The kiss should have felt like release.
But as Isabelle lay in her bed hours later, the air between her sheets was thick with something else—unfinished, unreal, and unmistakably wrong.
She hadn't invited Elijah home with her. Not yet. Not tonight. Not after everything.
She needed silence.
Needed to hear what her own breath sounded like again without someone trying to inhale it.
The walls were still echoing from the exhibit. The press had flooded her inbox. Headlines like:
"Erotic Redemption: The Woman Who Undressed the Art World"
"Muse or Monster?"
"The Exhibit Everyone Wants to Touch (But Can't)"
They didn't know the half of it.
She padded barefoot to her kitchen, wine in hand, robe barely tied. Her body ached—not from Elijah's touch, but from the emotional excavation she'd just performed on herself in front of a hundred strangers.
That was when she saw it.
The second envelope.
Not in her mailbox.
But inside her apartment.
On the kitchen counter.
Her wine glass dropped. Shattered.
She spun—no sign of a break-in. No door ajar. No broken windows.
But the envelope—midnight black, sealed with crimson wax—mocked her with silence.
He had been here.
Her heart pounded as she picked it up with trembling hands. She peeled the seal open with the edge of a butter knife, just in case it was laced with something. Lucian knew how to weaponize even the smallest details.
Inside were two things.
1. A flash drive.
2. A note. Typed. Untraceable.
> "You think a painting can bury me, darling? I made you. I own the negatives.
Release them, and the world will see you the way I first did—naked, begging, broken."
"Tick tock, my muse."
She backed away like it might explode.
The wine was spreading across the tiles like blood.
She didn't cry. She refused to cry.
Instead, she called him.
"Elijah," she whispered the moment he picked up. "He was here. He was in my apartment."
"Where are you?" he said instantly, his voice tight, alert.
"I'm here. Alone."
"Stay put. Lock everything. I'm coming."
She hung up before she could change her mind and ran to bolt every door, every window. Every inch of her skin felt watched. Even in her robe, she felt exposed. Like there were eyes behind her mirror. Like Lucian was breathing through the vents.
When Elijah arrived, he didn't knock. She had already unlocked the door for him the moment she saw his headlights.
He stepped in, shirtless, barefoot, gun in hand.
"You brought a gun?" she asked.
"Just in case. Old habit."
"Were you in the military?"
"No. Just a man who's loved dangerous women."
She wanted to laugh. But her mouth was too dry.
She handed him the envelope. He read the note. His jaw flexed.
"Bastard thinks he's still the director of your life," Elijah said. "He wants a reaction."
"Well, he got it," she snapped. "He broke in. He knew when to come. He left that while I was at the gallery. That means he watched me leave. Watched me kiss you."
"He's playing with fire," Elijah growled.
Isabelle stepped back. "He's always played with fire. That's what made him so… intoxicating."
Elijah looked at her. "Are you still under his spell?"
"No," she said quickly. "But I remember how it felt to be in it. That's the dangerous part."
She turned to her laptop and inserted the flash drive.
Elijah moved to stop her. "Wait—"
"It's fine," she said. "If he wanted to infect the system, he'd have done it already."
A folder opened automatically. No virus. No software.
Just a single video file.
Titled: "Her First Undoing"
She clicked play.
There she was.
Seventeen. Drunk on her own naiveté. Lucian behind the camera.
"Tell me how it feels, Isa," he whispered off-screen. "Tell me what you want."
And her younger self—bare-skinned and starry-eyed—whispered, "I want you to paint me until I disappear."
The screen went black.
Isabelle slammed the laptop shut.
She was shaking.
Not from shame. But from rage.
"He still thinks he can use that girl to hurt the woman I've become," she said coldly.
Elijah walked over. "Then show him otherwise."
"How?"
"Don't run. Don't pull the exhibit. Don't cower."
He cupped her chin, lifting her face to meet his.
"Let the world see the whole thing. On your terms."
She pulled away, heart hammering. "You mean… release the footage?"
"No. Release your story. With it. With context. With your voice. Let it burn him."
She shook her head. "They'll crucify me."
"Maybe," he said. "But they'll never own you again."
A silence settled between them.
She turned toward the mirror again.
And for a moment—just a moment—she swore she saw Lucian's reflection behind her.
But when she spun, he was gone.