Chapter 3 The Flame Meets The Fire

• Lidia’s POV
• It took me nearly an hour to move.
• My body screamed with every breath, every twitch of a muscle, every attempt to get up from the blood-slick floor that had cradled me all night like a grave made of wood and pain.
• But I did it.
• Not because I wanted to, but because survival is a stubborn kind of flame. One that refuses to go out, no matter how much it’s stomped on.
• I crawled to the bathroom, fingers clutching the doorframe like it might forgive me for leaning too hard. The mirror greeted me with a reflection I barely recognized—split lip, bruised cheekbone, dried blood along my jawline, and eyes… eyes too hollow for twenty-one.
• The water stung. The peroxide hissed like a warning. I bit down on the edge of a towel to keep from screaming as I cleaned the cuts on my back. The belt had opened skin, but not deep enough to kill. Carlos never went that far.
• He needed me alive.
• Alive meant useful. Alive meant painting.
• When I was done, I collapsed into bed, skin raw and still damp, the sting of every inch of me pressing into the mattress. I didn’t bother with pajamas. I just pulled the blanket up to my chin and let the ache lull me into unconsciousness.
• The morning came like a thief—stealing sleep, stealing numbness.
• I moved like a machine: stiff, silent, calculating every step to avoid bending too far or turning too quick. My ribs ached. My shoulder was useless. But I made breakfast. Two eggs. Black coffee. Toast. Carlos ate in silence, his face buried in his phone, already talking business before his first bite.
• I wore black. A turtleneck and long sleeves. Concealing. Elegant. And dark enough to hide the war waged across my skin. My hair was pulled back into a tight braid. Neat. Controlled. Just like me.
• And I took my sketchbook.
• Always the sketchbook.
• It wasn’t just for drawing. It was armor. A place where the chaos made sense. Where the world obeyed my rules and beauty bled onto the page instead of me.
• Carlos didn’t speak on the drive. I sat in silence, memorizing the rhythmic throb of my bruises with every bump in the road.
• When we pulled up in front of the building, I didn’t expect this.
• Tall. Stark. Italian black marble and glass, sliced into the skyline like a knife. The Moretti name gleamed in silver over the double doors.
• Carlos whistled low. “Now this is what I’m talking about.”
• Before I could process anything else, the doors swung open and someone stepped out.
• He wasn’t dressed like a guard or a bodyman—he looked too sharp, too clean. Expensive watch. Rolled sleeves. Blue eyes that didn’t quite smile, but weren’t cold either.
• “Carlos Avallon?” he asked, eyes flicking to me. “And Miss Phoenixia, I presume?”
• I stiffened. That name—the one only meant for canvases—sounded strange spoken aloud. Heavy. Real.
• Carlos puffed his chest out. “Yeah. That’s us. We’re here to—”
• “Right.” The man cut him off, polite but firm. “Arias is in a meeting. I’ll be handling everything until he’s ready for you. Mr. Avallon, you’re free to go. We’ll take it from here.”
• Carlos’s eyes darkened, irritation tightening his jaw. “I’ll wait. She’s my daughter.”
• “No need,” the man said smoothly, like oil over a fire. “This isn’t a family visit. This is business. And frankly, we prefer fewer distractions. No offense.”
• Carlos hesitated. I saw the twitch in his hand—the one that usually preceded violence. But we weren’t in his territory anymore. He was just a man in a suit here. A nobody in front of kings.
• He grunted and turned to me. “Don’t fuck this up,” he spat.
• And just like that, he was gone.
• The stranger turned to me. “Well, that was fun.” He extended a hand. “Matias. Arias’s assistant. Personal handler. And, unfortunately for you, your babysitter for the next hour.”
• I shook his hand, wary.
• “Follow me, Phoenix.” He grinned. “Can I call you that? Or do you prefer the full reborn-from-ashes vibe?”
• “Phoenix is fine,” I said, voice guarded.
• He winked. “Good. You’ve already got the mysterious artist thing down. Very tortured soul chic.”
• I tried not to smile. Tried not to wince. My body moved like broken machinery, but Matias didn’t say a word about it. He noticed. I knew he noticed—the occasional sideways glance, the way he adjusted his pace to match mine without drawing attention to it.
• He led me through a wide hallway lined with art I didn’t recognize. Expensive pieces. Abstracts. Some breathtaking. Some garbage with a fancy frame.
• “This floor’s the gallery branch,” he explained. “Arias is redoing a villa in Sicily—wants your touch on the entire interior art. That means concept sketches, custom pieces, and at least ten final canvases. You’ll be working with him directly.”
• “Great,” I muttered. “No pressure.”
• He stopped near a sitting area, gesturing to the plush velvet chairs. “Sit. Breathe. Drink something before the big man arrives.”
• I sank into the seat with a grateful sigh. He handed me a bottle of water. Cold. Condensation beading against my palm.
• He crouched beside me, resting his arms on his knees, watching me carefully now. The humor faded slightly from his face.
• “You’re good at hiding it,” he said quietly. “Most people wouldn’t notice. But I’m not most people.”
• My fingers tightened around the bottle.
• “I don’t need your pity,” I said.
• His mouth lifted, not quite a smile. “Didn’t offer any. Just saying—I’ve seen pain. And yours isn’t something makeup can cover.”
• Before he could say anything else—
• The air shifted.
• It wasn’t sound. It wasn’t sight. It was a presence. Like gravity got heavier. Like the temperature in the room dipped a degree just to accommodate the man who entered.
• Arias Moretti.
• Tall. Sculpted. Dressed in black on black, like he’d stepped out of a storm and hadn’t dried off yet. His hair was dark, slightly tousled, and his jawline could’ve been carved from Roman stone. But it wasn’t just that.
• It was the eyes.
• Midnight and dangerous.
• He walked like a man who’d already claimed the world and was bored of it. Like a king stepping into his throne room—no need for arrogance. His power was fact, not performance.
• His gaze locked on mine.
• And for a second—just one second—I forgot every ounce of pain in my body.
• “Miss Phoenixia,” he said, voice low and rich like sin. “Finally. We meet.”
• My pulse spiked.
• This wasn’t just business anymore.
• This was war.