions as a shelving unit but with visual appeal."

"But . . . I don't do shelving units."

"You do now."

"But I . . . I mean, I don't want—"

"It doesn't always matter what you want," she somewhat snapped. Then she calmed down, seeing the disconcerted expression he wore. "Oscar, when you have money and connections, you can make whatever your heart desires, but until then—until we build you up and get your name out—you've got to just keep those commissions coming in. You should take what you can get. What is it to make a little shelving unit? You'll make someone else happy while filling your bank account. Two people are happy, then. And, of course, I'll be happy, because I can continue building your resume. Right now, it's about keeping you busy."

He looked surprisingly unconvinced. Kate felt her heart falter a second—what was it with these idealistic, ego-inflating artists who thought they could create only what their hearts desired?—and decided to make a move she hadn't intended on making unless necessary.

She stood, turned toward him, reached out her hands and took hold of his upper arms. She felt him twitch a little, as if her fingers had sent a little jolt of electricity through him, but that didn't hinder her. "Listen," she said, drawing ever-so-minutely closer to him. "Nobody starts out doing exactly what he wants to do, Oscar. Everyone has to build a background, gain some advocates in high places—and people with money are always in high places, when it comes to art. You have to trust that I would never, ever have you selling your work to anyone not willing to pay top price for it." She nodded toward the envelope he held in his hand. "You just see the amount of that check, and you'll know I have only your best interests at heart." She purposely said at heart as opposed to in mind, knowing it sounded softer. More soothing. More pleasing.

In the silence that ensued, Kate was sure she could hear Oscar's breathing. He hardly produced any volume as he replied, "I do know."

She squeezed his arms a little. "Good. So you'll do this, for yourself? Even if you can't see that it's good? You'll trust me?"

He could only nod.

He was so pretty. So helpless. So malleable. She let go abruptly and turned away. "Excellent. Then let me tell you exactly what our man is looking for."

"Wh . . . what . . ." Oscar could hardly get his words out.

"Hmm? Are you trying to say something, darling?" Kate didn't want to show her annoyance and was trying very hard to conceal it. She turned back to him, feigning interest in what he was trying to say.

Oscar shook his head clear and took a deep breath. "You said you had some more . . . news. Odd news . . . you said."

Relieved, Kate smiled and nodded. "Oh, yes. I do. Not that it's any concern of ours at present, but apparently, the McCarthy buyer no sooner got your pieces wherever he wanted them than they were stolen from his own house!"

She was laughing, but Oscar didn't seem amused. His face darkened. "What do you mean, they were stolen?" he asked in a low tone.

"Oh don't be so dramatic, dear. I have no idea what actually took place; it's just a bit I heard from somewhere. He's not blaming you, that's for sure. In fact, perhaps we'll get lucky and he'll ask you to replace them. He certainly can't blame you for the loss, and if he's interested enough, he'll pay you again! Besides, if the story is true, I have an interesting way of working it to our advantage."

He apparently wanted to say something, but Kate wouldn't let him. She kept on, changing the subject in order to keep his mind on her words and not his own ridiculous ideals. She was hoping that he wasn't going to be more difficult for her to control than she'd originally thought.