Chapter 2 The Girl Who Burns Quietly

• Lidia’s POV
• The first thing I feel is cold.
• It’s not the chill from the cracked window or the floor beneath my knees. It’s the kind of cold that settles deep in your bones—the kind that makes you wonder if maybe this is the time you won’t get back up.
• But I always get up.
• Even if it takes me a little longer each time.
• Blood trickles in lazy lines down my spine, warm against the frozen shock of my skin, soaking into the ripped fabric of my shirt. The belt has done its work. My breath hitches with every movement, my body protesting with sharp spikes of pain that flash white behind my eyes. I don’t cry out.
• I never do.
• Carlos hates that. My silence enrages him more than any scream.
• Maybe that’s why he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back with a snarl. His breath reeks of whiskey and sweat and hate. Always hate.
• “You think you’re strong,” he rasps, voice low and trembling with rage. “You think you can sit there with that dead look in your eyes and not feel a damn thing? Let me tell you something, puta, strength isn't silence. Strength is knowing when to obey.”
• He jerks my head again until my scalp feels like it’s tearing.
• I don’t answer. He doesn’t want answers.
• He wants obedience.
• He wants a ghost.
• And I’ve been fading for years.
• “You’re not done tonight,” he growls, spitting the words like poison. “Get up. Now.”
• “I can’t,” I whisper, my voice hoarse, barely a breath. I’m not lying. My knees are jelly. My back is fire. The floor is sticky with blood and broken pride.
• “You will.” He crouches beside me, fingers tightening in my hair until my neck screams. “You think I do all this because I hate you? No. I do it because you’re mine. And mine doesn’t get to be weak. Mine works. Even when it hurts.”
• He lets go abruptly, and my head smacks the floor with a dull thud. Stars explode behind my eyes, but I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning.
• “Get yourself together,” he says. “You’ve got a commission. A big one. That damn name of yours is finally worth something.”
• My heart kicks once. Then again. Too fast. Too sudden.
• He doesn’t know the name. He can’t.
• “You’ve been selling again?” I ask, even though I know the answer. It’s not a question, not really. It’s a death wish with a ribbon tied around it.
• He laughs, cruel and loud. “Of course. What do you think pays the bills, pájaro estúpido? Your pretty little ass?”
• I clench my jaw. He doesn’t know. He only thinks he controls it all. But he doesn’t know my name—not the real one. Not the one I use when I paint. Not the one signed beneath every sold piece that sets the art world on fire.
• He doesn't know I'm Phoenixia.
• An ancient name for the phoenix. One I stole from a mythology book when I was sixteen, fingers trembling as I read about a bird that burns to ashes only to rise again. It was the first time I realized that maybe my story wasn’t over. That maybe I wasn’t just his.
• That maybe I could still rise.
• “You're going to meet someone,” Carlos says, pacing now, adrenaline making him twitch. “They want ten of your pieces. Custom. Sicilian family. Big money.”
• I blink, trying to process through the fog of pain. “They… want to meet me?”
• He stops. Turns.
• “You’ll do it,” he says simply. “You’ll smile and nod and paint your fucking soul into their walls if they ask. This family isn’t some broke collector. They’re… important. Dangerous, maybe. But rich. Filthy rich. You want paint? Canvas? Food? You’ll earn it.”
• Panic prickles beneath my skin.
• “No one meets me,” I croak. “That was always the deal.”
• His hand is sudden. Fast. Across my face—open palm, sharp and stinging. I don’t cry. I just blink through the flash of white.
• “The deal,” he sneers, “is whatever the fuck I say it is. You’re going. End of story.”
• The room spins slightly. I press a hand to the floor, pushing myself up inch by inch, each breath jagged as broken glass. My shoulder screams. My ribs pulse. But still, I move.
• He watches me with that gleam in his eye. The one that says he thinks he’s won. That he always will.
• And maybe tonight… he has.
• But something shifts in me.
• Something burns.
• Because I remember the name he doesn’t know. I remember the thousands who’ve seen my work and wanted to know the hands behind the fire. I remember that this time, someone wants me. Not just my art. Me.
• And maybe that’s terrifying.
• But maybe… it’s also an opening.
• A crack in the cage.
• Carlos turns his back on me, already heading down the hall, already satisfied.
• “Make yourself presentable. You’ll leave in the morning,” he throws over his shoulder. “And don’t even think of trying anything. One word out of line, and I’ll make sure you never paint again.”
• The door slams.
• I collapse, cheek pressed to the cold floor. My blood is still warm, still fresh. But so is the fire in my chest.
• I am Lidia Avallon.
• But to the world, I am Phoenixia.
• And if this is my chance to step into the light, even for a moment—I swear, I will set the whole damn world on fire.