Chapter 1 — The Offer

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.

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