The invitation arrived as a black envelope, slid under her studio door sometime past midnight.
It wasn't handwritten.
It was printed.
> "Isabelle,
You once painted your sins in silence.
Now you scream them on gallery walls.
Let's talk.
One night. One dinner. One confession.
I'll be watching either way.
—L"
Elijah was furious when she showed him.
"You're not going."
She didn't answer.
"Tell me you're not."
Still, silence.
Isabelle stood in the glow of her newest canvas — her back to him, the paint still drying. A body tangled in shadow, faceless, faceless, faceless.
She didn't know if it was Lucian. Or herself.
Maybe both.
---
The dinner was arranged at The Velvet Lantern, an upscale restaurant with velvet booths and no cameras.
She wore black — simple, severe. A dagger of a dress. High neck, high slit. No invitation to touch. But impossible to ignore.
Lucian was already seated, swirling wine, looking like time hadn't touched him. Same tailored darkness. Same wolf-smile.
"Isabelle," he said, as though they'd spoken yesterday.
"Lucian," she replied, settling across from him. "I assume the theatrics were your idea."
He raised a brow. "Everything is theater now, isn't it? The gallery. The press. The prophet seductress."
"You sent threats."
"I sent reminders. Of who you were before you wrapped yourself in the illusion of a faithful wife."
She sipped her water. "And yet here you are. Alone."
He chuckled. "You never understood what I wanted from you."
She leaned in, calm as steel. "Enlighten me."
Lucian's eyes gleamed.
"I didn't want to own you, Isabelle. I wanted to unleash you. What Nathan tried to silence, Elijah merely warmed. But I—" he tapped the table softly, rhythmically "—I saw the storm in you before you knew it had a name."
---
Her breath hitched, just slightly.
Because part of her had felt seen by Lucian back then. Not loved. Not touched. Seen.
And that was the danger.
---
"I'm not that woman anymore," she said coldly.
"Exactly," he whispered. "You're more. And that's why I've returned."
He slid a small, black flash drive across the table.
"What is this?"
"Proof. That everything you've built—this liberation, this fame, this fire—can burn just as easily."
She didn't touch it.
"You're threatening me."
Lucian smiled.
"I'm offering you one final gallery."
---
Back home, she plugged the drive into her private laptop. Elijah hovered nearby.
Inside: photos.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Isabelle. Naked. Crying. Years ago. On Lucian's studio floor.
Cameras she didn't know were there.
Her early paintings. Her unedited journals.
Even love notes to Nathan—before the affair.
Everything.
Documented.
Filed.
Weaponized.
---
Elijah cursed, wanted to destroy it, but Isabelle only stared.
"I knew he watched me. I just didn't know how closely."
"What are we dealing with?" he asked.
She stood, eyes cold now.
"A man who thinks I belong in a frame."
---
But Isabelle had learned something in her years of quiet obedience and louder rebellion:
A woman doesn't need to be safe to be dangerous.
She just needs to be done being afraid.