CHAPTER 7: Anonymous Artist
1385 Words
My chest felt hollow. I sat in the middle of the crowded hall, my hands folded on the desk as I tried to ignore the lump forming in my throat.
I kept my eyes on my notebook. I didn't want to look up. I didn't want to see him. I didn't want to cry.
Adrian stood behind the podium, speaking in the deep, familiar voice that used to comfort me through the phone on my darkest nights. But right now that voice held no warmth. It was strictly professional and completely foreign.
He wore a dark grey suit that made his shoulders look broad. He controlled the whole room without even trying. It was as if I didn't know him. And he wouldn't look at me.Not even a glance.
The man who had held me so tightly just hours ago, the man who had brushed the hair away from my forehead while I cried in a strange bedroom, was pretending I didn't exist.
It hurt far more than I expected. The rejection settled deep in my stomach, a aching weight that made it hard to take a full breath. I felt stupid for thinking the connection we shared in the dark would mean anything in the daylight.
"Post-Renaissance art wasn't about morality," Adrian said, stepping out from behind the podium, hands in his pockets. "It was about sending a message. Who can name a piece from this era that was commissioned purely to establish dominance?"
A girl in the very front row raised her hand instantly.
"Sienna," Adrian called on her.
I looked up at her. Sienna was breathtaking. Vibrant blonde hair cascading down her back, sharp delicate features and her fitted red sweater. She didn't look nervous at all as she spoke in front of a hundred people or someone as intimidating as Adrian.
"The portrait of Pope Innocent X," Sienna answered, leaning forward slightly, her eyes locked on Adrian with a soft, inviting smile. "The artist didn't paint him to look holy. He painted him to look terrifying. It was a warning to anyone who tried to cross him."
Adrian paused, looking down at her.
"Exactly right," he said, his tone softening with approval that made me roll my eyes. "The artist understood that fear commands more respect than reverence. That is a very good observation, Sienna."
Sienna beamed and tucked a strand of perfect blonde hair behind her ear. She didn't turn around to gloat. She didn't even look at the rest of the room. She just focused on him.
I shrank back into my chair. I didn't hate her for it. She was just a beautiful girl trying to impress a handsome professor.
But watching Adrian give her the warmth and attention he was denying me hurt. I felt small.
I picked up my pen and forced myself to write down the dates he was listing. I refused to let the tears in my eyes fall. I wasn't going to cry in the middle of a classroom. I swallowed the hurt and let it harden into a quiet, stubborn anger. He wanted to ignore me, so let it be.
When the bell rang I carefully put my pen away, zipped my bag and stood up. I kept my eyes fixed on the exit and joined the crowd shuffling out. I didn't look back at the podium once.
The morning air felt amazing the second I pushed the doors open. I took a deep breath, letting the chill cool my warm cheeks. I started walking across the courtyard toward the art wing.
I just wanted to be alone. Find my locker, drop my supplies, and find an empty corner where I could draw until my mind stopped racing.
Hall B was loud and cluttered, students carrying canvases and covered in paint splatters. The moment I pushed through the doors I felt a tiny bit of the tension leave my shoulders. It smelled like wet clay and charcoal. It smelled like the only thing that had ever made sense in my life.
I checked my phone for the locker number. 402.
"Hey, Nirvana."
Leo was walking toward me, pushing his glasses up his nose, a black portfolio case under his arm and a smudge of charcoal across his forehead.
His presence was instantly comforting. He was just a normal guy worrying about normal college things.
"You made it through Cross's lecture," he said. "I saw you sitting near the back. You looked miserable."
I chuckled. "I was just trying to keep up. He talks fast."
Leo leaned closer so he didn't have to shout over the hallway noise. "Just a piece of advice. Keep your head down in his class. Do the reading, don't argue with him, and don't try to stand out."
"Why? Is he really that bad?"
"He doesn't mess around," Leo said, his voice dropping. "There was a guy last year. Thomas. He was a senior, really arrogant. He tried to correct Cross in the middle of a lecture. Actually brought a reference book and tried to prove Cross was teaching a concept wrong."
"What happened?" I asked.
"Cross didn't even yell," Leo said, shaking his head. "He just stood there and looked at Thomas. Stared at him in total silence until the whole room was holding its breath. Then he told Thomas to get out."
"And he left?"
"He left the room," Leo said quietly. "Then he dropped the class the next morning. A few days later, Thomas completely withdrew from Rodrigo University. Left his apartment, left his car, just vanished. Nobody knows where he went."
My heart gave a heavy thump.
I knew Adrian was no ordinary man. But hearing a student talk about him this way made it feel real. He had power here too. He could ruin someone's life without ever throwing a punch, just by making a few phone calls.
"I'm not saying Cross actually did something to him," Leo added quickly. "Thomas probably just cracked under the pressure. But people are terrified of Cross for a reason. He has zero patience. Just do your work and stay off his radar."
"I will," I said. "Thanks, Leo."
"Your locker should be down the left hallway, right past the ceramics studio. See you later."
I turned down the corridor. The noise faded the further I walked toward the back of the building. The walls were lined with tall metal lockers. Quiet in this section. I found number 402 tucked in the very corner.
I checked my phone for the combination. Ten left, eighteen right.
My fingers were cold as I pulled the door open, the old hinges squeaking in the empty hallway.
I expected bare shelves. A dirty interior left behind by whoever used it last year. Instead, a thick looking sketchbook sat right in the middle of the top shelf.
I froze. I looked over my shoulder. The hallway was completely empty.
I grabbed the book. The cover was smooth, premium black leather. No name on the front. No note explaining why it was inside a locked locker assigned to me.
My breathing turned shallow. I leaned my back against the lockers and opened the cover, flipping past the blank protective page.
I stopped breathing.
The white page was covered in dark, heavy charcoal strokes. The shading was precise, capturing exactly the way shadows fell across a dark room.
It was a drawing of a girl sleeping. Her face pressed deep into a pillow. Her hair tangled, falling across her cheek. Her lips parted just slightly.
It was me.
I stared at the paper, my vision narrowing until the only thing I could see was the charcoal lines.
It wasn't a sketch from memory. It was the exact angle of my face from the night at Ronan's penthouse. I recognized the embroidered pattern on the edge of the pillowcase. It was the bed in my room at Ronan's.
A cold wave of dread washed over my body. My hands started to shake so hard the book almost fell.
I had been on the second floor of a secure house.
But looking at the perfect, detailed lines on that paper, the horrifying reality settled into my bones. The locks didn't matter. The security didn't matter.
Someone had been standing inside my dark bedroom, watching me sleep.
- Writer
