CHAPTER FOUR

ELENA

I stepped out of  Moretti Enterprises' skyscraper as though I had emerged from a war zone. Morning air smacked me in the face without doing anything to dispel the tempest that raged in my insides.

The man. How despicable that man.

Alexander Moretti just sat there informing me my art was "just decent". What an arrogant man. I'd given decades of my own time to my art, investing every stroke with every emotion I couldn't put into words. And he just dismissed it like it was merely a business arrangement.

But what was I even expecting? A standing ovation? A tearful apology for having made me a spectacle before that audience?

I snorted with disgust and tightened my grip on the folder he'd given to me.

No, I did not expect anything of him.

However, I did have some questions.

The question that haunts.

It all came back to me last night—his cold rejection and how he'd left me like trash—and this morning it was like he'd flipped a switch and was going to do some collaborating with me. It didn't make sense.

The moment I'd received that email at about 3:27 AM, I'd nearly choked on my own disbelief.

I still remember how my stomach churned up when I saw the name of the sender:

Moretti Enterprises.

I had clicked on it with shaky fingers, expecting another rejection or, worst-case scenario, some kind of threat. But instead, it was a proposal. He wanted my services. He required my artwork.

I thought it was a prank initially. Or some sick joke to tease me some more. Had I not embarrassed myself enough for his entertainment?

I wanted to ignore it, delete it or pretend that I never saw it.

But then I'd looked around my flat—the peeling wallpaper, the stack of overdue bills, and the nearly-empty fridge. Then my landlord came to my mind and how he'd sent me yet another eviction letter with the disguise of a "friendly reminder".

There was nothing to be proud of.

Nevertheless, I'd managed to get dressed, marched into his glass castle and here I am, with a job that I was not even sure that I wanted.

And to add to that, my stomach kept on twisting with anxiety and wouldn't settle.

I took a deep breath and began walking down the street with my fingers deep in my coat pockets. The city was abuzz with all of its usual craziness—horns blaring, people rushing to get to work, and coffee and street food smells. But despite all of that normalcy, I couldn't shake this strange sensation that had settled over me.

Like I was being watched.

I looked back over my shoulder, scanning the busy crowd. Everyone was too occupied with their own lives, gazing into their phones or involved in conversation. Everything was ordinary.

However, that feeling still remained.

I hastened my pace; I was probably just exhausted, or maybe Alexander was getting to me more than I realised.

I needed coffee. Badly.

The small café in my neighborhood was my go-to place for as long as I can remember. It was not necessarily fancy, as one would expect but it made great coffee and didn't mind that I was sitting there for hours with my notebook scribbling away.

I entered, enveloped in the scent of roasting beans that was as warm as a comforting hug.

Sofia was already sitting in our usual booth with arms folded across her chest and tapping her nails on the wooden table with nervous energy. She leaned forward as soon as she saw me.

“Well?” she persisted. “Have you been sacked yet?”

I rolled my eyes and slumped into the chair across from her, banging down the folder on the table. "No," I said, "but I wish I were."

She raised an eyebrow. "So bad?"

I took a deep breath and massaged my temples. "Let's just say that Alexander Moretti is every bit as egotistical as he looks."

Sofia reached for the folder and opened it before I could stop her. "So what is Mr. Broody Billionaire getting you to paint?" she said.

I groaned, but I let her continue.

She scanned through the pages with scrunched eyebrows. "Hold on… these are sketches of La Rosa Hotel."

I blinked. "What?

I still hadn't taken a look up to that moment. I'd been too busy with my own frustration to bother.

I pulled back the folder and dug through the pages. Blueprints. Sketches. A rough outline of a mural wall.

And then I saw it.

A portrait.

A vague and unfinished work, a female figure staged in the center of a big ballroom with her back to the audience, her gown flowing like ink on a canvas. It was stunningly poignant… and somehow familiar.

A chill ran down my spine.

"What the hell?" I cried.

Sofia moved closer. "Did you make this yourself?"

I slowly moved my head. "No… it feels like something I could have done."

The style, the strokes, the emotions that lay behind them—all too close to my work.

"Maybe that is why he chose you," Sofia uttered. "Maybe he noticed this and understood that you were the only one who could complete it."

I swallowed hard while my pulse quickened.

Why did this feel personal?

My fingers traveled over the sketch as my mind was racing.

Alexander Moretti was not hiring me for some random project.  There was something more to this.

And I needed to find out what.

I departed the café somewhat later with my mind still spinning. Sofia had tried to lighten the mood with jokes about how I should start charging Alexander for emotional damage, but my mind was elsewhere.

I walked with the folder clutched tightly to my chest, with autumn wind cutting around me.

And then it hit again.

The same unshakable feeling of being watched.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

I looked around wildly with a racing heart.

Nothing.

Nothing more than a street full of strangers, going about their lives.

But I knew better than to ignore my instincts.

I quickened my pace and took a turn onto a less crowded street. My flat was not far and I just had to get inside, lock the door and convince myself that I was paranoid.

But as I rounded the corner, I spotted him.

The man in black who stood waiting for him in the distance.

Not walking, not moving. Simply standing and watching.

I froze mid-step.

His eyes were hidden by the low cap on his forehead and  I could feel his gaze piercing through the distance.

My stomach twisted violently.

Something wasn't right.