Morning came too quickly.
Rhea barely slept, haunted by the knock on her door, the note, the figure in the hall. She'd eventually collapsed into an uneasy sleep fully dressed, lights on and only to wake with her heart pounding as if someone had whispered her name.
She splashed water on her face and stared at herself in the mirror.
"You're here for answers," she whispered. "Act like it."
Her hands still trembled.
The note from last night lay on the table, folded neatly.
HE KNOWS YOU.
RUN.
Also Luca had stood outside her door moments after she found it.
Did he know?
Or was he the one the note warned her about?
She didn't have the luxury to sit and think when someone knocked again.
This time, soft. Normal.
"Miss Verdan?" the woman in gray called. "Breakfast is ready. Mr. Moretti asked that you begin work in the studio afterward."
Rhea's heart tightened. "Alright, tell him I'll be there."
The mansion was quieter than yesterday.
Not silent, just… watching her.
Rhea felt it with every step.
In the dining hall, Luca wasn't there. Only a steaming plate of food, untouched. The butler urged her to eat, but her stomach churned.
She forced down a bite, stood up, and headed for the east wing.
Each step echoed too loudly.
Each corridor felt longer today.
And when she reached the studio door, her hand hesitated on the handle.
Yesterday's shadows felt like they were waiting for her.
She inhaled deeply.
Then pushed the door open.
The studio was already lit by sunlight spilling through the windows. It painted the room in gold, chasing away the coldness from the night before. Canvases leaned against the walls, brushes laid in neat rows.
Rhea stepped inside—slowly, cautiously, as if walking a memory she didn't trust.
"Good. You're early."
She startled, stumbling back. "Don't do that! You scared me."
Luca stood behind her—quiet, composed, and far too close.
He wore black again, sleeves rolled to his elbows, making him look more human and more dangerous at the same time. His eyes followed her face, down to her hands, then back up—slowly, intentionally.
"Did you sleep?" he asked.
"Enough," she lied.
His jaw tightened. "You look pale."
"Then your lighting is too bright," she snapped before she could stop herself.
A flicker of amusement touched his lips. Not a smile…just a shift.
"Fiery today," he murmured. "Good. Art needs fire."
Rhea stepped deeper into the studio, away from him. "Where should I begin?"
"You'll be painting Serena," Luca said, crossing to the table. "So you'll work here. Near the light."
He gestured toward an easel positioned directly in front of the window. A fresh canvas was pinned to it—perfect, white, untouched.
A blank beginning.
Terrifying.
"Sit," he said.
Rhea didn't sit. Then she asked, "Are you staying?"
"For now."
She tensed. "I work better alone."
"I don't," he replied calmly.
She turned sharply. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Luca said, stepping closer until she could feel the warmth of him at her shoulder, "that watching you paint her… is the only way I can face this."
His voice dipped low, rough and vulnerable.
It made Rhea's chest tighten.
She looked away quickly. "Fine. But don't hover."
"I make no promises."
She forced her attention to the canvas.
To Serena.
To the lie she was living.
She dipped her brush into charcoal gray and made the first mark—a curved line. Luca exhaled quietly behind her.
"She always tilted her head to the left," he murmured. "Like she was hiding something."
Rhea's hand stilled. "She wasn't hiding. She was shy."
"She was afraid," Luca corrected.
"You're wrong."
"You're grieving."
The back of Rhea's throat burned. "And you're a liar."
Silence.
For a moment, she wondered if she'd gone too far.
Then…
"I prefer honesty," Luca said softly. "Keep going."
Rhea swallowed the anger clawing up her chest and continued sketching. Luca circled slowly, pacing, watching her hands move.
"Has anyone ever told you," he said, "that you paint grief too well?"
Rhea didn't respond.
He moved closer, eyes fixed on the lines forming on the canvas. "It's almost… intimate."
She let out a humorless laugh. "That's one word for it."
"What would you call it?"
"Survival."
Luca's gaze lasted on her cheek. "Then paint with that."
His closeness suffocated her. She stepped to the side, needing distance.
But the moment she did…
He caught her wrist.
Her breath hitched.
"Miss Verdan," he said quietly, "you're shaking."
She wanted to snatch her hand away, but his grip wasn't hard…just firm, steady.
"I'm fine," she whispered.
"No," he said. "You're not."
"Let go of my wrist."
Luca slowly released her hand…but his eyes didn't move from her face.
"Someone left you a note last night," he said.
Rhea's blood iced.
"How do you…"
"You left your window open," he said. "The wind blew it into the hallway."
Liar.
He had been right outside her door.
He'd seen more than he wanted her to know.
"And you didn't think to tell me?" Rhea demanded.
"I thought you'd bring it up."
"Well, I didn't."
"That's what concerns me."
He stepped closer again. Too close. "Miss Verdan… what aren't you telling me?"
She held her breath. "What aren't you telling me?" What did you mean by that?.
His eyes narrowed slowly and dangerously.
"I asked first."
"And I'm not answering."
"Then neither am I."
Their defiance locked between them—charged, sharp.
Rhea turned away before she broke. "I need to paint. That's what I'm here for."
"And to lie," Luca said under his breath.
She froze.
"What?"
"Nothing," he said. "Continue."
No…he meant it.
He knew she was lying.
Her heart skidded painfully, but she forced herself to focus on the canvas.
She drew Serena's jawline.
The soft curve of her cheek.
The eyes she remembered—bright, gentle.
Luca's voice behind her cut in. "That's wrong."
Rhea's brush stopped mid-stroke. "What is again?" She asked in a frustrated tone.
"She didn't look like that."
His tone was sharper now.
"She looked exactly like this."
"No. This"…he pointed…"is how you want to remember her. Draw the truth."
"I am."
"Then why is she smiling?"
Rhea's throat tightened. "Because she was happy."
"She was terrified," Luca whispered. "Every day."
"That's a lie."
"No. It's not."
She spun around. "Then tell me why."
He stared at her—long, heavy silence.
Then, instead of answering…
He walked to the table, picked up a small velvet box, and placed it beside her.
Rhea frowned. "What is this?"
"Open it."
Her fingers hesitated.
She lifted the lid.
Inside lay a single silver bracelet.
Serena's.
Rhea's breath stuttered. "Where did you…where did this come from?"
"It was left on your studio chair this morning."
"What?" Her voice cracked. "By who?"
"I was hoping you'd tell me."
She shook her head, panic rising. "Someone is playing games."
"Someone," Luca said, "wants you frightened."
"I'm not."
He sighed. "Then you're a terrible liar."
Rhea backed away from the bracelet, face pale. "I don't want it."
"You don't have a choice," he murmured. "You're tangled in this now."
Her pulse hammered.
She felt watched again—eyes in the corners, shadows shifting.
Her gaze darted to the window. "Did you check the cameras?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"They were disabled," he said. "Only in the east wing."
The studio.
Her room.
The hallway she'd run through.
Her veins filled with ice.
"Why?" she whispered.
"To get to you."
Rhea swallowed. "Why me?"
Luca didn't answer immediately.
He walked toward her slowly, quietly—until the space between them crackled with tension.
"Because," he said quietly, "you came back to the one place you should've stayed away from."
Her breath caught. "Why would I stay away from a painting job?"
His stare stabbed through her.
"You know exactly why."
Rhea took a step back.
He took a step forward.
"Miss Verdan," he murmured, "you are hiding something. And whoever left that bracelet… knows what it is."
Her heart pounded painfully.
He leaned in, voice dangerously soft.
"What are you here for?"
She swallowed hard. "To paint."
"No," he said. "Try again."
The air thickened.
Rhea's knees weakened. "I…I don't know what you mean."
"Yes," Luca said. "You do."
She shook her head. "Stop."
"You can't lie to me."
"Stop…"
"You came here for something. Or someone."
His voice dipped lower.
"Tell me."
Her chest ached.
Tell him?
Tell him she was Serena's sister?
Tell him Serena died screaming for help?
Tell him she came for revenge?
No.
Not yet.
Not like this.
Rhea forced herself to speak. "You're imagining things."
Luca's eyes darkened. "Rhea."
Her blood froze.
He said her real name.
Slowly.
Silently.
Like he'd been waiting.
Rhea's breath shattered. "What…what did you just call me?"
He stepped closer until his breath grazed her cheek.
"Your name," he whispered. "Your real name."
Her heart stopped.
He knew.
He'd known.
All along.
Her vision blurred. "How long?"
"Since the moment you walked into the mansion."
Her knees almost buckled. "Then why let me stay?"
His answer was a knife wrapped in silk.
"Because I wanted to see how far you'd go."
Rhea stumbled back, shaking.
Luca didn't move.
"I wanted," he continued, "to watch what revenge looks like on your face."
Her pulse roared. "I'm not…I'm not here for rev…"
"Don't," he cut in. "Don't insult both of us."
Her hand hit the table behind her, brushes clattering to the floor.
Luca stepped forward again, and again she stepped back until her spine hit the wall.
He braced a hand beside her head.
"You should have run," he whispered. "Whoever sent that note was right."
Her chest heaved. "Let me go."
"Rhea…" He leaned closer, searching her eyes. "You're in danger you don't understand."
"I don't believe you."
"You don't have to." His voice dropped lower. "But you will."
Her throat tightened. "Why me?"
He held her gaze.
Because for a terrifying second, Rhea thought he might actually tell her.
But then…
A scream shattered the silence.
Rhea jolted.
Luca spun toward the door, eyes narrowing.
Another scream—high, sharp, panicked—echoed down the east wing hallway.
"Stay here," Luca ordered.
"No…"
"Rhea."
For the first time, his voice cracked.
"Do not follow me."
He sprinted out of the studio.
Rhea stood frozen, heart in her throat.
Another scream.
Then a crash.
Then…
silence.
Dead, suffocating silence.
Her breath trembled.
She grabbed the table edge to steady herself.
The house wasn't watching her anymore.
It was waiting.
She took one step toward the door.
Then another.
She reached the hallway.
And froze in shock…
because a trail of dark red droplets stained the marble floor, leading deeper into the east wing.
Blood.
Fresh.
Still warm.
And at the end of the trail—barely visible…
A hand lay limp on the floor.