He wipes his palms on a rag, streaking the fabric with dark red. “Good,” he says, voice light, almost cheerful. “You’re finally awake.”
He studies me, head tilted, hands still moving against the cloth. The sound of fabric against skin is quiet but steady. “You know,” he adds, “I was starting to think you’d sleep forever.”
The tone hits wrong—too calm for the words. My pulse jumps anyway.
He steps out from behind the easel, the rag still twisted between his fingers. The paint on his palms looks darker now, tacky under the light.
“I can never get the stroke right,” he says, glancing back at the canvas. “Not like you.”
His mouth twitches into a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You passed out on me. Not very polite, considering the trouble I went through to bring you here.”
The ropes rasp when I shift, rough against the skin at my wrists. The chair legs scrape concrete. I can feel my heartbeat in the raw lines where the fibers cut.
“Where…” My voice cracks. “Where am I?”
He smiles wider, glancing back at the canvas like it’s safer to look at that than at me. “You know I can never get the stroke right. Not like you.”
“Justin—”
“Shh.” He presses a paint-streaked finger to his lips, the gesture too gentle for the situation. “Don’t make this ugly.”
The rope bites deeper when I try to move. The chair creaks under the strain, echoing in the silence. My pulse hammers against the knots, wrists slick with sweat.
“What do you want from me?” My voice comes out thinner than I mean it to, the words catching halfway up my throat.
He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me, head tilted, studying every twitch of my face like he’s memorizing it. The corner of his mouth curls again.
“Isn’t it obvious?” His tone is light, easy, almost friendly. “I want you to paint.”
My stomach tightens. “You’re sick.”
That makes him laugh—too loud, too sudden, the sound ricocheting off concrete until it fills the whole room. He drags a hand through his hair, still laughing when he looks back at me.
“Sick?” he repeats. “No. That’s what people say when they don’t understand. I’m not sick, Willow.” His voice drops, quieter now, but there’s a tremor in it that makes it worse. “I’m devoted.”
He drifts closer, pacing in a slow circle around me, dragging his fingertips along the back of my chair. “I’ve watched you for months. The way you work. The way you breathe when you’re lost in it. You disappear—like a candle drowning in its own wax. It’s beautiful. You are a beautiful artist.”
He stops behind me. I feel the warmth of him at my neck, the tremor in his breath.
“You’ve forgotten who you are,” he whispers. “They took it from you. Your fire. Your edge. You used to paint pain, and now you paint peace. You think that’s progress? No. It’s not. You’re fading. You’re losing yourself.”
“I haven’t?—”
“Oh, you have.” His voice sharpens. “It’s him. Vincent Beaumont.” He spits the name like it burns. “The parasite. He’s been sucking the truth out of you since the day you met him. You used to paint like someone starving. Now you paint like someone sedated. And you call that love?” He laughs softly, shaking his head. “He doesn’t love you. He loves what your name does for him. For his walls. For his reputation. He’s made you forget that you were once like me.”
“Like you?” My voice breaks.
“Yes.” His eyes glint, fever-bright. “Hungry. Humble. Real. You came from the dirt, from nothing, and you made beauty out of it. And now look at you—Farrow & Ball paints, glass studios, critics writing about your brushwork like it’s some miracle whenit used to just be you and the ache and the truth. He’s ruined that. He’s ruinedyou.”
“Justin, stop?—”
He crouches in front of me, the rag falling from his hand. His voice softens to a near whisper. “He doesn’t deserve you, Willow. He’s a fraud who feeds on people like us. You think he understands creation? He only knows consumption. He consumes you. He’s made you weak.”
My throat tightens, panic rising with the heat behind my eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about.” His tone turns almost tender. “You were extraordinary before him. And you can be again.”
He stands and gestures toward the easel. “You’ll see. I’ve made space for you. You’ll paint here. You’ll thank me one day.”
