Chapter 5
1173 Words
Chapter Five: The Art of Control
The mornings in Tuscany had a kind of softness Lena hadn’t known in years.
Birdsong filtered through the windows before sunrise, and the air smelled like earth and rosemary. The kind of morning that should belong to peace.
But in the Duran estate, peace was never more than an illusion.
She stood at the open balcony of her room, arms crossed over the silk robe she barely remembered putting on the night before. Below her, the grounds stretched out in curated beauty—marble statues, fountains, vines coiled like serpents over iron gates. All perfect.
All a prison.
She wasn’t locked in. Not physically. Nikolai had made that clear. She could leave, any time she wanted.
But he didn’t need locks to hold her.
He had something better.
Himself.
---
A knock came at the door around eight.
She didn’t answer.
She knew who it was.
A moment later, the door creaked open anyway. Footsteps—slow, deliberate.
“Good morning,” Nikolai’s voice said, warm as silk, sharp as steel.
She didn’t turn around. “Do you always walk in uninvited?”
“Only when I know I’m welcome.”
“I never said you were.”
“You never said I wasn’t.”
She finally looked at him. He was dressed in a navy shirt, sleeves rolled, dark slacks hugging his hips. Hair a little unruly. Like he’d just come from the studio again.
Of course.
He never stopped watching her. Sketching her. Building his private gallery of obsession.
“I didn’t sleep,” she said quietly.
“Neither did I.”
Silence.
Then Nikolai stepped closer. “There’s something I want to show you. Off the estate.”
Her brow lifted. “You’re letting me leave?”
He smirked. “Letting is such a strong word.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why now?”
“Because I want to see how you look in the real world—with my name still on you.”
---
The drive was long and winding, cutting through the countryside in a sleek black Aston Martin. Lena watched the hills blur past, hair whipping in the wind from the cracked window.
She wasn’t sure where he was taking her. She didn’t ask.
That was the danger, wasn’t it?
She had stopped asking.
Started trusting.
They arrived in Florence by mid-morning. The city glowed with sun-warmed stone and cobbled streets, tourists and locals moving through the piazzas like dancers in a slow waltz. Lena hadn’t been here in years, not since her first modeling trip as a teenager. The ghosts of that girl still lived here—young, naive, hungry for attention.
She wasn’t that girl anymore.
Nikolai parked in front of a discreet gallery hidden between a wine shop and an old cathedral. It looked abandoned from the outside—aged wood, dust on the windows.
But inside—
Inside was her.
Not literally. Not yet.
But close.
The gallery was empty, except for the two of them and the dozen massive paintings lining the walls.
They were stunning. Dark, emotional, textured with depth and hunger. Each canvas told a story of longing, of reverence. But what froze her was the signature in the corner of every piece:
DURAN.
She turned to him slowly. “These are yours.”
“Yes.”
“And these women…”
“Not women.” His eyes met hers. “You.”
Her pulse stumbled.
She looked again. The pieces weren’t photorealistic. They weren’t even clear portraits. But each one felt like her—moods, shadows, curves that only someone who had memorized her in silence would know.
He’d been painting her long before she’d known.
“How long have you been doing this?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
The answer was in the brushstrokes.
Too many years. Too much obsession.
And yet—
“They’re beautiful,” she whispered.
He moved behind her, just close enough that she could feel the heat of his body.
“Because you are.”
---
They had lunch at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the city. People stared. Not at her—at them. At the way Nikolai touched her glass, not to drink, but to slide it closer to her. At the way she tilted her chin when he brushed her hair behind her ear.
Everything about them screamed intimacy.
But it wasn’t love.
Not yet.
It was something more dangerous.
Possession, yes.
But also connection.
Twisted. Intoxicating.
And deeply, terrifyingly real.
---
By late afternoon, they were back at the villa.
She changed into something more comfortable—soft cotton shorts and a loose tank top—and wandered to the library. It was quieter there. Calmer.
She needed calm.
Because her heart was betraying her.
Because somewhere in between the fear and fascination, a part of her had started wanting him.
Even after everything.
Especially because of everything.
---
She didn’t hear him come in.
But when she turned, he was there—leaning against the doorway, watching her.
She closed the book she hadn’t really been reading. “You don’t knock for anything, do you?”
He walked toward her slowly. “You’re not a locked door.”
“But you are.”
He stopped in front of her, close enough that her breath caught.
“I don’t want you to fall in love with me,” he said.
That surprised her.
She stared up at him. “Then what do you want?”
“I want you to surrender.”
She flinched.
“Not out of fear,” he added. “But choice. I want you to choose to give in.”
“And what happens if I don’t?”
His voice lowered. “I’ll wait.”
“Forever?”
“As long as it takes.”
The worst part?
She believed him.
---
That night, she went back to the studio.
Alone.
He wasn’t there. Only the soft glow of candlelight and the lingering scent of turpentine.
The latest sketch was still drying on the easel.
It was her—again.
But not the model version. Not the public face.
This one was raw.
Messy hair. Bare skin. Eyes filled with fire and conflict.
She looked… real.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then, without thinking, she picked up the charcoal from the table and stepped toward the canvas. Her hand trembled, but she didn’t stop. She added one line—just one—across the chest. A scar. A mark. A reminder.
She wasn’t his perfect vision.
She was still herself.
---
She found him on the rooftop terrace, glass of whiskey in hand, his shirt half unbuttoned.
He didn’t speak when she sat beside him.
Didn’t need to.
The silence between them said everything.
He finally asked, “Did you touch the sketch?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She looked at him.
“Why?”
He tilted his head, smile lazy and unreadable. “Because now it’s real.”
- Writer
