CHAPTER FOUR

BEVERLY

The remaining bite of my pancake suddenly tasted a lot like victory.

I chewed slowly, my eyes locked on Damian as he finished the last of his coffee. The man drank it black, obviously. No sugar, no cream, just pure, bitter energy to fuel whatever dark empire he ran when he wasn’t busy lurking in the shadows of this mansion. He set the porcelain cup down with a soft, authoritative click that seemed to punctuate the end of our conversation.

The rigid, unyielding armor he wore so effortlessly was back in place. The tiny, almost-invisible twitch of his lips from a few moments ago was gone, buried beneath a layer of ice so thick you’d need a blowtorch to get through it.

He slid his iPad into a sleek leather sleeve, his large hands moving with a practiced, lethal efficiency. Then, he stood up.

God, the sheer height of him was an occupational hazard. Even in a simple cream polo shirt and jeans, he managed to make the high-ceilinged dining room look small. He adjusted his watch, a heavy, expensive silver piece that caught the morning light, before his dark eyes snapped back to mine.

"I am off to work," he stated. It wasn’t an explanation. It wasn’t an itinerary. It was a formal notification, spoken with the exact same low, gravelly cadence he used when he told me my school fees had been handled or that I needed to eat more vegetables.

He turned on his heel, ready to stride out of the room and leave me in a cloud of dust and unresolved tension.

But I was feeling bold. The cold shower had apparently done nothing to wash away the lingering adrenaline from last night, and finding out that I could actually rattle the great, untouchable Damian was a drug I wasn’t ready to quit just yet.

"Bye, darling," I called out, my voice dripping with an exaggerated, syrupy sweetness. I leaned my chin in my hand, batting my eyelashes at his retreating back. "Have a good day at the office. Don't work too hard."

I sounded exactly like a doting suburban wife sending her husband off to a 9-to-5 corporate job. It was ridiculous. It was a complete farce.

Damian froze mid-stride.

His broad shoulders went completely rigid beneath the fabric of his shirt. For a glorious, breathless three seconds, the entire dining room fell into a suffocating silence. I held my breath, a thrill of pure, unadulterated mischief dancing in my chest. I half-expected him to turn around, march back over here, and use that terrifyingly calm voice to put me in my place. Maybe even threaten to lock me back in the red room.

Instead, he didn't say a single word. He didn't even turn his head.

With a subtle, sharp exhalation that might have been irritation or absolute disbelief, he started moving again. His long legs ate up the distance to the foyer, and a moment later, the heavy, distant thud of the front door echoing through the mansion signaled his departure.

I let out the breath I was holding, a massive, unbothered grin splitting my face. I picked up my glass and took a triumphant sip of orange juice.

*Beverly: 1. Batman: 0.*

Once I finished eating, I left the dining room and made my way back up the grand floating staircase. The house felt entirely different now that he was gone. The heavy, magnetic pull of his presence dissipated, leaving behind a sprawling, hollow luxury that still felt a bit surreal to inhabit.

I walked into my bedroom and closed the door, leaning against it with a heavy sigh.

Today was a rare, beautiful miracle: a completely blank canvas. I had no classes scheduled at the university, no grueling biology lab reports due, and no heavy genetics assignments hanging over my head. For the first time in months, I was entirely free. My original plan had been to simply laze around, sink into the massive duvet, and scroll through my phone until my brain turned to mush.

But as I walked over to the large glass doors leading out to my private balcony, the view changed my mind.

The morning sun was completely showing off. The sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the aggressive Nigerian sunlight was hitting the estate’s perfectly manicured gardens just right, turning the dew on the leaves into sparkling diamonds. The pale streaks of silver moonlight from last night were replaced by a warm, golden glow that made everything look vibrant, alive, and impossibly beautiful.

It was the kind of morning that practically begged me to create something.

A familiar, restless itch kindled in my fingers. Painting had always been my escape, my sanctuary. When my father died and the world became too loud, too empty, and too painful to process, I had turned to color. It was the one thing I could control when everything else was falling apart.

I walked over to the deep walk-in closet, bypassing the normal clothes until I found my favorite, most battered piece of clothing: my painting jumpsuit. It was an old, oversized denim utility suit that had seen better days. It was stiff, thoroughly broken in, and covered from collar to ankle in a chaotic galaxy of dried acrylics—splatters of deep burgundy, smudges of black, streaks of gold, and faint remnants of blues from a phase I had gone through a year ago. It was ugly, it was comfortable, and it guaranteed that none of the expensive clothes Damian had bought for my closet would get ruined.

I stepped into it, pulling the heavy denim over my shoulders and zipping it up to my throat. I pulled my long hair out of the collar, making sure my high ponytail was tightly secured.

Next, I dragged my heavy wooden easel out onto the balcony, the legs scraping softly against the stone floor. I set up a fresh, large canvas, the stark white surface gleaming under the sun, waiting for a story. I brought out my heavy wooden palette, my tackle box of premium acrylic tubes, and a jar of water that immediately caught the reflection of the blue sky.

Finally, I pulled my over-ear Bluetooth headphones out of my pocket and slipped them on, completely shutting out the quiet hum of the mansion.

I opened my phone, swiped past the blocked notifications from Dylan without a single ounce of regret, and pulled up my absolute mess of a playlist. I needed something that matched the strange, electric energy buzzing under my skin. I pressed shuffle, and the loud, heavy beat of a Korean rap track immediately exploded in my ears, the rhythm commanding, aggressive, and fast. Perfect.

I squeezed a massive dollop of deep, velvety crimson onto the palette, followed by stark ivory, midnight black, and a rich, shimmering gold. My taste in aesthetics had always leaned dark and cinematic—I liked colors that felt heavy, dramatic, and full of secrets.

I grabbed a thick, flat-briltle brush, dipped it into the water, and went to work.

The moment the first stroke of crimson slashed across the white canvas, the rest of the world completely faded away. The cheating ex, the confusion of the move, the heartbreak—it all dissolved into the heavy bass thudding against my ears. I moved with a fluid, thoughtless rhythm, my body swaying slightly to the music as the track shifted from the aggressive rap to a sweeping, dramatic French ballad, then into a vibrant Japanese pop song.

My playlist was a total disaster of languages and genres, a chaotic melting pot of moods that had absolutely no business existing together. But to me, it made perfect sense. It was a reflection of my own brain—loud, unorganized, and feeling everything all at once.

Hours bled into one another, completely unnoticed.

I lost myself in the texture of the paint, the way the acrylic built up on the canvas, creating deep, shadowy ridges. I wasn't painting the landscape in front of me. I wasn't painting the gardens or the tall security gates.

Instead, my hands seemed to be taking orders directly from my subconscious.

A silhouette began to form amidst the sea of crimson and black. A tall, imposing figure bleeding into the dark background, defined only by the sharp, dramatic lines of his shoulders and the faint, golden highlights catching the edge of a severe jawline. It was abstract, messy, and entirely consuming. Every time I dipped my brush into the black paint, I thought about the way the shadows in the living room had seemed to bend around Damian’s frame. Every time I dragged a streak of gold across the canvas, I thought about the intensity in his dark eyes when he took me to that room.

The memory of his voice from last night floated through my mind, overriding the music for a brief second. I bit my lower lip, a sudden rush of heat warming my face that had absolutely nothing to do with the hot sun beating down on the balcony.

I stepped back, wiping my sweat-slicked forehead with the back of my forearm, leaving a faint smudge of gold paint near my temple without realizing it.

The painting was fierce. It was moody. It was entirely unhinged, if I was being completely honest with myself. If anyone walked up here right now, they’d think I was a girl possessed.

But as I stared at the dark, powerful figure dominating the canvas, a slow, wicked smile spread across my face.

Damian wanted me to forget what happened last night. He wanted me to go back to being the quiet, compliant girl who just accepted his charity from a distance. He wanted his walls back up.

But he had underestimated me. I had spent two years falling in love with a ghost, and now that the ghost had a face, a name, and a chest that felt like solid marble when I was pinned against it?

I wasn't going anywhere.

I dipped a finer brush into the gold paint, leaning back over the canvas to add the final, sharp highlights to the silhouette's hands. Strong hands. Capable hands. The kind of hands that could lock you to a bar or keep you perfectly safe from the rest of the world.