The message wouldn't leave her mind.
It sat in Isabelle's phone like a splinter — small, sharp, and infected with meaning.
> "Your sins are beautiful. But sins they still are.
See you soon, seductress."
Elijah read it again under the low glow of her studio lamp.
"Could be spam," he muttered, but the lines at the corners of his eyes said he didn't believe that.
Isabelle sat on the couch, robe loose, chest bare beneath it — but there was no seduction in her tonight. Just tension. Awareness. A flicker of fear.
"Only one person's ever called me that," she whispered.
---
His name was Lucian.
A curator she met years ago, when she was still playing obedient wife by day and painting dangerous things by night.
Lucian had wanted more than her art. He'd seen her restlessness, fed it, kissed her mind before even touching her hand.
But when she chose Nathan — the safe, successful man — Lucian hadn't taken it well.
He vanished.
Until now.
---
Three nights passed.
Then a box arrived.
No return address. Just a crimson wax seal and her name written in ink.
Inside: a photograph.
Of her.
Taken last night.
Through her gallery window.
She was standing alone in front of the Elijah painting, head tilted, lips parted, vulnerable.
Behind the photo was a card:
> "Even when you're clothed, you beg to be unwrapped."
---
"This isn't just admiration," Elijah said, jaw tight. "This is a threat."
Isabelle didn't flinch. But her voice came low.
"I think it's obsession."
They took the box to the police. Filed a report. Installed new cameras.
But Isabelle knew better: men like Lucian didn't just stalk — they orchestrated. They watched your reactions. Fed off your fear. Their power came from making you feel seen in the wrong ways.
And the worst part?
Some small part of her still loved that attention.
---
The next exhibit night drew a bigger crowd.
The media now called her "The Seductress of the Canvas." Some loved her. Others wanted her canceled.
And somewhere in that crowd, Lucian could be watching.
She dressed boldly — a backless crimson dress, her hair high, eyes lined in kohl.
If he wanted a show, she'd give him one on her terms.
Elijah took her hand before she stepped out into the main hall.
"You sure you want to face him like this?"
"I've hidden my whole life," she said. "No more."
---
The exhibit was alive with whispers and wine.
Isabelle walked the rooms like a queen among rumors.
Then she saw him.
Not Lucian himself—
—but a man handing out cards at the edge of the crowd. Silver-haired. Smiling too easily.
She took one.
> "Art is confession.
But confession without punishment is just performance.
Yours is coming."
She didn't confront him.
She let him walk away.
Because something told her: this was just act one.
---
That night, back in her apartment, Isabelle stripped off her dress and stood in front of her easel. Nude. Defiant. Still trembling.
Elijah watched her, silent.
She dipped her brush in red and began a new painting — wild strokes, unplanned, raw.
"What is it?" he finally asked.
She didn't stop moving.
"It's a warning," she said.
"A warning to who?"
She paused.
And met his gaze.
"To anyone who thinks I'm theirs to break."