The heavy iron gates of the Obsidian Mansion had groaned shut behind us like the jaws of a trap, but the true confinement began now, in the silence that followed the funeral’s chaos. Adrian hadn't spoken since the car. He had simply led me by the wrist through the echoing halls, his grip a constant, bruising reminder that the world outside—my parents, the cameras, the rival cousins—no longer existed.
Instead of the bedroom, we descended. The air grew cooler, smelling of stone, turpentine, and something sharp, like ozone before a storm.
"I told you that you would paint again," Adrian said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to come from the shadows themselves.
He pushed open a heavy oak door at the end of the corridor. I stepped inside and caught my breath.
It was a sanctuary built o
