The headlines rolled in before sunrise.
> "Isabelle Solane Shocks Fire & Flesh Gala with Live Confession"
"Lucian Devereux Humiliated on Stage — Former Muse Turns Assassin"
"The Artist Who Refuses to Die Quietly"
By midmorning, Isabelle had received over 400 messages — some from victims, some from admirers, and far too many from media vultures who wanted to twist her trauma into a bite-sized controversy.
But none from Elijah.
And that silence said everything.
Isabelle sat on her bedroom floor, surrounded by old canvases and unopened letters, watching her phone light up with calls she didn't answer. She had said her truth. Now the world had to decide whether to praise her or punish her for it.
A knock.
She froze.
Then slowly stood and walked to the door.
She opened it — expecting Elijah.
But instead, there stood a woman.
Mid-30s. Sleek. Smiling like a switchblade.
"I'm Victoria Blaine," she said. "Lucian's lawyer. And former lover."
Isabelle didn't respond.
Victoria pushed in without invitation.
"I came to offer you a gift," she said, heels clicking across the floor. "Well—two, actually. One you'll hate, and one you might just love."
Isabelle crossed her arms. "Say it."
Victoria reached into her designer bag and pulled out a thick manila folder. She dropped it on the counter.
"Non-disclosure agreement. Full gag order. If you sign, Lucian will release the rights to every video, every photograph, every recorded word he ever had on you. You'll never see his face again. He'll walk away."
"And if I don't sign?"
Victoria smiled wider.
"Then the next gift gets delivered. A leak. Your original audition footage. You, drunk. Crying. Begging to be chosen. And, of course…" she paused, dramatic, "the clip where you say you liked it. Even the pain."
Isabelle didn't move.
"You think anyone will care about context?" Victoria said. "They'll eat you alive, Isabelle. Turn your story into a fetish. A punchline."
"Then let them," Isabelle said coldly. "I'm not bargaining with the devil's secretary."
Victoria shrugged. "He gave you a chance."
"No. He gave me chains."
Victoria stepped closer, voice lower.
"Then don't act surprised when he tightens them."
She left without another word.
—
By nightfall, the leak dropped.
The footage spread like wildfire.
Isabelle's trembling face, too young, too unsure, whispering things she barely remembered.
> "I want someone to own me."
"Pain feels like control."
"I'll do anything to be seen."
It trended under a cruel hashtag.
Her name was everywhere — but never attached to her truth. Just her undoing.
She locked herself inside her studio, shaking.
But not crying.
Not anymore.
Her pain was public now.
So she would make the retaliation public too.
She turned on her camera.
Sat in front of a canvas.
Nude.
No script.
And spoke:
> "I said those words when I didn't know what love was.
I said I wanted to be owned because I didn't know how to own myself.
I was groomed. Programmed to perform my pain for applause.
But this—this body, this voice, this art—is mine now. And I'll bleed it in front of the whole world if I have to."
She posted it raw. Unedited.
And waited.
—
The next day, Elijah showed up.
Unshaven. Eyes bloodshot. Clothes wrinkled like he hadn't slept.
"I didn't know," he said. "About the leak. About Victoria. I didn't—"
"Don't," Isabelle said. "Please."
He stepped forward. "I thought I was protecting you."
"You were protecting your reputation. Not me."
"I've left him," Elijah whispered. "I went to the board. To the gallery partners. I pulled my funding from Lucian's projects. I burned every contract I ever signed under him."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because watching you stand on that stage, in that dress, in your fire… I realized I was never in love with you when you were safe. I was in love with you when you were dangerous."
Her lip trembled.
He cupped her face.
"I love this version of you, Isabelle. The one who doesn't beg. The one who roars."
She closed her eyes. Leaned into him.
But then whispered, "It's too late."
He pulled back.
"Lucian's taken too much," she said. "If I let you stay, I'll lose myself again."
His voice broke. "I'd rather lose me than watch you lose you."
She didn't respond.
She just kissed him once.
Soft. Slow.
Final.
And closed the door.
—
The next morning, Isabelle's new exhibit launched online.
Title: "Consent."
A series of twelve paintings.
Each one depicting moments of intimacy that blurred the line between desire and domination — but this time, painted from her perspective. The fear. The fire. The confusion. The choice.
The final piece was a mirror.
Cracked.
Framed in gold.
With the caption:
> "What they see is not what I gave.
What I gave is not what they remember.
But what I remember is mine — and that makes it real."
The collection went viral in hours.
Not because it was shocking.
But because it was real.
And then, one last thing arrived at her door.
No return address.
A canvas.
Lucian's.
Painted in her style.
Titled: "Surrender."
His figure — alone, exposed, decaying in oil.
The note attached read:
> "The war is over. You win.
But we both lost, didn't we?"
She stared at it for a long time.
Then burned it.
And painted something new over the ashes.