Chapter 9
1333 Words
Chapter Nine: The Cost of Being Seen
Lena didn’t realize how quiet the villa had become until it broke.
The call came just after lunch.
She was barefoot in the garden, fingers trailing over the lavender blooms, the sun soaking into her skin. A breeze moved through the trees like a sigh.
Then the house phone rang.
Not her phone. Not Nikolai’s.
The line only the house staff used.
The shrill, sharp ring pierced the calm.
Lena froze.
No one had ever called before.
Not here.
Not in this place where time bent and the outside world no longer mattered.
She turned slowly, the flowers forgotten.
Inside, the housekeeper held the phone like it might bite her.
“For you,” the woman said, her accent crisp, her eyes uncertain.
Lena took it with a frown. “Who is it?”
But the woman didn’t know. Or wouldn’t say.
Lena brought the receiver to her ear.
And the voice on the other end wasn’t Nikolai’s.
It was her mother’s.
**
She hadn’t heard from her mother in over two years.
Not since the scandal. Not since the press swarmed her life and dismantled everything Lena had built.
But now her voice was sharp and clipped, like no time had passed at all.
“I saw you,” she said. “On some blog. In Florence. With him.”
Lena’s throat went dry. “How did you—?”
“I recognize my own daughter, Lena. Even if she’s trying to disappear.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
“You don’t get to vanish,” her mother continued. “Not without consequences.”
“What do you want?”
“A conversation. Face-to-face. Like adults.”
“I’m not coming back to Paris.”
“Then I’ll come to you.”
Lena’s heart stopped.
“No.”
“I’m already on a train.”
“Mother—”
“I’ll be at the gallery showing tomorrow night. The one your billionaire is sponsoring. Bring him.”
The line went dead.
Lena stood there for a long time, the phone still against her ear, the silence in the house swallowing her whole.
And then—
A whisper behind her.
“You never told me you still had family.”
Nikolai.
She turned slowly.
He stood at the bottom of the staircase, his hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.
“She wasn’t supposed to find me,” Lena said.
“She found you anyway.”
“She’s toxic.”
He walked toward her. “And you’re afraid she’ll ruin this.”
Lena’s throat tightened. “She always ruins everything.”
Nikolai didn’t respond.
Not at first.
Then, “Invite her to stay at the villa.”
“What?”
“Let me control the environment,” he said calmly. “If she wants to enter our world, she plays by our rules.”
Lena flinched. “You think you can just manage her like you manage everything else?”
His expression didn’t change.
“Yes.”
**
That night, Lena stood on the rooftop terrace alone, a glass of red wine in her hand. The sea was black below her, the moon cutting a scar across it. She tried to breathe, but the air felt tighter tonight.
Nikolai hadn’t joined her.
She suspected he was giving her space.
Or watching her from somewhere hidden.
She wasn’t sure which was worse.
She closed her eyes and remembered her mother’s voice.
Sharp as ever. Always accusing. Always disappointed.
Lena had left home at sixteen. Signed her first modeling contract at seventeen. Burned through fame like gasoline. Her mother had never approved. Never supported. Just waited for her to fall so she could say, I told you so.
Now here she was, standing in a villa paid for by obsession, held up by a man who had made her the center of his world.
What would her mother say?
What would she see?
That Lena had been bought?
Or that Lena had chosen this?
Was there even a difference?
**
The next evening came too fast.
The gallery showing was in Florence. Another high-society event, another opportunity for whispers to sharpen into knives.
Nikolai’s driver took them in silence.
Lena wore black silk and no jewelry. She wanted to look untouchable. She wanted to look like armor.
Nikolai looked at her before they stepped out of the car.
“You don’t have to let her break you again.”
Lena met his eyes. “She won’t.”
His hand found the small of her back.
A touch. A warning.
A promise.
Then they walked into the lion’s den.
**
The gallery was full.
Press. Collectors. Fashion insiders. And somewhere in the middle—her.
Sylvie Marceau.
The woman who gave Lena her jawline, her bone structure, and her instinct to run.
She wore white.
Of course.
White, to look innocent. To contrast Lena. To pull attention back to herself.
Lena saw her before she saw them.
Her eyes locked on Nikolai first—calculating, assessing.
Then she looked at Lena.
And smiled like she’d won something.
“Darling,” she said, sweeping in for a kiss on both cheeks. “You look… tamed.”
Lena didn’t flinch.
“I look chosen,” she replied.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “You look like a kept woman.”
Nikolai stepped forward.
And said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
His presence filled the room like silence before a storm.
Sylvie turned her attention to him, smile tightening. “So this is the man who’s turned my daughter into an ornament.”
He held out his hand. “Nikolai Duran. The man who sees your daughter as more than the world ever did.”
Her mother blinked.
Then—shockingly—laughed.
“Well,” she said, taking his hand. “At least you’re direct.”
Lena stepped between them. “Enough.”
Sylvie tilted her head. “You’ve changed.”
“Yes.”
“Lost some of that edge.”
“No,” Lena said. “I’ve just learned where to cut.”
Her mother’s eyes sparkled. “Then prove it. Dinner tomorrow. Just you and me.”
“No.”
Nikolai’s voice was sharp.
Lena looked at him.
He was staring at her mother like a puzzle he hadn’t decided how to destroy.
But Lena laid a hand on his arm. Gentle. Firm.
“I’ll go,” she said. “Alone.”
Sylvie smiled, victorious.
But Nikolai’s voice was ice. “She doesn’t go anywhere alone.”
Lena turned to him. “Yes, I do.”
It was the first time she’d said it like that.
Like a boundary.
Like a line.
He stared at her. For a long, long moment.
And then, quietly—
“Then go.”
**
They rode back in silence.
Nikolai didn’t touch her.
Didn’t speak.
When they reached the villa, he didn’t follow her upstairs.
She found herself in the mirrored room again.
Her reflection looked sharper tonight.
Clearer.
Not afraid.
She traced the edges of the glass.
And whispered, “You’re still mine, even when you’re angry.”
She wasn’t sure if she was talking to herself.
Or to him.
Maybe both.
**
Later that night, she found the door to the basement unlocked.
She returned to the first painting.
The one where she looked furious. Alive.
She stared at it for a long time.
And said the one thing she hadn’t said aloud yet.
“I’m not yours, Nikolai.”
She touched the canvas. Traced the paint.
“I’m mine.”
And only after that—
“I still choose you.”
And in the corner of the room—
A shadow moved.
He’d been there the whole time.
Listening.
But this time—
He didn’t come closer.
Because now he knew.
Obsession wasn’t enough.
Not for her.
Not anymore.
She wanted something messier.
Stronger.
More dangerous than control.
She wanted love.
And he was going to have to earn it.
- Writer
