Chapter 5 The Price Of Silence

• Lidia’s POV
• Matias walked beside me, but didn’t say a word at first. I was grateful. My head was still spinning from Arias’s presence—his voice still echoed in my bones, his gaze burned across my skin in places he’d never touched.
• I wasn’t used to being seen.
• And Arias Moretti had seen everything.
• We stepped into the elevator, descending floor by floor through glass and metal and curated wealth. My steps were slow, cautious, as if my body already knew something had shifted and wasn’t ready for the weight of it.
• “I know what you’re thinking,” Matias said, finally breaking the silence as the elevator doors slid open to the lobby. “And no, he’s not always like that.”
• I gave him a side glance. “Like what?”
• “Like a storm dressed in a three-piece suit,” he said with a smirk. “But then again, you’re not always like this, either.”
• I didn’t answer.
• He didn’t push.
• As we exited the building, the sunlight hit me like a slap. Too bright. Too open. I blinked against it, barely registering the black car parked at the curb—Carlos leaning against the hood, arms crossed, scowl carved into his face like stone.
• His eyes narrowed the second he saw me.
• Matias stepped ahead of me and took the lead without hesitation. His tone shifted—colder now, clipped with polite authority.
• “Mr. Avallon,” he said, stopping in front of him. “Miss Phoenixia has been assigned a private workspace within the Moretti building. She’ll be working here daily, under direct supervision, with full access to the materials and environment required for this commission.”
• Carlos’s jaw tightened. “That wasn’t the deal. She works from home.”
• Matias smiled, sharp and effortless. “The deal is ten original pieces, specifically tailored to the Moretti estate. This is an exclusive commission, priced at two hundred and fifty thousand euros.”
• The air changed.
• Carlos’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, this time with less venom.
• “She… You’re paying—”
• “That’s the value of the contract,” Matias interrupted smoothly. “The arrangements include materials, studio access, meals, transportation if required, and complete discretion. All she needs to do is show up and create. She may bring personal belongings for comfort. You’ll escort her now to collect what she needs.”
• Carlos’s eyes snapped to me, but he said nothing. Not here. Not in front of this building. Not in front of Matias.
• I could see the calculation in his face. Two hundred fifty thousand.
• That number alone slapped duct tape over his protests.
• “You’ll be picked up in three hours,” Matias continued, not missing a beat. “There’s a private elevator, keycard access, and security. Everything’s ready for her arrival.”
• Carlos didn’t even glance at me. He jerked his chin toward the car. “Let’s go.”
• I didn’t move right away. I looked at Matias, my fingers still curled around the edge of my sketchbook.
• “Thank you,” I said softly.
• His smile turned gentle for a moment. “Make something that hurts, Phoenix. That’s what makes it real.”
• And then he turned, leaving me with the devil I knew, walking back into the building like this was just another Thursday.
• The car ride was silent.
• I could feel Carlos vibrating beside me—his fingers flexed around the steering wheel like he wanted to crush it, and maybe my throat with it. But he said nothing.
• He didn’t have to. I could feel the storm brewing under his skin.
• Two hundred fifty thousand.
• That number saved me today.
• But even salvation comes with a cost.
• We pulled into the driveway. He didn’t wait. He just growled, “Ten minutes,” and slammed the car door behind him.
• I climbed out slowly, my muscles stiff from sitting, from holding tension like a second skin. I didn’t waste time. I grabbed a duffel bag from the hallway closet and began to pack—clothes that wouldn’t draw attention, my paintbrushes, two sets of oils and acrylics, charcoal pencils, a jar of graphite dust I’d been saving, and three sketchbooks.
• I hesitated by my bed.
• Then pulled the small canvas from beneath the mattress.
• It was the only one I’d never signed.
• Not with that name.
• It was a painting of her—my mother, Ines, or what I imagined she’d look like now. Serene. Whole. Untouched. The woman I would’ve known if fate hadn’t torn her away.
• I placed it gently into the duffel and zipped it up.
• When I stepped back out into the hallway, Carlos was waiting. His eyes trailed over the bag, the brushes peeking from the side.
• “You’d better make it worth it,” he muttered. “Don’t fuck this up.”
• I didn’t answer.
• Because I already knew: this wasn’t just about paint.
• This was a door.
• And for the first time in twenty-one years, I was about to step through it.
• Into the fire.