Chapter 3 — The Rules

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.

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