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Chapter 58 - paint

Minutes later, A car packed In front of the Volkov mansion. The two ladies left the car as the walked toward the direction of the door of the mansion.

Irina opened the door herself, her soft smile widening when she saw Elena and Tatiana standing there.

"My girls!" she exclaimed warmly, her voice carrying the kind of motherly affection that made Elena's chest ache. "Come in, come in. It's been too long."

Irina motioned for them to sit. "You both have grown more beautiful each time I see you," she said, her eyes crinkling kindly.

Tatiana grinned. "You always say that, Aunt Irina, but you're still the prettiest woman here."

Irina laughed, waving a hand. "Flattery will get you more cookies, dear." She stood and walked to the kitchen, returning moments later with a tray of tea and pastries.

Elena smiled shyly, taking a cup. "This smells so good."

"Old family recipe," Irina said proudly. "Now tell me — how have you both been?

Don't tell me you're spending all your days locked up studying or gossiping on those phones."

Tatiana chuckled. "Mostly the second one."

Elena laughed softly. "And the first one when Damian insists," she almost said but stopped herself, sipping her tea quickly.

Irina didn't notice, thankfully. The conversation flowed easily — light and full of laughter.

They talked about dresses, food, and little things: how Tatiana had nearly burned her last batch of cookies trying to impress someone, how Irina had been thinking of opening a flower shop, and how Elena missed painting.

"You paint?" Irina asked, her voice full of delight.

Elena nodded. "I used to. Before…" she trailed off.

Irina reached over, patting her hand gently. "Then you must start again, my dear. You have such a calm soul. Painting is good for hearts like yours."

Elena smiled faintly. "Maybe I will."

The hours passed easily, laughter echoing through the room — it felt peaceful, like a world far away from the chaos that followed Damian's name.

***

Isabel sat stiffly on the couch in her father's large office, her arms folded. The man sitting behind the mahogany desk —

Mr. Laurent, a powerful figure in the business world — sighed and set down his pen.

"Isabel, we need to talk about this obsession with Damian Volkov," he said calmly. "You've been chasing shadows for months now. It's time to move on."

Isabel looked up sharply, her perfectly shaped brows furrowing.

"Move on? Just like you did from Mom?" she shot back, her voice sharp as glass.

Her father's jaw tightened. "Don't start that."

"No, tell me," she said, standing. "Because I've never even seen her. Not once!

And every time I ask, you change the topic. So tell me again — how exactly did you move on?"

He looked away, rubbing his temples.

"Your mother wasn't someone you could hold onto. She made her choices."

"So did Damian," Isabel muttered bitterly. "He walked away like everyone else."

Her father sighed again. "And that should tell you something, shouldn't it?

Damian isn't the type of man to come running back. He's made his path, and so should you."

Isabel's eyes darkened, anger mixing with the sting of heartbreak. "You don't get it, Father. You never do.

You've always treated love like it's something you can just turn off. But not me."

She turned toward the door, her voice low but steady. "If he moved on… then I'll make sure he regrets it."

Her father's expression hardened. "Isabel—"

But she didn't look back. The click of her heels echoed down the hall as she left —

***

Irina smiled softly, watching Elena trace her fingers along the edge of her teacup.

"You know what," she said suddenly, her tone light but decisive, "you're not leaving this house until I see you paint."

Elena blinked, surprised. "Paint? Oh no, I—"

"No excuses," Irina cut in, her motherly authority impossible to resist. She turned to the maid standing by the door.

"Lydia, bring out the painting supplies from the art room — the easel, brushes, paints, everything."

"Yes, ma'am," the maid replied and hurried off.

Tatiana grinned, resting her chin on her palm. "This is going to be fun. I've never actually seen Elena paint before."

Elena's lips curved into a nervous smile. "It's been a long time," she murmured.

Minutes later, the maid returned, arms full of painting materials. "I'll set them in the garden, madam," she said, bowing politely before leaving.

Irina clapped her hands together. "Perfect. The light is lovely today — let's go, girls."

They stepped into the garden, the scent of fresh roses and trimmed grass filling the air.

Elena froze the moment she saw it all. Her heart tightened, her throat stung.

Memories came rushing back — her father's deep laughter as he guided her hand, her mother watching proudly, her aunt sitting nearby knitting and smiling.

She remembered how her father used to say, "Art is how we speak when words fail."

Her eyes grew glassy. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed this — the smell of paint, the weight of the brush, the silence before the first stroke.

"Elena, sweetheart?" Irina's voice was gentle, pulling her back.

"I just…" Elena exhaled shakily, brushing away the moisture in her eyes. "I used to paint a lot.

With my dad. But I stopped when Aunt Maria got sick. There wasn't time anymore."

Irina's soft smile faltered, and her eyes glistened. "Your aunt… where is she now?" she asked carefully.

The air grew still.

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