The Reapers Artist

The studio

I have never been this nervous in my entire life.

Not when I defended my thesis. Not when I met my father's new wife for the first time. Not even when I saw Julian kill a man with his bare hands. This is different. This is a painting I cannot afford to ruin.

The studio is bigger than my entire apartment.

Natural light pours in from floor to ceiling windows. The walls are white. Pristine. Clean. There are easels everywhere. Brushes of every size. Pigments in tiny glass jars. It smells like turpentine and linseed oil and something ancient.

And in the center of the room, on a heavy wooden table, sits the painting.

I walk toward it slowly. My footsteps echo on the hardwood floor. The painting is covered in a white cloth. Julian is standing beside it, watching me. I can feel his eyes on my back.

"Take it off," he says.

"I know how to do my job."

"I'm not telling you how to do your job. I'm telling you to uncover it."

"Let me do it at my own pace."

"You've been standing there for three minutes."

"I've been standing here for thirty seconds."

"Same thing."

"It is not the same thing."

He steps closer. I can smell his cologne again. Woodsy and dark. I hate that I notice it. I hate that I like it.

"Elara. Just look at it."

"Why do you care so much?"

"Because it's mine."

"It's a painting. You have dozens of paintings."

"This one is different."

"Why?"

He does not answer. He just looks at me with those storm gray eyes. I look away first. I always look away first.

"Fine," I say. "I'll uncover it. But you promised to stay away while I work."

"I'm not working. You are."

"So leave."

"I want to see your face when you first see it."

"Why?"

"Because I want to see if it means as much to you as it means to me."

I do not know how to respond to that. So I don't. I grab the edge of the cloth and pull.

The painting takes my breath away.

It is a portrait. A woman. Young. Beautiful. She is standing in a garden, her hair loose around her shoulders, a small smile on her lips. Her dress is white. The light behind her is golden. She looks like an angel.

But there is something wrong with her eyes. They are sad. Deeply sad. Like she is hiding a secret. Like she is terrified of something she cannot name.

I cannot look away.

"Who is she?" I whisper.

"My mother."

I turn to look at him. His face is unreadable again. The mask is back.

"Your mother."

"Yes."

"She's beautiful."

"She was."

"Was?"

"She died when I was nineteen. The syndicate killed her. They killed my father too. My little sister. They killed all of them."

"Julian."

"I don't want your pity."

"I'm not pitying you. I'm horrified. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes. Pity is condescending. Horror is just horror. I'm allowed to be horrified. That's a normal human response."

"Normal. Right. I forgot what normal feels like."

I turn back to the painting. The damage is extensive. Cracks in the canvas. Discoloration near the edges. What looks like water damage in the bottom right corner.

"The restoration is going to take time," I say. "Months. Maybe longer."

"I have time."

"I don't."

"You have nothing but time now. You're not going anywhere."

I flinch. The words hit me like a slap.

"You don't have to keep reminding me."

"I'm not reminding you. I'm telling you the truth."

"There's a difference?"

"Funny. You just asked me that same question."

I glare at him. "You're infuriating."

"I know."

"You're arrogant and controlling and you think you can just take whatever you want."

"I know."

"And you're standing too close."

He steps back. Just one step. But it is enough. I can breathe again.

"Is there anything else you need?" he asks.

"Space."

"I meant for the restoration."

"I know what you meant. I need space. Physical space. Emotional space. All of it."

"Elara."

"What?"

"I can't give you emotional space. I don't know how."

"Then learn."

"I don't want to learn."

"Julian. You can't just keep me here and expect me to be okay with it."

"I don't expect you to be okay with it. I expect you to survive. I told you that already."

"And I told you survival is not the same as living."

He is quiet. The silence between us is heavy. Heavier than it should be. Heavier than it has any right to be.

"I know," he says finally. "I know survival is not living. I've been surviving for fifteen years. I know what it feels like to wake up every morning and wonder why you're still breathing."

"Why do you keep waking up?"

"Because I haven't found a reason to stop."

"And now?"

"And now I have you."

My heart stops. I feel it skip. I feel it stutter in my chest.

"Julian. You can't keep saying things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's. I'm just a person. A person you kidnapped."

"You're mine."

"I am not."

"You are. You just don't know it yet."

"I don't want to be yours."

"I know. But you will be. Eventually."

"You sound so sure."

"I am sure. I'm sure about very few things in this world. But I'm sure about you."

I turn away from him. I cannot look at him anymore. My hands are trembling. My heart is pounding. I feel like I'm going to shatter.

"Just go," I whisper. "Please. Just go."

"Elara."

"Please. I can't do this right now. I can't have this conversation. I just want to look at the painting. I want to do my job. That's all I want. That's all I've ever wanted."

He is quiet for a long moment.

"Okay," he says finally. "Okay. I'll go."

"Thank you."

"Elara."

"What?"

"I'm not going to stop. I want you to know that. I'm not going to stop trying. I'm not going to stop wanting you. I'm not going to stop needing you."

"Julian."

"I know you hate me. I know you're terrified of me. I know everything about this is wrong. But I can't make myself stop. I've tried. I've tried so hard. And I can't."

I close my eyes. I feel tears pricking behind my lids. I refuse to let them fall.

"Just go," I say again.

He leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him.

I am alone with the painting. With his mother. With her sad eyes and her hidden secrets. I look at her face. Her smile is so small. So fragile. Like she was holding on to something she was about to lose.

I touch the canvas. Gently. Carefully. The way I touch all paintings.

"Who were you?" I whisper. "What happened to you?"

The painting does not answer. Of course it does not answer. It is just paint and canvas and centuries of history.

But I can't shake the feeling that she is trying to tell me something. That she is trying to warn me.

I look closer at her eyes. At the sadness behind them. At the fear.

And I realize what it is.

She is afraid of the same thing I am.

She is afraid of loving someone who will destroy her.

I step back from the painting. My hands are shaking again. My heart is racing.

This is not just a restoration. This is a story. A story about a woman who loved a man she should not have loved. A woman who paid the ultimate price for that love.

And I am supposed to fix her. I am supposed to make her beautiful again. I am supposed to erase all the damage.

But some damage cannot be erased. Some damage is permanent. Some damage becomes part of who you are.

I look at the painting again. At her eyes. At her sadness. At her fear.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm sorry for whatever happened to you. I'm sorry you had to go through it. I'm sorry you ended up here, in this place, with him."

The painting is silent.

But I feel her. I feel her presence in the room. I feel her watching me.

And I feel her warning me.

Get out while you still can.

But it is too late for that. It has been too late since the moment he found me. Since the moment he saw me through that window. Since the moment he decided I was his.

I am not his. I will never be his.

But I am starting to understand why she stayed.

I am starting to understand why she loved him.

And that terrifies me more than anything else.

I look at the painting one more time. At her sad eyes. At her small smile. At the light behind her.

"Tell me what to do," I whisper. "Tell me how to survive this."

The painting does not answer.

But I think I already know the answer.

I think I already know that survival is not the same as living. I think I already know that I am going to have to make a choice.

I am going to have to choose between staying alive and staying whole.

And I am not sure I can have both.

I turn away from the painting. I walk to the window. The city stretches out below me. Thousands of people. Thousands of lives. Thousands of people who have no idea what is happening in this penthouse.

I press my forehead against the glass. It is cold. So cold. Just like everything else in this place.

"You're going to get through this," I whisper to myself. "You're going to get through this and you're going to leave and you're going to forget him."

But even as I say it, I know it is a lie.

I am never going to forget him.

He has already left his mark on me.

And I am not sure I want him to leave.