Later, Kaden comes. He doesn't use the lock; he knocks. A soft, deferential rap on the door. I press my thumb to the scanner, granting him entry. He steps inside, carrying a tray laden with food, his eyes immediately finding me, then the violent, abstract chaos on the easel. A slow, appreciative smile touches his lips.
A faint scent of expensive cigar smoke and something else, a sharp, metallic tang that speaks of cold steel and colder decisions, clings to his expensive suit. A subtle tension hums beneath his calm demeanor, a residue of whatever 'business' he's just concluded. But when his eyes meet mine, all of it seems to melt away, leaving only that dark, possessive warmth.
"You've been busy," he says, his voice a low purr of approval.
"I'm just getting started," I reply, my voice hoarse.
This becomes our new rhythm. My days are spent in the studio, lost in my work, forging my hatred into something tangible. My nights are spent with him, in his bed, a tempest of passion and possession. He is my patron, my partner, my king. I am his artist, his obsession, his queen. We are two halves of the same dark soul, and for the first time in my life, I feel a sense of belonging.
On the third day, his men arrive, carrying a massive object draped in a heavy cloth. They place it against the wall opposite my easel, then leave without a word. Kaden follows them in, a triumphant glint in his eyes.
"Your mirror," he says.
He pulls away the cloth. It is magnificent. Taller than he is, with a frame of tarnished, blackened gold, intricately carved with serpents and thorns. The glass itself is ancient, imperfect, seeming to ripple like dark water. It has, as I requested, seen many things.
I walk towards it, my reflection emerging from the depths. I see the wildness in my eyes, the smudge of charcoal on my cheek, the hard set of my mouth. But I also see him, standing behind me, a dark, possessive shadow. We are a king and queen, reflected in the glass of a cursed fairy tale.
"It's perfect," I breathe.
"It will show you the truth," he says, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders, his chin brushing the top of my head. "And it will watch you create your masterpiece."
He leaves me then, sealing the door behind him. I am alone with my canvas, my tools, and my truth-telling mirror. I stare at my reflection, at the woman I have become. The frightened girl is gone, burned away. In her place is a queen forged in darkness, ready for war.
My gaze drifts from my own reflection to the vast, black wall of glass that overlooks the storm. The blizzard has been a constant, raging companion.
Then the lights flicker. Once. Twice.
They die.
The humming of the climate control, the faint buzz of the electronics, everything ceases. The silence is now a dead, oppressive weight. A split second later, emergency lights kick on, casting long, eerie shadows across the room. The massive wall of glass, which moments ago offered a view of the raging blizzard, is now a black, impenetrable void, reflecting only my stark silhouette and the ancient, watching mirror.
My fortress has become a cage.
My first thought is Kaden. A test. But this feels wrong. I walk to the door, pressing my thumb against the biometric scanner. Nothing. The lock is useless without power.
That's when I hear it. A soft, scraping sound from the far side of the room, near the massive wall of glass.
My blood runs cold. I stand frozen, straining to listen over the pounding of my own heart.
The sound comes again, louder this time. A metallic groan, like stressed metal giving way. My eyes dart along the base of the window wall. One of the large glass panels, which I thought were seamless and unbreakable, shudders. A section near the floor, cleverly disguised within the frame, swings inward like a secret door.
The blizzard roars into the room, a blast of wind and snow that feels like the arctic itself is invading my sanctuary. And from the swirling white darkness outside, a figure emerges, silhouetted against the storm.
Her hair is wild, caked with snow. Her face is scratched, her clothes are torn, but her eyes burn with a triumphant, psychopathic fire.
It's Evilin.
Forty Five
Wynter
“Evilin?”Thenameisa choked whisper, a ghost of the fear I thought I’d conquered.
“Ah, my sweet Wynter. I’ve missed you.” She steps fully into the room, the secret panel swinging shut behind her with a soft click. Her eyes, burning with a triumphant, psychopathic fire, take in the studio—my sanctuary.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but the cold rage I’ve been nurturing for days rises to meet the fear. My eyes dart around the room, scanning for a weapon. A heavy sculpting mallet rests on a nearby work table. She sees me spot it.
Taking a chance, I lunge forward, my fingers brushing the rough wooden handle just as she kicks the table with a vicious crack, sending the mallet skittering across the floor, far from my grasp.
