The ash was still warm when she dipped her brush into the paint.
There was no plan. No sketch. No safety net.
Just instinct.
The canvas was scorched at the edges, but that made it better — more honest. She painted not over Lucian's ghost, but through it. Each stroke rewrote him. Drowned him. Reduced his image to something unrecognizable and irrelevant.
By dawn, the figure emerging was hers.
Not Isabelle the muse.
Not Isabelle the scandal.
But the woman in between — furious, raw, reinvented.
She titled it:
> "Inheritance"
And she didn't post it.
Didn't photograph it.
Didn't share it.
This one wasn't for the world.
It was for her.
—
Three weeks passed.
The noise died down — but never disappeared.
There were think-pieces. Backlash. Copycats. Podcasts that dissected her trauma like it was an aesthetic choice. Women were divided. Men were louder than ever.
But Isabelle stayed quiet.
Until the gallery call came.
"We want a solo show," the curator said breathlessly. "Not just online. In person. In Paris. We'll cover everything — flight, accommodations, press."
She hesitated.
"Not a retrospective," the curator added quickly. "Something new. Something post-Lucian."
Post-Lucian.
That word felt like an exorcism.
"Give me three months," she said.
—
The studio she chose was tucked behind a crumbling hotel in Montmartre. A far cry from the glamorous lofts she'd once posed in, but the cracked windows and peeling paint felt… honest. Like her.
She worked from morning till midnight. Ate little. Slept less.
The series that emerged wasn't soft or palatable. It wasn't meant to be. Her strokes were violent. Her colors — bruised, burning, fevered. She painted with both hands, with palette knives, with her own skin. Some days she bled. Some days she screamed.
She called the collection:
> "Gilded Teeth"
Because that's what survival was, wasn't it?
Ugly. Glittering. Still biting.
—
And then Elijah showed up.
Again.
This time in Paris.
He stood in the gallery just before opening, looking at her new work like it was a gospel he wasn't holy enough to read.
"You came," she said, not quite surprised.
He nodded. "I never left, really."
They stood in silence before a painting titled "Sanctified by Scars."
It showed a figure cloaked in thorns — arms wide, not in surrender, but in defiance.
"I didn't ask you to follow me," she said.
"I didn't," he said. "I followed the art."
She turned to him.
"Do you want forgiveness?"
"No," he said. "I want to help you burn the rest down."
A pause.
Then a slow smile tugged at her mouth. "Good. Because I'm not done setting fires."
—
The opening night in Paris wasn't glitzy.
It was electric.
No red carpet. No PR gimmicks.
Just a crowd of people who looked hungry for truth. Bruised souls in couture. Artists who stopped mid-breath. Survivors who stood too long in front of certain pieces and whispered, "I thought it was just me."
And Isabelle?
She didn't dress for the cameras.
She dressed like a weapon.
Sleek black. High collar. No apologies.
She didn't smile for the press. Didn't perform gratitude.
She just stood there, watching her past reframed as power.
—
And then she saw her.
Victoria.
Alone.
No bodyguards. No smugness.
Just a silent, silver silhouette at the far wall, staring at a painting titled:
> "The Ones Who Watched"
It was a field of eyes.
Some wide. Some weeping. Some shut tight.
Victoria didn't move. Didn't blink.
But when she finally turned to Isabelle, there was no venom. Just a single nod.
Not surrender.
Not regret.
Something colder. Stranger.
Respect.
And then she left.
No words exchanged.
Just history rewritten in a glance.
—
Later, Elijah found Isabelle on the roof.
City lights behind her. Smoke from her clove cigarette curling around her fingers.
"You scared them tonight," he said.
"Good."
"But you also moved them."
She looked out across the skyline.
"Let them feel moved. I'm not here to be loved anymore."
He stepped closer.
"Then what are you here to be?"
She looked him dead in the eyes.
And said:
> "Unforgettable."