Instead of stepping outside to breathe in the fresh air and smell the flowers I’ve been staring at from my window, I end up wandering through the mansion and find something entirely different.
A library.
It’s massive, two floors, maybe more, the kind of place that smells like dust, wood, and paper. Every row of shelves is stacked with books of all shapes and ages, their spines glowing under the warm light. I trail my fingers along them as I walk, feeling the faint hum of something that almost feels like peace.
Then I see it.
Tucked into a quiet corner is a small art space—a stool, a sturdy worktable scattered with paintbrushes of different sizes, tubes of acrylics, jars of water tinted with color, palettes hardened with old paint, sketchbooks, pencils, and a few charcoal sticks. Beside it stands an easel holding several blank canvases, waiting.
For the first time in weeks, I smile. A real, genuine smile that reaches somewhere deep inside me. This little corner feels like heaven—hidden, unexpected, and mine, even if just for a moment.
I know I should probably ask permission before touching anything in this house. Nothing here belongs to me; hell, I don’t even belong here. But I can’t be bothered to go looking for Luka or Roman.
So I do the next reckless thing.
I sink onto the stool, the cool wood grounding me, and pull the nearest sketchbook closer. My fingers move on instinct, sorting through the brushes, squeezing paint onto a palette, mixing colors like muscle memory guiding me home. The smell of paint hits me—sharp, chemical, familiar—and something inside me unclenches.
Before I even realize it, I’m already preparing to paint.
Night falls without me noticing. The sky outside the tall windows is ink-black, the house quiet except for the faint hum of the night air.
I’ve been sketching for hours—furiously, obsessively—like my sanity depends on it. Maybe it does. The paint smudges my fingers, stains my wrist, but I don’t stop. Art is the only thing that still feels like mine. The only thing keeping me from completely unraveling.
When I finally lean back, breathing hard, I blink at the sketch and freeze.
It’s not a flower or a faceless silhouette like I intended. It’s him.
Roman.
His jaw, sharp as a blade. The cold focus in his eyes. The cruel line of his mouth that somehow still looks…human.
I stare at it, my heart pounding, realizing a little too late what I’ve done. I’ve spent the whole night breathing life into the face of the man I swore to hate.
I’m utterly and absolutely doomed. He must not see this.
Chapter 8 – Roman
I slowly patrol the halls, hands clasped behind my back, boots echoing on marble. The mansion feels too quiet, too still. Every guard is in position, every plan running like clockwork—yet something in my gut twists, a warning I can’t shake.
The wedding preparations are in full swing. People I don’t know walk through my house with flowers and fabrics, talking about colors and themes like this is some fairytale. It’s not. It’s a business decision, a cover, a necessary evil. Still, the thought of it—of her in white, standing beside me—unsettles something I can’t name.
Elara hasn’t spoken to me since I told her yesterday. She meant it when she said she hated me. I saw it in her eyes, the fire and disgust, the heartbreak. And yet, I can’t afford to care. I told myself this is control, this is strategy. But every time I picture her glaring at me, I feel…restless.
Yesterday, she spent the whole day in the library. I watched her from the security feed, lost in her world, her fingers smeared with paint. She found the art corner I set up for her. The one I told no one about.
She looked happy. Peaceful, even. And I shouldn’t give a damn about that, but I do.
Now, as I move down the corridor, my jaw tightens. Something’s changing. I can feel it in my bones. I just don’t know if it’s the world around me, or me.
“Boss.”
I stop mid-stride and turn. Luka’s coming fast, his expression tight, phone still in his hand. My frown deepens.
“What is it?”
“The Enforcer just called. He’s on his way.”
I blink. Adrian Rusnak.
