Chapter 12 – The Prize And The Punishment

• The morning after the strange discovery in the locked drawer haunted Alina like a ghost that refused to retreat to the shadows. She hadn’t slept, not really. Her mother’s handwriting—her name scrawled across the bottom of that faded drawing—played on an endless loop in her mind. The feel of Luciano’s bed, his scent engulfing the room, only heightened the sense that she’d walked into a life she didn’t understand.
• Now, dressed in a soft cashmere sweater and leggings Teresa had laid out, Alina paced along the marble hallway that led to the eastern courtyard. She wasn’t expecting to see anyone, least of all him.
• But there he stood—Luciano Moretti, in a dark turtleneck and black slacks, the morning sun casting sharp angles over his face. He didn’t smile. He never did.
• “I see you’re up early,” he said without turning his head fully.
• “You knew I wouldn’t sleep.” she replied, arms crossing defensively. “I saw the picture in your drawers, a not from my mom.”
• Luciano’s gaze flicked to her face, not shocked, studying. “I have something for you.”
• “Oh please. Quit changing the subject.”
• “Your wedding present.”
• That stopped her cold. “What does that mean?”
• He didn’t answer. Instead, he gestured for her to follow, walking ahead down the path lined with cypress trees and the faint scent of citrus. She hesitated before trailing after him, wary.
• They walked in silence for nearly five minutes until the path curved around a stone wall—and a low building emerged. Ivy-covered, tucked between tall hedges. The structure was old, with arched windows and whitewashed stone walls weathered by time.
• Luciano pulled a rusted key from his pocket and unlocked the door.
• “What is this place?” Alina asked.
• He didn’t reply until they were inside.
• Light filtered through dusty skylights, illuminating easels, blank canvases, and the ghostly remains of past creativity. Brushes still sat in old jars. Stained palettes were scattered across a long table. An antique cabinet along the wall held tubes of oil paint. The air smelled of turpentine and wood.
• “It’s an art studio,” she murmured, awe and suspicion bleeding into one.
• “It was your mother’s,” Luciano said quietly. “She used to paint here. After she left, it sat untouched. Until now.”
• She turned sharply to him. “Why are you showing me this?”
• He walked slowly through the space, letting his fingers trail along the edge of a worktable. “Your mom had always believed you’ll be an artist. When she died, I was devastated so I started keeping a close eye on you.”
• “How?” Her voice was low, angry.
• “I had someone look into you after your father’s first contact. You didn’t exactly make it difficult. Exhibits. School records. Your sketchbooks. Your online portfolio.”
• “You stalked me.”
• “I studied you,” he said, unbothered. “Mainly because I needed to know what I was buying.”
• Alina flinched at the word. Buying. It never stopped hurting, no matter how many times she heard it.
• “And now you’re what—rewarding me?” she snapped. “Giving me a space to pretend I’m free?”
• Luciano walked toward the large central table and laid a hand on a fresh canvas. “I’m giving you a choice. Create something. Or don’t. But the door will be locked when you leave, as always.”
• Her fingers curled into fists. “Why now?”
• He met her gaze. “Because I want to see who you are without chains.”
• “You’re delusional if you think this changes anything.”
• He smirked. “I never said it did.”
• Then he turned and left.
• —
• The studio became a strange kind of sanctuary over the next few days. Teresa would escort her there in the mornings, locking the door behind her. It was the only place in the entire estate where Alina felt remotely in control. The brushes obeyed her hands. The colors blended at her will.
• But she didn’t paint what he expected.
• Each day, while she made a show of painting florals or landscapes on one canvas, she used scraps and charcoal to draw something else: a map. She took mental notes of guard rotations. The sound of footsteps outside her room at night. The distance between the studio and the front gates. She traced it all in secret, hiding each piece beneath loose floorboards behind a tall shelf.
• Teresa never asked questions. But Alina noticed the way her eyes lingered on her fingers, stained with black and brown. The small scar on Teresa’s forearm, which hadn’t escaped her notice, made her wonder if the woman had once stood where she now did.
• By the end of the end of the week, the full map was nearly complete.
• Hope was a dangerous thing—but it bloomed in her chest like something half-starved for light.
• Until everything went to hell.
• —
• She was crouched behind the shelf, sliding the final piece of the sketched estate under the floorboard, when she heard it—a sharp intake of breath. She froze.
• Behind her, a young maid stood wide-eyed in the doorway. The door she hadn’t heard open.
• The girl gasped. “You’re not supposed to—”
• “Wait—” Alina stood, hand outstretched.
• The maid snatched the paper from her, turned and ran.
• “No, no, no,” Alina whispered, heart pounding. She raced to the door, but it had already slammed shut, locking her inside.
• She paced the room like a trapped animal, her mind spiraling. Would the girl report her? Would Luciano find out?
• Hours passed.
• Dread pooled in her stomach like acid.
• And when the door finally creaked open again, it wasn’t Teresa who entered.
• It was Luciano.
• He stepped into the room slowly, eyes calm but unreadable. In his hand was a single rolled paper.
• Her sketch.
• He walked to the center of the room and unfurled it silently, holding it up to the light. Every line was visible. Every exit and hallway she’d carefully observed.
• “I see you’ve been busy,” he said.
• Alina stayed near the wall, silent.
• “You think you’re clever?” he asked, still calm. “That I wouldn’t know?”
• She said nothing. Her throat was dry.
• He walked to the fireplace along the back wall, where a low fire had already been set.
• “No,” she whispered. “Please—don’t—”
• Luciano lit the corner of the sketch and held it as the flames crawled up the page. He dropped it into the fire.
• A second sketch followed.
• Then a third.
• “No!” She lunged forward. “Stop it! Please—those are mine!”
• But he didn’t stop. One by one, he burned every scrap, until the last piece of charcoal-streaked paper curled into ash.
• “You bastard,” she spat, trembling with fury.
• He turned to her. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was quiet steel.
• “Next time,” he said, “I’ll burn the brushes.”
• Alina’s chest heaved.
• “You gave this to me—”
• “I gave you a chance to be honest. To build something. You used it to scheme.” He stepped forward, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of his cologne—dark woods and something smoky.
• “I’ll never be yours,” she hissed.
• He tilted his head. “Then stop pretending you’re not already mine.”
• She slapped him.
• His head snapped to the side, but he didn’t flinch.
• He looked back at her slowly, expression blank.
• “Do not dare me, Alina.”
• Then he turned to leave.
• “Earn your place here, Alina,” he said at the door, not looking back. “Or I’ll destroy what you love.”
• The door closed behind him with a soft click.
• Alina stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by ashes, rage in her throat like bile.
• She had one truth left.
• She would never stop fighting him.
• No matter the cost.