I stood before the mirror, giving the final touches to my dress, smoothing a wrinkle that wasn’t even there. My reflection stared back at too composed, too calm almost like she wasn’t the sa woman who nearly collapsed from a panic attack just the day before.
It was finally ti to return to Italy.
And I swore to myself...
This would be the last ti I ever set foot in this country.
If I stayed any longer, my fears might beco reality and he might find out.
And I couldn’t afford that
I reached for my handbag, drawing in a steady breath. Nix had already instructed the maids to pack both my things and Nyxella’s earlier that morning his efficiency always felt like a double-edged sword.
I inspected myself one last ti. A fitted black pencil skirt that hugged my waist, paired with a crisp white button-down tucked neatly beneath a tailored blazer. The heels were modest but sharp, clicking softly against the polished floor each ti I shifted. My hair was packed into a sleek low bun, and my makeup was minimal just enough to hide the exhaustion swirling beneath my eyes.
I looked ready. Even if my heart wasn’t.
Just as I turned to leave, a sound ripped through the quiet.. it was gunshots.
My breath caught and I froze, the echo vibrating in my chest before instinct forced forward. Slowly, I cracked the bedroom door open and peered out.
And silence welcod .
There was no maids bustling through the hallways, no distant voice calling orders no Nyxella’s tiny footsteps. And not even a hint of Nix.
The air felt wrong and heavy, as if the whole house had paused its breathing.
I stepped out cautiously, every sound amplified the rustle of my clothes, the soft tap of my heels, the faint pounding in my ears.
Halfway through the corridor, my world stopped.
One of the maids lay sprawled on the floor lifelessly in her blood pooling, staining the marble tiles beneath her. Her eyes stared wide open, frozen in terror.
A cold chill wrapped around my spine.
But the fear clawing up my throat wasn’t for the body in front of ...
It was for my little girl.
Sothing was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
The gunshots echoed again but closer this ti.
I swallowed hard and followed the sound, moving through the hallway with careful, trembling steps. My heartbeat drumd violently as I slipped past overturned furniture, shattered glass, and the tallic scent of blood spreading through the air.
Every step felt like walking into a nightmare I wasn’t prepared to wake from.
Then I reached the threshold of the west garden..
and everything in stopped.
The trail of gunfire was leading to the greenhouse.
The sa greenhouse Nix had converted into a painting studio for when I first arrived.
The one place I had filled with color, safety, and mories I wished I could forget.
Now it stood before like a trap.
My breath hitched.
My feet refused to move.
But the screams inside my head for the fear for Nyxella
forced forward.
And with a shaky hand, I reached for the door.
I followed the sound
one gunshot... then another...
each louder, sharper, pulling forward like a hook buried in my chest.
My breathing turned ragged.
My legs moved before my mind caught up.
And then I ran.
I sprinted across the garden path, gravel crunching under my heels, thorns scraping my calves as I pushed through the hedges. My heart hamred so violently it blurred out every other sound except the relentless firing coming from inside the greenhouse.
But when I got closer...
The greenhouse wasn’t a greenhouse anymore.
No.
It was bigger.
Wider and taller.
Almost as if the building had swallowed the garden whole.
My trembling hand pushed the door open
And I froze.
The mont I stepped inside, the world shifted.
What once used to be a small, sunlit painting room
had beco an enormous gallery.
A gallery of my life.
Canvas after canvas covered the walls so hanging neatly in rows, so propped against pillars, so still wet.
Every painting I had ever drawn...
my strokes, my ss, my pain...
everything I ever created finished or abandoned
stared back at .
The room slled of acrylic, charcoal, and sothing faintly tallic.
The lights flickered, casting long shadows that danced across the floor.
My steps were slow carefully and almost reverent.
I saw my landscapes, my portraits, the pieces I painted in secret.
Even the ones I thought I had torn apart in frustration.
He had kept all of them.
But my eyes stopped and locked on one painting.
A painting I never wanted to see again.
A painting I knew I destroyed.
The one I painted back at the orphanage.
Not because of its ssage
not because of its symbolism but because of the ti, the desperation, the fear woven into every brushstroke.
I moved closer, my throat tightening as mories rushed in.
The painting was exactly as I rembered.
Dark, layered, too emotional and too raw for the world to behold
And yet sohow...
still intact.
"Impossible..." I whispered, reaching out.
My fingers brushed the edge of the canvas...
And I felt it.
A faint bump beneath the surface.
My pulse stopped.
No.
"No, no... it couldn’t be".
My hand shook as I pressed deeper, tracing the concealed slit in the fabric.
The dagger.
The dagger was still there.
The sa one I hid years ago.
The sa one I used to protect myself.
The sa one I had buried inside that painting because hiding it was the only way to stay alive back then.
I swallowed hard, gripping the edges of the canvas as a wave of dread crashed over .
If the dagger was still here...
That ant soone had known.
Soone had found it.
Soone had brought it back.
Before I could think and breathe
another gunshot shattered the air. This one was inside the gallery.
And I spun around, gripping the painting fra so tightly my knuckles turned white.
The gunshot echoed through the gallery like thunder trapped in a cage.
My whole body jerked.
For a mont, there was only ringing in my ears...
then the heavy, suffocating silence that followed.
I pressed myself against the fra of the painting, forcing my breath to quiet, my heartbeat to settled at least enough for to hear what was happening around .
The gallery felt alive.
Like the walls were breathing with .
Like the footsteps I swore I heard were lurking just behind the next row of canvases.
I stepped backward, one slow shuffle at a ti, my hand instinctively reaching toward the hidden slit in the painting.
My fingers brushed the cold tal.
The dagger.
I slid it free with a soft scrape, the brittle sound slicing through the silence.
The weight of it in my hand felt both foreign and familiar.
Like touching a ghost from my past.
Like holding a version of myself I hoped I had buried.
But there was no ti to think.
Another sound followed and a low, dragging footstep
ca from deeper inside the gallery.
Soone was here.
I turned sharply, gripping the dagger tighter. My throat tightened, as fear crawling up my spine like cold fingers. I tried to steady my breathing, but all I could think of was..
Nyxella.
Please. Please let her be safe.. I pleaded with any diety that could hear as the footsteps grew louder.
I moved through the rows of paintings, the dim lights flickering above , casting broken shadows across the floor. My heels clicked too loudly on the tiles, making flinch with every step.
"Who’s there?" I called out before I could stop myself my voice cracking, trembling. "Show yourself!" I demandeed but all I got was a suffocating, mocking silence.
Then A sharp tallic click echoed behind one of the standing canvases.
I froze.
That was no footstep.
That was soone reloading.
My grip on the dagger tightened so fiercely my hand began to ache.
I forced myself forward, weaving between aisles of paintings, each step heavier than the last. My heart was racing so wildly it felt like it was shaking the floor beneath .
I rounded the corner
And stopped dead.
The room opened into a larger chamber I had never seen before.
Paintings on every wall...
broken fras scattered on the floor...
a trail of footprints sared in blood leading deeper in.
My pulse spiked.
No.
No, please
The next gunshot erupted from the far end of the chamber.
And this ti, I heard a voice.
A voice I knew.
A voice I feared too much to admit.
Not Nix.
Not Zamile.
But soone I thought I’d left behind years ago.
"Co out," the voice whispered low, taunting, almost amused.
"I know you’re here, Carla."
My blood ran cold.
No one exceopt I and father know of my true identity so who how co..
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted as the door to the greenhouse slamd shut behind , the bang echoing through the vast space like a warning bell.
I spun around instantly, but the handle wouldn’t budge locked, sealed, almost as if the building itself had decided I wasn’t leaving While I was still trying to handle that te lights began to flicker and then the entire greenhouse plunged into smothering darkness.
The air didn’t just shift but thickened and the scent of soil, old paint, and sothing tallic seeped into the atmosphere.
Iron.
Blood.
My heart hamred so loudly I swore whoever was in here could hear it.
I turned my head sharply at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from sowhere in the blackness. My breath hitched. I took two steps back, raising the dagger, steadying myself for impact.
The footsteps stopped right in front of .
I didn’t think and just attacked.
Or maybe I would have.
Because the mont I swung my hand forward, soone caught my wrist mid-air a strong grip locking in place. Then another hand clamped around my other wrist, pinning both arms above my head.
I tried to twist, to strike, to pull back
but I couldn’t move.
And the sll of iron grew stronger... much stronger.
The lights snapped back on.
And I found myself staring directly into Nix’s eyes.
His expression wasn’t anger.
It wasn’t shock.
It wasn’t even disappointnt.
It was... heavy.
Weighted with sothing I didn’t understand.
Sothing that felt like fear, realization, betrayal woven all together in a way that made my stomach drop.
My eyes trailed downward
And that’s when I saw it.
Blood.
dripping down his hand...
because he had caught the blade with his bare palm.
A small gasp escaped . I dropped the dagger imdiately, stepping back in horror. My hands trembled violently as I stared at the crimson staining his fingers staining the floor.
I tried to speak, but nothing ca out.
He didn’t even flinch.
He didn’t look at his wound.
He only looked at .
And in that voice the one that sounded too calm, too quiet, too controlled he asked
"Should I refer to you as my sister-in-law..."
His eyes darkened, searching mine, cutting through like truth itself.
"...or my wife?"
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