Chapter 21 – The Art Of Surrender

• The scent of turpentine and oil paint lingered in the air like a whisper from another life.
• Alina stood at the threshold of the studio, the one place in the estate that didn’t feel like a cage. The late morning light poured through the tall windows, throwing soft gold across the dust-covered floor and half-finished canvases. She hesitated, fingers hovering at the edge of the doorframe, unsure what had pulled her here today.
• She knew what pulled her here. She needed to clear her head after the kiss with Luciano and this was the only way she knew how.
• She stepped inside right away.
• Her hand brushed over a forgotten palette. Dried streaks of crimson and cobalt flaked away like old memories. She reached for a blank canvas—Luciano had made sure they were always available. He hadn’t come back since the kiss. Not once. No glances, no games, no tension-filled silences. Just distance.
• That should’ve brought her peace.
• It didn’t.
• She set the canvas on the easel with quiet precision. Picked up a charcoal stick. Stared.
• The first stroke came hard and fast—a harsh black line down the center. The second curved sideways, fractured, like a scream caught in a throat. Her body took over, each line a wound she hadn’t spoken aloud. Shadows formed. A face—her own—emerged.
• But not the poised, calculating mask she wore around him.
• This Alina was blindfolded. Lips parted. Hands limp at her sides. Unseeing. Unarmed.
• Vulnerable.
• She didn’t realize how long she’d been working until she heard the soft click of the studio door.
• Luciano.
• He didn’t say a word. Just stepped inside and watched her from the threshold. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, the first two buttons of his black shirt undone. The sunlight caught his profile, casting sharp shadows across his cheekbones, the faint scar near his temple.
• “I didn’t think you’d come back here,” he said at last.
• She didn’t look at him. “Neither did I.”
• He approached slowly, like someone approaching a frightened animal. When he reached her side, he said nothing at first. Just looked at the painting.
• His breath caught.
• Alina finally turned her eyes to his. She stared at his lips and hid her smile. For the first time, he didn’t wear that unreadable expression. His jaw was tense, throat working to swallow something heavy.
• “That’s how you see yourself?” he asked, voice low.
• “No,” she murmured. “That’s how I feel.”
• Luciano looked at her like she’d taken the air from the room.
• “I want it,” he said.
• She blinked. “What?”
• “The painting. I want to keep it.”
• Alina stepped back from the easel, wiping her fingers clean on a stained rag. Her eyes never left his. “You can’t just take pieces of me and hang them on a wall.”
• He didn’t flinch. “Then what do I have to do?”
• “Earn it,” she said, calm and clear. “If you want a piece of me, earn it.”
• A long pause stretched between them. He nodded once, slowly, then stepped back.
• “I will,” he said.
• Then he turned and left—quiet, composed, without argument.
• And that was what shook her most.
• The silence he left behind echoed louder than his footsteps.
• Alina stood still for a moment, staring at the door after it closed. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. She waited for the usual aftermath—the irritation, the fury, the sense of being toyed with. But none came.
• She felt… heard.
• No threats. No clever retorts. Just him, walking away when she told him no.
• She turned back to the canvas. It looked different now—less like a cry for help, more like a challenge. Maybe even a beginning.
• By the time the afternoon faded into evening, she’d wiped the easel clean. The studio grew darker as the sun dipped below the hills, its dying light streaking the walls in orange and blue. Alina was washing her brushes at the sink when Teresa entered without a knock, a folded towel in her arms.
• “Dinner’s late,” Teresa said. “The chef’s trying a Sicilian dish tonight. Something Luciano asked for.”
• Alina raised a brow. “Hmmmm”
• Teresa gave a vague shrug. “You know how he is. Always moving, always watching, even when he’s not seen.”
• Alina turned back to the sink. “He asked me for something today.”
• Teresa tilted her head.
• “My painting.”
• The older woman was silent for a moment. “Did you give it to him?”
• “No.”
• “Good,” Teresa said, setting the towel down. “Make him wait.”
• Alina looked up. “You think I should play hard to get?”
• “I think,” Teresa said slowly, “men like Luciano don’t know what to do with something they can’t buy, own, or break. The moment you make him earn it… you shift the power.”
• Alina mulled over that in silence.
• That night, after dinner and a long bath, she returned to her room. She didn’t expect anything. Not really.
• But something was different.
• There, propped carefully on her bed, was a new blank canvas. Large. Expensive. Crisp.
• And beside it, a folded note.
• She picked it up slowly.
• “What would I look like through your eyes?”
• Her heart clenched, unsure why.
• He hadn’t come to her.
• Hadn’t touched her.
• Hadn’t spoken a word more.
• Just left her this question. An offering.
• She stared at the canvas for a long time before turning out the lights, the paper still clutched in her hand.
• That night, Alina didn’t dream of fire or chains.
• She dreamed of him—naked in shadow, face half-lit, his eyes locked on hers—not demanding, not cruel. Just waiting.
• Waiting to be seen.
• And for the first time, she wanted to.