Chapter 5 — Consequences

The morning began differently. There was no breakfast tray outside her door. Instead, Daniel was waiting, his posture straighter than usual.

“Mr. Wang wants you in the dining room,” he said.

Estelle frowned. “Why?”

Daniel didn’t answer.

She followed him downstairs. The dining room was set, but only one place had been prepared. Jayden sat at the head of the table, a cup of tea in front of him. He gestured for her to sit.

“You’ve been avoiding meals,” he said.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

His gaze lingered on her, steady and unreadable.

“In this house, routine matters. You’ll eat when meals are served. You’ll work when the studio is open. You’ll rest when the day is done.”

Estelle stiffened. “You can’t dictate everything I do.”

Jayden leaned back slightly, his tone calm but firm.

“You came here because you had nothing. I gave you space, materials, freedom to create. In return, I expect discipline. That’s the rule.”

Her chest tightened. “And if I don’t follow it?”

His eyes didn’t waver. “Then you’ll leave. But if you leave, you don’t come back.”

The silence stretched. Estelle looked down at the untouched food in front of her. She picked up the spoon, her hand unsteady, and forced herself to eat.

Jayden watched, but said nothing more.

Later, in the studio, Estelle stood before the canvas of the piano. She wanted to destroy it, to slash the surface with her brush, but instead she forced herself to keep painting. The figure at the piano grew clearer, the shadows behind it darker.

She felt Jayden’s presence before she heard him. He stepped closer, his voice low.

“You’re angry.”

Estelle didn’t look at him. “Maybe I should be.”

“Good,” he said. “Anger is honest. Use it.”

She turned then, meeting his gaze. “You think you can control me. But you can’t.”

Jayden’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t need to control you. I only need to give you what you’ve been running from.”

Her pulse quickened. “And what’s that?”

“Yourself.”

The words unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. She turned back to the canvas, gripping the brush tighter.

That night, Estelle returned to her room exhausted. She locked the door, sat at the desk, and opened her sketchbook. She drew quickly, almost desperately—lines of the dining room, the untouched breakfast tray, Jayden’s face across the table.

When she stopped, she realized she had drawn bars across the page, as if everything she sketched was trapped behind them.

She closed the book and slid it under her pillow.

Lying in bed, she stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the house. She knew now that Jayden wasn’t just offering her a place to paint. He was testing her, shaping her, pulling her deeper into his world.

And she wasn’t sure how much longer she could resist.

The day stretched long in the studio. Estelle painted, but her strokes were sharper, more deliberate, as if each line was a quiet act of defiance. She worked on the piano again, adding more detail to the figure seated at it. She didn’t say who it was meant to be, and Jayden didn’t ask.

By late afternoon, she set the brush down and stepped back. Her hands were stained with paint, her shoulders tense.

Jayden approached, his gaze fixed on the canvas.

“You’re circling the same image,” he said.

“Maybe it’s the only thing worth painting,” Estelle replied.

His eyes flicked to her, steady and unreadable. “Or maybe it’s the only thing you’re willing to admit.”

She crossed her arms. “You think you know me.”

“I know what you hide,” he said calmly. “That’s enough.”

The words unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. She turned away, gathering her brushes, refusing to let him see her reaction.

That evening, dinner was quieter than usual. Jayden didn’t sit at the far end of the table this time. He sat closer, though still with deliberate distance.

“You’re adjusting,” he said.

Estelle set down her chopsticks. “To what?”

“To being seen.”

Her chest tightened. “Or to being watched?”

Jayden didn’t answer right away. He poured himself tea, his movements precise. “There’s no difference.”

Estelle pushed her plate away. “There is to me.”

For the first time, his expression shifted. Not anger, not amusement—something sharper, as if he were measuring her words.

“You’ll learn,” he said quietly.

Later that night, Estelle sat at her desk, sketchbook open. She drew quickly, her pencil scratching across the page. She sketched the dining table, the untouched food, Jayden’s face across from her. Then she drew herself—smaller, seated opposite him, her figure boxed in by the lines of the table and the walls.

She stared at the drawing for a long time. Then, deliberately, she tore the page out. She folded it once, twice, and slipped it into the drawer of the desk.

It was a small act, but it felt like something.

When she lay down, she left the sketchbook under her pillow as always. But this time, she kept the torn page hidden, as if daring the house to find it.

The hum of the cameras filled the silence. Estelle closed her eyes, her pulse quickening.

She knew she was being tested. But she also knew she was beginning to test him back.

That night, Estelle couldn’t settle. She paced her room, the sketchbook hidden under her pillow, the torn page still folded in the desk drawer. Every sound in the hallway made her tense.

A soft knock came at her door.

“Miss Yang,” Jayden’s voice carried through, calm as always. “Open the door.”

Estelle froze. She considered ignoring him, but the silence that followed was heavier than the knock itself. Slowly, she turned the lock and pulled the door open.

Jayden stood there, dressed simply in a dark shirt, no jacket. His expression was unreadable.

“You’re restless,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

He glanced past her into the room, his eyes lingering on the desk. “You’ve been drawing again.”

Estelle’s pulse quickened. “That’s what you brought me here for, isn’t it?”

Jayden stepped inside without waiting for permission. He moved to the desk, his hand brushing lightly over the surface. He didn’t open the drawer, but the gesture was enough to make her chest tighten.

“You hide things,” he said quietly. “But you should know—nothing in this house stays hidden for long.”

Estelle crossed her arms. “Then why let me pretend?”

Jayden turned to face her. For a moment, his gaze softened, though his voice remained steady.

“Because I want to see how far you’ll go before you stop pretending.”

The silence stretched between them. Estelle’s throat felt dry, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.

Finally, Jayden stepped back toward the door. “Rest. Tomorrow, you’ll work longer.”

He left without another word, the door closing softly behind him.

Estelle sat on the edge of the bed, her pulse still racing. She pulled the sketchbook from under her pillow and opened it. The last drawing stared back at her—Jayden at the piano, his hands hovering above the keys.

She added one more line, dark and deliberate: a camera in the corner of the page, its lens pointed directly at him.

Then she closed the book and slid it back under the pillow.

For the first time, she realized she wasn’t just recording what she saw. She was recording him.

Estelle lay awake long after Jayden’s footsteps faded down the hall. The room felt smaller than ever, the hum of the hidden cameras louder in the silence.

She reached for her sketchbook under the pillow and opened it to the last page. Jayden’s face stared back at her, seated at the piano, the camera drawn above him like an unblinking eye.

Her hand hovered over the page, tempted to tear it out, to destroy it before anyone else could see. But instead, she closed the book carefully and slid it back into place.

She turned off the lamp and lay in the dark, her pulse steady but restless.

She knew now that every move she made was being measured. Every silence, every brushstroke, every sketch was part of a game she hadn’t agreed to play.

And yet, she stayed.

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