…WOULD… THAT PAINTING… BE A SUFFICIENT APOLOGY?
A surge of triumph mingled with disbelief. He was actually going to give me The Color of Submersion? The thought teetered on the edge of absurdity—years of careful planning, waiting for this precise moment, and now it was being handed to me, as if on a silver platter.
The painting itself, a canvas of deep, cloudy purples, its title etched into my memory, had always been the center of my long-term strategy. Every brushstroke, every hue, seemed to whisper promises of leverage, influence, and timing.
My face remained impassive, betraying nothing, while my mind raced through the meticulous steps that had brought me here. After selling it to the De Laurent Gallery four years ago, I had waited patiently, counting the days until it would appear at auction, every asset I acquired under the name of Sera a brick in the foundation of my plan. Everything had been calculated, everything a means to reclaim the painting when the moment was ripe.
I studied the older man—the gallery owner—his expression a mix of hesitation and awe. The shock in his widening eyes was almost delicious. He cleared his throat, words faltering as he struggled to navigate the unexpected turn of events.
"Your family and our gallery have bought and sold hundreds of paintings to each other. It's a shame to lose such a valuable piece, but…" His voice faltered, a thin thread of regret woven into his tone. Then, as if finding courage, he continued:
"Given the trust we've built over the years… I'd like to offer you that painting, both as an apology and to signify our desire to remain on good terms with the Serenity family. How does that sound?"
My chest tightened, my heartbeat thrumming against my ribs. It was a flawless culmination of my plan, a perfect convergence of opportunity and timing. Being handed exactly what I had worked so long to reclaim felt like victory incarnate.
And yet, even as my mind raced with the thrill of possession, a sharper realization cut through the haze. The true value wasn't in the painting itself—it was in what I could do now, in the control and leverage I held simply by not needing it.
"No… not like this," I said softly, letting the words fall with the weight of elegance and careful detachment. My gaze dropped, just enough to lend a trace of graceful regret to my tone.
"Th-thank you… but I no longer need that painting."
The older man's face went pale, then flushed with the patchy red of embarrassment and shock. His mouth opened, closed, stuttered—but no words came.
I held his gaze, calm, composed, regretful, and utterly unyielding.
"I am still very fond of the painting," I said, letting a faint, wistful sigh escape, "but it left my possession years ago."
I paused, allowing the weight of my years of strategy—and the finality of my rejection—to sink into the silent room. Each second stretched, deliberate and cutting, as I let the unspoken message resonate: I held power not because I owned the painting, but because I could choose not to.
"I would be glad to have it back, of course," I continued, voice even, careful, almost gentle. "But I have no particular attachment to it."
The words lingered, a quiet, lethal elegance in their simplicity. The room seemed to hold its breath. The old man, frozen in disbelief, stared at me as if trying to unravel the mystery of how one person could wield such control through restraint alone.
The old gallery owner—a man accustomed to total control—was clearly unsettled by my refusal to accept the painting as a gift. He adjusted his glasses, fingers lingering just long enough to betray a flicker of unease, and then let a slow, appraising smile spread across his face.
"Hmm… you're intelligent, principled, and disciplined, especially for someone so young," he said, the words heavy, laden with the weight of generations and expectation. "I'd expect nothing less from Iansa's granddaughter."
The praise was calculated, but the compliment carried an almost intoxicating weight. It was as though he was measuring me against an invisible standard, and in his eyes, I had passed with distinction.
"I'm suddenly feeling rather… envious," he continued, the sigh that followed theatrical yet edged with genuine regret. "If only my daughter were more like you. When she was your age, all she did was walk on eggshells around me, afraid of what I might think. I really wanted her to be a little more assertive… had she been, I would've made her director a long time ago… tsk!"
He was comparing me to his own failing successor, and the satisfaction of realizing I had dismantled his assumptions about me coursed quietly through me. I was no spoiled heiress in his eyes—I was a calculated, capable adversary. The approval in his tone was priceless, almost intoxicating.
"Anyway… in that case, what if I were to give you an opportunity?" His words were deliberate, each one measured to tease curiosity.
I tilted my head slightly, the faintest narrowing of my eyes betraying a spark of interest.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially, the gesture implying a secret of great significance.
"As you know, that painting isn't currently up for sale. However, I would be willing to sell it to you."
The terms rolled out like carefully placed chess moves, each one designed to satisfy both my "principles" and his need for a profitable, ceremonious transaction.
"You said you couldn't just accept the painting from me precisely because of how much you cherished it… so I can give you an opportunity to buy that painting instead. And no one would criticize you for the means by which you took possession of it again, since you paid for it fair and square. Well? Would you accept these terms?"
He believed he had crafted a brilliant compromise, and in truth, he had. My long-term plan had always been to acquire the painting legally at auction, but now the timeline had been accelerated—my control total, my leverage absolute.
I looked down, weighing the terms, the familiar thrill of strategy coursing through me. They were perfect. Too perfect. Exactly what I had wanted, laid out like a gift I had orchestrated for myself years ago.
I glanced back up at the gallery owner, my silence stretching like a taut string between us, testing his patience, his composure.
Just as I was about to give my assent, a loud, sharp sound cracked through the room.
!
The heavy double doors behind me burst open. A figure strode in—imposing, unyielding, and immediately arresting in a striking red dress. Her expression was tight, furious, every inch the storm contained in human form.
The director? Or perhaps his overcautious daughter? I could not be sure. But the timing… the timing could not have been worse.
Diah pov
The door slammed behind the woman in red, the echo reverberating across the gallery like a crack of thunder. I froze, a silent observer, as I finally recognized her: Ms. De Laurent, the gallery owner's daughter and, by all appearances, the director. She hadn't spared me a glance; her fury was fixed entirely on her father.
I stopped walking, letting the momentum of the moment anchor me. My presence was incidental yet perfectly timed—an observer whose calm, measured detachment only intensified the storm unfolding before me.
Ms. De Laurent stood near the large, ornate window, the sickly green light filtering through the glass washing over her like a harsh spotlight. Her back was rigid, taut with suppressed rage, and one hand gripped the door frame so tightly that her knuckles shone white. CLENCH.
This was the "assertiveness" her father claimed she lacked. I could see it in the tension coiling through her shoulders, the barely contained force of someone used to being restrained.
It struck me immediately—I was the catalyst for this eruption. She had overheard every word her father had just said: the damning comparison, the lamentation over a more capable heir. The praise he had so casually offered me became a knife in her chest.
Her inner monologue surged with the echoes of his words, each syllable cutting deeper than the last:
"YOU'RE INTELLIGENT, PRINCIPLED, AND DISCIPLINED, ESPECIALLY FOR SOMEONE SO YOUNG. IF ONLY MY DAUGHTER WERE MORE LIKE YOU… I REALLY WANTED HER TO BE A LITTLE MORE ASSERTIVE… HAD SHE BEEN, I WOULD'VE MADE HER DIRECTOR A LONG TIME AGO…"
The final portion struck her with the force of years of frustration and self-doubt, magnifying every moment she had felt overlooked, undervalued, or insufficient.
TO THINK I'D HEAR HER FATHER PRAISE HER LIKE THAT! HE'S NEVER SAID ANYTHING LIKE THAT TO ME.
Her thoughts tumbled over memories of struggle, of endurance, and of compromises made to reach her position:
I BARELY MANAGED TO RECEIVE THE TITLE OF DIRECTOR AT THE AGE OF 29… NOT TO MENTION THE LENGTHS I HAD TO GO TO MAKE THAT HAPPEN, PRACTICALLY PROSTRATING MYSELF AT FATHER'S FEET!
A sharp, almost audible gasp escaped her lips. Her body trembled, a slight STAGGER hinting at the internal quake of rage, humiliation, and envy. Her voice, low and dangerous, barely rose above a whisper:
"Destroy it."
The words were measured, precise, a command laced with venom and the weight of accumulated resentment.
DESTROY IT. RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW, AS I WATCH. YOU DID SO MUCH LATER THAN MY MOTHER, A MERE LAYPERSON, DID.
The seemingly nonsensical reference to her mother's delayed accomplishments revealed the deep, tangled roots of her insecurities. Her fury was not entirely logical, but it was raw and elemental, a mixture of personal failure, familial comparison, and the sting of his inadvertent favoritism.
I glanced at the gallery owner, whose expression had transformed into sheer horror. He finally understood the full impact of the emotional damage he had just inflicted. The weight of his words, meant as praise, had detonated a storm he could not contain.
And then, a cold, precise thought crystallized in my mind. My eyes flicked across the room, past the furious woman, past the horrified father, and landed on a man who remained immovable, unreadable in the corner.
LEINZ WITNESSED THE WHOLE THING. AND FATHER, TOO.
This entire exchange—the defiance, the praise, the daughter's breakdown—had unfolded before witnesses. It was no longer a private negotiation. It was a public demonstration: a declaration of my competence, and simultaneously, a public shaming of a family heir. The true cost of his "apology" was far greater than the price of a painting.
The sudden, commanding voice of the Director cut through the gallery like a whip, shattering the taut silence that had settled over the room. She spun on her heel, her face contorted with a mixture of raw fury and panic. Her eyes, sharp and blazing, locked onto a terrified aide who had just stepped forward.
"D-Director… are you all right—?" the aide stammered, his voice small against the storm she had become.
The Director turned fully, jaw clenched, every line of her body taut with indignation. "Do you realize that all the information you brought me… wasn't even remotely accurate?!" Her voice boomed, the accusation ricocheting off the ornate walls.
It was the misinformation that had set this chain of events into motion—the flawed intelligence fed to her about me, the granddaughter of Iansa. And now, the weight of that deception crashed upon her in a tidal wave of shame and anger.
Her fury immediately internalized, morphing into silent self-recrimination. She recalled the fragmented, distant reports she had received in the past:
Back then, I was told that she was a sensitive, perennially ill girl who shut herself up in her room and was severely depressed.
Later, during my temporary exile, the reports grew more dismissive:
Afterwards, I heard that she had no interest in business, but spent her time attending parties and wasting her life on frivolities. So I figured she was no one special.
That underestimation had shaped her strategy—or rather, her lack of one. But then, she remembered the moment that should have served as a warning—the encounter that revealed the true threat I posed.
During my exile from Meuracevia, I became uneasy after hearing the news that Leinz had married. While it had to be a marriage of convenience, I desperately wanted to know who his new wife was.
She had finally encountered me at a high-society event, expecting to meet the fragile, ineffectual girl described in the reports.
But the Serena I met in person was nothing like what I expected.
I had presented myself as poised, professional, and commanding attention effortlessly. She recalled the speech I gave during the hotel's anniversary celebration, every word precise, every movement measured:
The speech she gave during the first part of her hotel's anniversary celebration… and the conversation I had with her during the evening party made it clear… that she was actually quite interested in management, and I didn't find her lacking in any way as a business owner.
Even the smallest interactions had betrayed my competence. She remembered the frustrating encounter with the guard just to get near me:
"I'm sorry, but attendants are not permitted to enter the hall for the first and second parts of the event."
She had forced herself to improvise, fabricating a plausible excuse:
"I simply need to give Mrs. Harrius her purse. There's an important item inside. It'll only take a moment."
And despite herself, she had been impressed.
I've met my fair share of businesspeople… yet in spite of myself, I ended up enjoying my conversation with her immensely.
Now, reality crashed down on her like a tidal wave. Her hands flew to her face, pressing against her temples in sheer despair, as the full magnitude of her misjudgment became undeniable.
…I shouldn't have underestimated her simply based on her age and because her marriage to Leinz was one of convenience.
The true danger wasn't my youth, nor my marital status. It was my intellect, my discipline, the poise that had earned my father-in-law's unflinching praise in front of her. The false reports—the misinformation she had clung to—had sown the seeds of her present humiliation, and now she was forced to confront the bitter truth of her own miscalculation.
Serena pov
The Director's voice faded into nothing, swallowed by the raging storm of her internal crisis. She remained by the window, hands pressed against her face, a living portrait of professional and personal collapse.
Being hated by Leinz was one thing—a sting I had learned to endure—but being compared to someone else by Father, again, that was intolerable. I observed her from the periphery, silent, unmoving. Her fury had nowhere to go but outward, and she had chosen a target that wasn't me.
Her heels clacked sharply against the gallery floor as she pivoted and began marching out, the sound punctuating her retreating rage. CLACK. CLACK. Each step echoed the weight of her indignation and the raw humiliation she could not contain.
I seized the moment. The old gallery owner, paralyzed by his daughter's breakdown and the weight of my calm, strategic refusal, made no attempt to stop me. My exit was precise, deliberate. My heels matched hers in rhythm, a softer, controlled CLACK. CLACK., as I made my way down the outdoor corridor connecting to the rear entrance of De Laurent Gallery. The dim, claustrophobic atmosphere of the gallery gave way to a blinding, golden afternoon.
Freedom felt tangible. The negotiation had concluded in a clean, elegant victory. The De Laurent family lay in disarray, my position solidified, my leverage absolute, and not a single debt incurred.
Then—abrupt, jarring—movement.
A hand GRABbed my arm firmly, just above the wrist. The touch was sudden, forceful, and entirely unexpected.
!
I spun around with a sharp gasp, heart leaping. JOLT. TURN. My gaze shot upward, meeting the stern, familiar face of the man who had been silently observing everything.
"What?!" I demanded, instinctively tugging against his grip.
"Eiser?"
The grip only tightened, forcing my attention to the bandage wrapped snugly around my hand—the small, lingering injury from earlier. His eyes, cold and assessing, locked on mine. A flicker of something—relief, perhaps—passed over his otherwise unreadable expression. SQUEEZE.
"Ouch! That hurts!" I cried, the sharp pain drawing a wince from me.
He did not release me. His gaze remained fixed, measured, almost predatory.
"You know I injured that hand! What are you doing—?"
He cut me off with a low, deliberate voice, the corner of his mouth curling into a subtle, almost cruel smile.
"So… you are able to feel pain. That's a relief."
I blinked, stunned, my carefully constructed composure fraying at the edges. Relief? Relief? What on earth was wrong with him?
My professional victory, the elegant dismantling of the De Laurent negotiation, the chaos left in my wake—all of it—was instantly overshadowed by this man's strange, possessive intensity.
The sudden intervention from Eiser had shifted everything. What had been a calculated business maneuver had become a confrontation charged with personal stakes, and I realized, with a prickling awareness, that I was no longer in control of the narrative.
---
His fingers tightened slightly around my wrist, not enough to injure, but enough to make the warning unmistakable. His eyes flicked to the bandage again, jaw clenching as if he were restraining something far more volatile than irritation.
"You always seemed so indifferent to getting injured…"
His voice was low, the kind of tone meant only for me—quiet, restrained, and trembling with something raw.
"…that I wondered if you were incapable of feeling pain."
My breath caught.
He wasn't accusing me.
He wasn't mocking me.
He was revealing a fear.
The realization hit me harder than the grip on my wrist.
"When you're even the slightest bit upset," he continued, his gaze burning through me, "you starve yourself. You won't let a single morsel of food touch your lips…"
The images flashed—boards meeting, sleepless nights, my untouched plate.
I had assumed no one noticed.
I had been wrong.
"…and when you're angry," Eiser murmured, his brows tightening with an emotion I couldn't decipher, "you bite your lip until it bleeds."
My lip tingled at the memory of earlier.
I had done it without thinking.
Habit. Control. Punishment.
"You act like someone who doesn't feel pain…"
His voice cracked—just barely.
"…uncaring whether your hands are cut or even torn apart."
He wasn't interrogating me.
He was pleading with something he couldn't name.
My throat tightened.
"Why do you always insist on injuring yourself?"
He wasn't demanding an answer.
He was grieving one.
The corridor around us was silent—no witnesses, no interruptions—only the harsh afternoon light outlining the sharp tension between us.
I swallowed. Hard.
"…Yeah, it hurts."
I forced the words out, my voice thin, trembling.
"It stings. The pain is killing me."
His eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
"But there are things that hurt me far more than that."
For the first time, his breath hitched.
"And compared to that," I whispered, looking at the bandaged hand between us, "a little cut like this is no big deal."
The words hung in the air like the final stroke of a blade—quiet, devastating, honest.
Eiser's hand loosened abruptly.
But he didn't let go.
He only shifted his stance—closer, heavier, the air tightening around us as he took a deliberate—
STRIDE
The sudden movement was deliberate, almost predatory. The man loomed over me, pressing me gently yet firmly against the rough brick wall of the corridor.
PUSH.
Why is he angry? I'm the one who got hurt. My thoughts tumbled, scrambling for logic in the storm of his presence.
He leaned in, and the intensity in his eyes was sharp, unwavering, a force that seemed to pin every nerve in my body.
"I don't care if you throw or break a glass, or how much of a temper tantrum you throw," he said, h