Age is Just a Number

4.

Chapter 4: Cracks in the Canvas

The phone in my hand feels like a grenade, its screen glowing with that chilling text: “Tell him, Sophia, or I will.” My heart’s hammering so loud I can barely think, the stairwell’s dim light casting long shadows that seem to move when I blink. The air smells of old wood and dust, the estate’s service stairs a forgotten corner of Dad’s perfect world. Whoever left this phone wanted me to find it, and the thought makes my skin crawl. They’re close—too close—and Sophia’s in the middle of it.

I shove the phone into my pocket, next to the crumpled note from the garden, and take the stairs two at a time, my shoes echoing like gunshots. I need to get back to Sophia, to warn her, but my mind’s a tangle of questions. Who’s threatening her? What does she know that’s worth this kind of game? And why the hell is my father’s voice—dangerous—still ringing in my ears?

I burst back into the hallway, the party’s muffled music a distant hum. The studio door’s still closed, and I can hear Elena’s voice, sharp and low, through the oak. I hesitate, my hand on the knob. Eavesdropping feels wrong, but Sophia’s secrets are piling up, and I’m done being in the dark. I lean closer, catching fragments of their conversation.

“…can’t keep doing this, Sophia,” Elena’s saying, her voice thick with emotion. “You promised you’d leave it behind.”

“I’m trying,” Sophia snaps, but there’s a crack in her voice, like she’s holding back tears. “You think I want this? You think I asked for him to—”

“Shh!” Elena cuts her off, and I hear footsteps, like one of them’s pacing. “If Richard knows, if he even suspects… God, Sophia, why Mark? Of all people?”

My stomach twists. I want to barge in, demand answers, but something holds me back. Sophia’s voice comes again, softer now, almost broken. “I didn’t plan it, Elena. It just… happened. He’s different.”

“Different?” Elena’s laugh is bitter. “He’s Richard’s son. You’re playing with fire, and you know it.”

I’ve heard enough. I push the door open, and both women freeze, their eyes snapping to me. Sophia’s standing by the covered canvas, her face pale, her hands clenched. Elena’s near the window, her elegant frame rigid with anger. The air’s thick, like the room’s holding its breath.

“Mark,” Elena says, her voice tight. “This is private.”

“Not anymore,” I say, stepping inside. My eyes lock on Sophia’s, searching for the truth she’s hiding. “I found something. We need to talk.”

Sophia’s gaze flicks to my pocket, where the phone’s hidden, and her eyes widen. “What did you find?” she asks, her voice barely steady.

I pull out the phone, holding it up. “This. On the service stairs. Someone left it for me to see.” I tap the screen, the text glowing accusingly. “Care to explain?”

Elena steps forward, her brow furrowing. “What is that? Sophia, what’s he talking about?”

Sophia’s frozen, her eyes locked on the phone like it’s a death sentence. “Mark, where did you get that?” she whispers.

“Answer the question,” I say, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. “Who’s threatening you? And don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

Elena’s gaze darts between us, her confusion shifting to suspicion. “Threatening? Sophia, what’s going on?”

Sophia shakes her head, her hands trembling as she steps back, bumping into the easel. The cloth slips, revealing that angry portrait again—the man with predator’s eyes. I point at it. “Is it him? The guy in the painting?”

“Stop it, Mark,” Sophia says, her voice breaking. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Then tell me!” I snap, my frustration boiling over. “I’m standing here with a note and a phone that say someone’s after you, and you’re shutting me out. I deserve to know what I’m in the middle of.”

Elena grabs Sophia’s arm, her voice low and urgent. “Sophia, if you’re in trouble, you need to tell us. Now.”

Sophia pulls free, her eyes flashing with a mix of fear and defiance. “You want the truth? Fine. But not here. Not like this.”

“Then where?” I ask, stepping closer. “Because I’m not letting this go.”

She looks at me, her hazel eyes swirling with something raw—fear, guilt, maybe even trust. “Meet me at my place. Tomorrow night. I’ll tell you everything.”

“Your place?” Elena cuts in, her voice sharp. “Sophia, you can’t just—”

“Elena, enough!” Sophia snaps, her voice cracking like a whip. “I’m done being your little sister who needs saving. I’ll handle this.”

Elena flinches, and I feel a pang of sympathy. She’s caught in the crossfire, just like me. But my focus is on Sophia, on the way her hands are shaking, the way she’s trying so hard to hold it together. “Tomorrow,” I say, my voice softer. “Where?”

“My studio downtown,” she says, her voice steadier now. “The old warehouse on 7th. Nine o’clock.”

I nod, but my gut’s screaming that tomorrow’s too far away. That phone, that note—they’re not idle threats. Someone’s watching, and they’re close. “You sure you’re okay tonight?” I ask.

She forces a smile, but it’s thin, fragile. “I’ll be fine. Just… go back to the party, Mark. Please.”

I don’t want to leave her, but Elena’s staring daggers, and the air’s too heavy for more arguments. “Okay,” I say, pocketing the phone. “But I’m holding you to that.”

As I turn to leave, Elena grabs my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Mark, whatever she’s gotten you into, be careful. She’s not… she’s not who you think.”

I pull free, my jaw tight. “Maybe none of us are.”

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Back in the ballroom, the party’s in full swing, but it feels like a lie. The champagne, the laughter—it’s all a mask for the secrets crawling under this family’s skin. I grab a whiskey from the bar, my eyes scanning the crowd for anyone out of place. That figure in the garden, the phone on the stairs—they’re connected, and I’m betting it’s the same person. But who?

Lily’s by the dessert table, chatting with some cousin I barely know. She spots me and waves me over, her smile fading when she sees my face. “Mark, you okay? You’re pale.”

“Just peachy,” I mutter, taking a swig. The whiskey burns, grounding me. “You sure you didn’t see anyone weird earlier? In the garden?”

She frowns, her curls bouncing as she shakes her head. “No, but you’re freaking me out again. What’s with the detective act?”

I hesitate. Lily’s my sister, but she’s too close to Dad, too quick to believe his version of the truth. “Forget it,” I say, forcing a grin. “Too much champagne.”

She doesn’t buy it, but before she can push, Dad’s voice booms over the mic, calling for another toast. I slip away, needing air, needing space. I head to the terrace, the night cool against my skin. The estate’s grounds stretch out, dark and endless, the roses a faint outline in the moonlight.

I pull the phone from my pocket, staring at the text again. “Tell him, Sophia, or I will.” My thumb hovers over the screen, and on impulse, I scroll through the phone’s messages. There’s only one other text, sent an hour ago, from an unknown number: “He’s watching. Be ready.”

My heart stops. He’s watching. Who? Me? Sophia? I spin around, my eyes scouring the terrace, the garden beyond. Nothing moves, but the air feels wrong, like it’s holding its breath. I’m about to head back inside when I hear it—a low, deliberate crunch of gravel, coming from the path below.

I lean over the railing, my eyes straining in the dark. There’s a figure, just beyond the roses, moving fast. Not toward the house—away from it. My pulse spikes, and I’m running before I can think, down the terrace steps, across the lawn. “Hey!” I shout, my voice cutting through the night.

The figure doesn’t stop, disappearing into the trees lining the estate’s edge. I sprint after them, my breath ragged, the note and phone burning in my pocket. Branches snag at my jacket as I plunge into the woods, the moonlight barely filtering through. I’m not thinking about Dad, or Elena, or even Sophia—just the need to know who’s playing this game.

I stop, chest heaving, the woods silent except for my own breathing. They’re gone. But then I see it, glinting on the ground—a silver lighter, engraved with a single initial: V. My blood runs cold. I pick it up, the metal cool against my palm, and I know this isn’t random. This is personal.

I turn back toward the house, the lighter clutched in my hand, my mind racing. Sophia’s in deeper than she’s letting on, and this V—whoever he is—is coming for her. For us. I need to get to her studio tomorrow, but something tells me tomorrow might be too late.

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