Estelle Yang sat on the floor of her apartment, surrounded by half-finished canvases leaning against the walls.

The air smelled faintly of turpentine, though she hadn’t touched a brush in weeks. She stared at the sketchbook on her lap, the page filled with quick strokes of a woman’s face she couldn’t stop drawing.

Her mother’s face.

The phone buzzed on the table. She ignored it at first, assuming it was the bookstore asking her to cover another shift. But when it buzzed again, she reached for it.

“Miss Yang?” The voice on the other end was male, low, and precise.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Jayden Wang. I’ve seen your work.”

Estelle frowned. “I don’t show my work.”

“You did once. A student exhibition, six years ago. A small gallery in the university district. You painted a series of portraits. Do you remember?”

Her grip tightened on the phone. She remembered. She also remembered the humiliation that followed, the accusation that her work wasn’t her own.

“I don’t know what you want,” she said flatly.

“I want to commission you,” Jayden replied. “Not one painting. Several. You’ll work in my studio. I’ll provide everything you need. The payment will be generous.”

Estelle let out a short laugh, more out of disbelief than amusement. “You must be mistaken. I’m not—”

“I don’t make mistakes,” he interrupted.

His tone was calm, but there was no space for argument in it.

“I’ll send a car tomorrow. Ten in the morning. If you’re not interested, you don’t have to get in. But if you are, you’ll find the address on the card.”

There was a pause, and then the line went dead.

Estelle lowered the phone slowly. She stared at the blank wall across from her, her chest tight.

No one had spoken about her art in years. No one had cared.

She stood and walked to the kitchen, where a stack of unopened mail sat on the counter.

Bills, advertisements, nothing that mattered. She pushed them aside and pulled out a scrap of paper, writing down the time and the name. Jayden Wang.

The name meant nothing to her. But the certainty in his voice lingered, unsettling.

That night, she lay awake in her narrow bed, listening to the hum of traffic outside.

She thought of her mother’s warning. Don’t chase fame. It will eat you alive.

But this wasn’t fame. This was something else.

And for the first time in years, she felt the faint pull of possibility.

The next morning, Estelle woke before her alarm. The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight against the gray light outside.

She lay still for a moment, listening to the faint drip of the bathroom faucet and the muffled sounds of traffic below.

Her phone sat on the nightstand. No new messages. No missed calls. Just the reminder of last night’s conversation, still sitting in her call history.

She pushed herself up and shuffled into the kitchen.

The apartment was small enough that she could see almost everything from where she stood: the stack of canvases in the corner, the pile of laundry she hadn’t folded, the unopened mail. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove.

As the water heated, she opened the fridge. Half a carton of milk, a few eggs, and a jar of chili paste. She closed it again and settled for instant coffee.

Her sketchbook was still on the table. She flipped it open, staring at the unfinished portrait of her mother.

The lines were sharp, restless, as if she had drawn them in a hurry she couldn’t explain. She touched the page lightly, then shut the book.

At nine-thirty, she was still in her pajamas, hair unbrushed, staring at the clock. She told herself she wouldn’t go. She had work at the bookstore later. She had bills to pay. She didn’t have time for strangers with strange offers.

But at nine-fifty, she was standing by the window, watching the street below.

At exactly ten, a black sedan pulled up to the curb. The driver stepped out, straight-backed in a dark suit, and opened the rear door. He didn’t look up at her window. He didn’t need to.

Estelle’s heart thudded. She grabbed her bag, hesitated, then set it down again. She paced the room once, twice.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her memory.

"Don’t chase fame. It will eat you alive."

But this wasn’t fame. This was survival.

She pulled on her coat, locked the door behind her, and walked down the narrow stairwell.

The driver inclined his head politely as she approached. “Miss Yang?”

She nodded.

He opened the door wider. “Please.”

Estelle slid into the back seat. The leather was cool against her palms. The door shut with a quiet finality, and the car pulled away from the curb.

She didn’t ask where they were going. She only watched the city blur past the window, her reflection faint in the glass, and wondered if she had just made the biggest mistake of her life.

The car moved smoothly through the city, past rows of glass towers and neon signs that hadn’t yet flickered off from the night before.

Estelle sat stiffly in the back seat, her hands folded in her lap. The driver didn’t speak.

She tried to distract herself by counting the turns, but after a while the streets grew unfamiliar. The buildings thinned, replaced by gated compounds and high walls lined with cameras.

“Where are we going?” she asked finally.

The driver’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. “Mr. Wang’s residence.”

That was all he said.

Estelle leaned back, pressing her shoulder against the door. She thought about asking him to stop, but the words caught in her throat. She told herself she could still walk away once she saw the place.

After nearly forty minutes, the car slowed before a set of iron gates. A guard stepped forward, scanned the license plate, and waved them through.

The driveway curved upward, lined with manicured hedges and stone lanterns. At the top stood a house that looked more like a private museum than a home—modern glass walls, sharp lines, and a wide terrace overlooking the city below.

The car stopped at the entrance. The driver stepped out and opened her door.

Estelle hesitated, then climbed out. The air smelled faintly of pine and something metallic, like rain on steel.

Inside, the foyer was silent except for the soft hum of hidden ventilation. Marble floors stretched beneath her feet, and on the walls hung large canvases—portraits, landscapes, abstract pieces. Some she recognized from art magazines, others she had never seen before.

A woman in a black uniform approached. “Miss Yang. Please, this way.”

Estelle followed her down a long corridor. The walls here were bare, the lighting dimmer. She felt the weight of the silence pressing in, broken only by the sound of her own footsteps.

The woman stopped before a set of double doors. “Mr. Wang will join you shortly. You may wait inside.”

Estelle stepped through.

The room was a studio. Wide windows let in pale daylight, falling across easels, brushes, and neatly stacked canvases. A single chair sat in the center, facing a blank canvas already mounted on a frame.

She walked slowly around the space, running her fingers over the edge of a worktable. Everything was organized, precise, almost clinical.

For a moment, she forgot her unease. She could smell the faint trace of oil paint, see the clean stretch of canvas waiting. Her hands itched to pick up a brush.

Then she noticed the small black dot in the corner of the ceiling. A camera.

Her chest tightened. She turned her gaze away quickly, pretending she hadn’t seen it.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Estelle stood alone in the studio, the silence pressing closer, and realized she had no idea what she had just stepped into.

The sound of the door opening broke the silence.

Estelle turned.

A man stepped inside, tall, dressed in a dark suit that looked tailored but not ostentatious. His expression was unreadable, his movements deliberate.

He closed the door behind him without looking at it, as if he was used to rooms obeying him.

“Miss Yang,” he said. His voice was the same as on the phone—low, steady, controlled.

Estelle straightened. “Mr. Wang.”

He studied her for a moment, his gaze sharp but not hurried. “You came.”

“I wasn’t sure I would.”

“But you did.”

He walked further into the studio, stopping near the easel. His eyes flicked briefly to the sketchbook she carried tucked under her arm, then back to her face.

“That tells me enough.”

Estelle shifted her weight. “You said you wanted portraits.”

“I want authenticity,” Jayden replied. “Most artists paint what they think people want to see. You don’t. That’s why you’re here.”

She frowned. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” He gestured toward the chair in the center of the room. “Sit. Let’s talk.”

Estelle hesitated, then crossed the room and sat. The chair was positioned directly under the light, facing the blank canvas. She felt exposed.

Jayden remained standing. “You’ll work here. Materials will be provided. You’ll be paid for each piece. More than you’ve ever earned before.”

Her throat tightened. “Why me?”

His gaze lingered on her, steady and unsettling.

“Because your work is raw. Because you don’t hide grief when you paint. And because I don’t waste time on people who pretend.”

Estelle looked away, her pulse quickening. She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the words wouldn’t come.

Jayden stepped closer, his tone softening slightly.

“You’ll have privacy. Freedom to work. All I ask is that you finish what you start.”

She glanced back at him. “And if I say no?”

“Then you’ll leave. The car will take you home. And we’ll never speak again.”

The room fell silent.

Estelle’s eyes drifted to the blank canvas waiting in front of her. Her fingers twitched against her knee. For the first time in years, she felt the pull of possibility—sharp, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.

Estelle’s eyes stayed fixed on the blank canvas. The silence in the studio stretched, heavy and deliberate, as if Jayden was waiting to see how long she could endure it.

Her pulse thudded in her ears. She wanted to stand, to walk out, to tell him this was a mistake. But her body didn’t move.

Jayden finally spoke, his tone even. “You don’t have to answer now. The choice is yours. But understand this—opportunities don’t wait forever.”

Estelle swallowed hard. She nodded once, though she wasn’t sure if it was agreement or just acknowledgment.

Jayden’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, then he turned toward the door.

“Take your time. I’ll have someone bring you tea.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Estelle sat alone in the chair, the light glaring down on her, the camera in the corner watching silently. She pressed her palms against her knees, steadying her breath.

The canvas in front of her remained untouched, but it felt like it was already demanding something from her.

She didn’t know yet if she would give it.

The tea arrived in a porcelain cup, carried in by the same uniformed woman who had led Estelle to the studio. She set it down on the worktable without a word and left.

Estelle didn’t touch it.

She walked slowly around the room instead, studying the brushes lined neatly in jars, the rows of paints arranged by shade, the spotless floor.

It was the kind of studio she had once dreamed of having—spacious, quiet, fully stocked. But it didn’t feel like hers. It felt staged, like a set waiting for a performance.

She stopped again at the easel. The canvas was perfectly stretched, the surface smooth and white. She lifted a brush, held it for a moment, then set it back down. Her hands were trembling.

The door opened again.

This time, it wasn’t Jayden. A young man stepped in, carrying a stack of blank canvases. He looked no older than twenty, dressed in plain clothes, his expression neutral. He set the canvases against the wall and gave her a quick nod.

“You’ll need anything else, you ask me,” he said quietly. His accent was local, his tone clipped.

“What’s your name?” Estelle asked.

“Daniel.” He hesitated, then added, “I handle supplies.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

He left as quickly as he had come.

Estelle sat back down in the chair, staring at the untouched tea. She felt the weight of the camera in the corner again, the silent presence of someone watching. She wondered if Jayden was on the other side of a screen right now, studying her hesitation, measuring her every move.

The hours passed slowly. She didn’t paint. She didn’t even sketch. She only sat, stood, paced, sat again.

By late afternoon, the door opened once more. Jayden entered, this time without a suit jacket, his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.

He looked at the blank canvas, then at her.

“You didn’t start.”

Estelle met his gaze. “I don’t work on command.”

A faint smile touched his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. I don’t want obedience. I want truth.”

He walked past her, stopping at the window. The city stretched far below, hazy in the fading light.

“You’ll stay here tonight,” he said. “There’s a guest room prepared. Tomorrow, you begin.”

Estelle’s chest tightened. “I didn’t agree to that.”

“You didn’t refuse either.” He turned back to her, his expression calm, almost patient. “Think of it as time. Time to decide if you belong here.”

The silence between them stretched again, heavier this time.

Estelle looked at the canvas, then at the door. She felt the walls of the studio pressing in, the quiet hum of surveillance, the certainty that once she stayed, leaving would not be simple.

But she didn’t move.

Dinner was served in silence. A long dining table stretched across the room, but only two places were set.

Estelle sat at one end, Jayden at the other. The food was delicate, plated with precision, but she barely touched it.

Jayden noticed. “You don’t eat much.”

“I’m not used to this kind of food,” she admitted.

He leaned back slightly. “You’ll adjust.”

The way he said it made her uneasy, as if he wasn’t talking about the food at all.

Afterward, a housekeeper led her upstairs. The guest room was spacious, with a wide bed, a desk, and a window overlooking the city lights. Everything was immaculate, almost impersonal, like a hotel.

“Mr. Wang prefers quiet after midnight,” the housekeeper said before leaving.

Estelle sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the neatly folded sheets. She should have felt relieved to have a place to sleep, but instead, the silence pressed down on her.

She stood and opened the door. The hallway stretched long and dim, lined with closed doors. She walked slowly, her footsteps muffled against the carpet.

Most of the doors were locked. She tried one, then another. The handles didn’t budge.

At the end of the hall, she found a door that opened into a music room. A grand piano stood in the center, its surface polished to a mirror shine. Sheet music was stacked neatly on the stand, though the pages looked untouched for years.

She ran her fingers lightly across the keys but didn’t press down. The silence of the house felt too heavy to break.

As she turned to leave, she noticed a small red light in the corner of the ceiling. Another camera.

Back in her room, she closed the curtains tightly and sat at the desk. She pulled out her sketchbook and began to draw—not the canvas, not her mother, but the piano she had just seen.

The lines came quickly, sharper than usual, as if her hand was trying to capture something she couldn’t put into words.

A knock at the door startled her.

“Miss Yang,” Jayden’s voice came through, calm and steady. “Are you comfortable?”

She hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

“Good. Tomorrow, you begin.”

His footsteps faded down the hall.

Estelle stared at the sketch in front of her. The piano looked cold, abandoned, yet somehow alive under her pencil. She closed the book and set it aside.

Lying in bed, she kept her eyes on the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the house. She wondered how many cameras were hidden in the walls, how many doors she would never be allowed to open.

And she wondered, not for the first time, if she had already given up more than she realized.

The next morning, Estelle woke to the sound of a soft knock at her door. When she opened it, a tray of breakfast had already been placed on the small table outside—congee, steamed buns, and tea. No one lingered in the hallway.

She carried the tray inside and sat at the desk. The food was warm, carefully prepared, but she ate slowly, distracted by the silence of the house. Even in daylight, it felt too quiet, as if the walls absorbed sound.

At nine, another knock. This time, it was Daniel.

“Mr. Wang is waiting in the studio,” he said.

Estelle followed him downstairs. The corridors were wide, lined with more artwork—pieces she recognized from magazines, others she suspected had never been shown publicly. Some bore faint labels in the corners, as if they had been catalogued.

When they reached the studio, Jayden was already there. He stood near the window, sleeves rolled again, a tablet in his hand. He looked up as she entered.

“Good morning.”

Estelle nodded. “Morning.”

He gestured toward the easel. “Today, you begin. No deadlines. No restrictions. Just paint.”

She hesitated. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll sit in front of that canvas until you decide what you want,” he said evenly. “But I think you already know.”

Estelle walked to the easel. The blank canvas stared back at her, demanding, expectant. She picked up a pencil, her hand unsteady at first, then steadier as the lines began to form.

Jayden didn’t move closer. He only watched from a distance, silent, as if studying not the sketch but her.

After a while, Estelle set the pencil down. “You’re watching me.”

“I watch everyone,” he said simply. “It’s how I understand them.”

She turned to face him. “That’s not normal.”

His expression didn’t change. “Neither is wasting talent.”

The words hung in the air. Estelle looked back at the canvas, her chest tight. She wanted to argue, but part of her knew he was right—she had been wasting herself, hiding from her own work.

Still, the way he said it unsettled her.

By midday, she had filled the canvas with rough outlines. Not a portrait, not yet—just shapes, fragments, the beginnings of something she couldn’t name.

Jayden finally stepped forward. He studied the lines, then glanced at her. “Better.”

Estelle set the pencil down. “I’m not doing this for you.”

His mouth curved slightly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “Of course not.”

He left the studio without another word.

Estelle exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath. She sat back in the chair, staring at the unfinished sketch.

For the first time in years, she felt the stirrings of something she thought she had lost. But it came with a weight she couldn’t shake—the sense that every line she drew was being measured, recorded, and stored somewhere she couldn’t see.

By late afternoon, Estelle’s sketch had grown into something more defined. The outlines of a face were beginning to emerge, though she hadn’t decided whose.

She stepped back, wiping her palms on her jeans, uneasy at how quickly the hours had slipped away.

Jayden returned quietly, as if he had been waiting for the right moment. He studied the canvas without comment, then looked at her.

“You work differently when you forget I’m here,” he said.

Estelle crossed her arms. “Maybe because I don’t like being watched.”

“You’ll get used to it.” His tone was calm, matter-of-fact, as though he were stating a law of nature.

She shook her head. “That’s not something people should get used to.”

Jayden didn’t argue. He only gave her a long, unreadable look before turning toward the door.

“Dinner in an hour. Daniel will show you the way.”

When he left, Estelle exhaled sharply. She hated how he could make her feel both cornered and challenged in the same breath.

---

Dinner was quieter than the night before. This time, Jayden didn’t sit at the far end of the table but closer, though still with a deliberate distance.

“You’re not afraid of silence,” he observed.

“I grew up with it,” Estelle replied. “My mother liked quiet.”

Jayden’s gaze lingered on her, but he didn’t press further.

Afterward, Estelle excused herself early. Instead of returning straight to her room, she wandered the hallways again.

The mansion felt different at night—darker, heavier, the silence broken only by the faint hum of electronics.

She passed a door left slightly ajar and glanced inside. Rows of monitors glowed in the dark, each screen showing a different angle of the house: the foyer, the dining room, the studio. Her chest tightened when she saw herself on one of the feeds, standing in the hallway at that very moment.

A figure moved inside the room. Daniel. He looked up, startled to see her.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quickly, stepping toward the door.

Estelle froze. “You’re the one watching?”

“I just monitor,” Daniel said, lowering his voice. “It’s not my choice.”

Before she could ask more, he closed the door firmly, leaving her in the hallway.

Back in her room, Estelle sat at the desk, her hands trembling as she opened her sketchbook. She drew quickly, almost frantically—the outlines of cameras, the glow of screens, the cold piano she had seen the night before.

When she stopped, she realized her sketches looked less like art and more like evidence.

She closed the book and slid it under her pillow.

Lying in bed, she stared at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the house. She knew now that every step she took inside these walls was being recorded.

And yet, despite the unease, she also knew she wasn’t ready to leave.

Estelle lay awake long after the lights of the city had dimmed. The curtains were drawn, but she could still feel the weight of the cameras hidden in the walls. Every shift of her body, every breath, seemed too loud in the silence.

She reached under her pillow and touched the edge of her sketchbook. The pages inside held the piano, the cameras, the cold outlines of a house that was beginning to feel less like a home and more like a cage.

Somewhere down the hall, a door closed softly. Footsteps moved, then faded. She couldn’t tell if it was Jayden, Daniel, or someone else entirely.

Estelle turned onto her side, eyes open in the dark. She told herself she could leave in the morning, that nothing bound her here. But the thought rang hollow.

The truth was already clear: she had stepped into his world, and walking away would not be simple.

The morning light slipped through the curtains when Estelle finally rose.

She hadn’t slept much, her body tense from the sense of being watched. The breakfast tray was already waiting outside her door again—congee, tea, and fruit arranged with the same precision as the day before.

She ate slowly, her mind circling the same thought: she could still leave. Nothing was stopping her. Yet when Daniel arrived to escort her back to the studio, she followed without protest.

The studio looked exactly as she had left it—canvas, brushes, the faint smell of oil paint. Jayden was already there, seated at the worktable, scrolling through something on his tablet. He looked up when she entered.

“Good. You’re on time.”

Estelle set her sketchbook on the table. “You didn’t tell me there were cameras everywhere.”

Jayden didn’t flinch. “I don’t hide it. Surveillance is part of my life. It keeps order.”

“And privacy?” she asked.

“Privacy is an illusion,” he said simply. “You’ll learn that.”

Estelle’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she turned to the canvas. She picked up a brush this time, dipped it into paint, and began to work. Her strokes were hesitant at first, then steadier, the lines of a face beginning to take shape.

Jayden watched in silence for a while before speaking again. “You’re painting someone you know.”

She didn’t look up. “Maybe.”

“Your mother?”

Her hand froze. She set the brush down carefully.

“Don’t.”

Jayden leaned back in his chair, studying her. “Grief leaves marks. I see them in your work. That’s not a weakness. It’s what makes it real.”

Estelle turned away, her chest tight. She hated how easily he read her, how calmly he spoke about things she had buried for years.

By midday, she stepped back from the canvas. The beginnings of a portrait stared back at her—unfinished, raw, but alive in a way her work hadn’t been in years.

Jayden stood, walked closer, and studied it. He didn’t comment right away. Finally, he said, “Better. You’ll stay with this one.”

Estelle crossed her arms. “And if I don’t want to?”

“Then you’ll waste both our time,” he said evenly. “But I don’t think you will.”

He left the studio again, leaving her alone with the canvas.

That evening, Estelle wandered the mansion after dinner. She found herself back near the music room.

The piano gleamed in the dim light, untouched. She sat on the bench, pressing one key softly. The note rang out, sharp in the silence.

Behind her, a voice spoke.

“My mother used to play.”

Estelle turned. Jayden stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

“She stopped?” Estelle asked quietly.

“She disappeared,” he said. His tone was flat, but his eyes lingered on the piano. “No one ever found her.”

The silence stretched. Estelle wanted to ask more, but something in his posture warned her not to.

Instead, she closed the piano lid gently. “I should go back to my room.”

Jayden nodded once. “Daniel will walk you.”

As she followed Daniel down the hall, Estelle felt the weight of the house pressing in again—the locked doors, the cameras, the silence.

She knew now that Jayden’s world wasn’t just about art. It was about control.

And she wasn’t sure how much longer she could pretend she didn’t see it.

That night, Estelle couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the house. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of air through the vents, made her wonder if someone was outside her door.

Finally, she sat up, pulled on her sweater, and opened the door. The hallway was dim, the lights low. She walked quietly, her bare feet silent against the carpet.

Most of the doors were locked, just as before. But one at the far end of the hall stood slightly ajar. She pushed it open carefully.

Inside was a study. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and thick files. A desk sat near the window, papers stacked neatly, a laptop closed. She stepped inside, her pulse quickening.

On the desk, a folder lay open. She glanced down. Inside were photographs—paintings, sketches, some she recognized from art journals, others she didn’t. And then, near the bottom, a photograph of her own work. A portrait she had painted years ago, from the student exhibition she thought everyone had forgotten.

Her throat tightened. She reached out, touching the edge of the photo.

“You shouldn’t be in here.”

The voice came from the doorway.

Estelle spun around. Jayden stood there, his expression calm, though his eyes were sharp.

“I was just—” she began.

“Looking,” he finished for her. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “Curiosity isn’t a crime. But it has consequences.”

Estelle straightened, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Why do you have this?” She held up the photograph of her painting.

“Because I collect what matters,” Jayden said evenly. “And you matter more than you realize.”

Her chest tightened. “You’ve been watching me for years.”

“Yes.” He didn’t deny it. “I don’t waste time on people who don’t interest me.”

The silence stretched between them. Estelle felt the weight of the room pressing in—the books, the files, the quiet certainty in his voice.

Finally, Jayden stepped closer, taking the photograph from her hand and sliding it back into the folder.

“Go back to your room. Tomorrow, you paint.”

Estelle hesitated, then brushed past him, her pulse racing. She didn’t look back until she was in the hallway again, the door closing softly behind her.

Back in her room, she locked the door, even though she knew it wouldn’t matter. She sat at the desk, opened her sketchbook, and began to draw furiously—lines sharp, restless, almost frantic.

When she stopped, she realized she had drawn not the piano, not the cameras, but Jayden himself. His face, his eyes, the way he had looked at her in the study.

She slammed the book shut, her hands trembling.

For the first time, she admitted to herself what she already knew: she wasn’t just inside his world. She was becoming part of it.

The next morning, Estelle woke later than usual. The breakfast tray was waiting again, but she barely touched it.

Her mind kept circling back to the study, the folder, and Jayden’s calm admission that he had been watching her for years.

When Daniel came to escort her to the studio, she followed in silence.

Jayden was already there, standing by the window with his hands in his pockets. He turned as she entered.

“You didn’t sleep,” he said.

Estelle stiffened. “You don’t know that.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “I know.”

She looked away, moving to the easel. The portrait she had started yesterday stared back at her, unfinished. She picked up a brush, dipped it into paint, and forced herself to focus.

For a while, the only sound was the soft scrape of bristles against canvas. Jayden didn’t interrupt. He watched, but not with the same intensity as before. It was quieter, more patient, as though he was waiting for her to reveal something on her own.

Finally, Estelle set the brush down. “Why me?” she asked, her voice low.

Jayden stepped closer, stopping just behind her.

“Because you don’t lie on the canvas. Most people do. You don’t.”

She turned to face him. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough,” he said evenly.

The silence stretched. Estelle’s pulse quickened, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.

Jayden finally stepped back. “Dinner at seven. Don’t be late.”

He left the studio, the door closing softly behind him.

That evening, Estelle wandered again after dinner. She avoided the study this time, but her curiosity pulled her elsewhere.

She found a staircase leading down to a lower level. The air grew cooler as she descended, the walls bare concrete instead of polished marble.

At the bottom, she found another locked door. She pressed her ear against it. Faint sounds drifted through—voices, movement, the clatter of something metallic.

She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was businesslike, controlled.

She stepped back quickly when she heard footsteps above. Daniel appeared at the top of the stairs, his expression tight.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said again, his voice sharper this time.

Estelle crossed her arms. “What’s behind that door?”

Daniel hesitated. “Not for you.”

“Then why bring me here at all?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he motioned for her to follow him back upstairs.

In her room, Estelle sat at the desk, staring at her sketchbook. She opened it slowly, flipping past the drawings of the piano, the cameras, Jayden’s face.

She picked up her pencil and began to sketch the locked door, the heavy lines pressing into the paper.

When she finished, she closed the book and slid it under her pillow again.

She lay in bed, wide awake, listening to the hum of the house. She knew now that the mansion wasn’t just a place to paint. It was a place of secrets.

And she wasn’t sure how long she could keep pretending she didn’t want to know them.