The brass compass had become my treasure. I placed it in the most prominent spot on my desk, and whenever I needed a break from studying, I would pick it up, running my fingers over the delicate engravings, watching the sensitive little needle tremble before stubbornly settling south. Every touch felt like reaching through Liam's silent exterior to the tiny crack he had opened just for me.
Our relationship seemed to enter a stable, warm phase. He was still mysterious, still held many parts of himself I didn't understand, but I had learned not to press. I trusted that time would eventually provide the answers.
Occasionally, he would agree to accompany me to museums. I still remember our visit to the Prado vividly.
It was a Wednesday afternoon, and the museum wasn't crowded. We stood before Bosch's bizarre and intricately detailed The Garden of Earthly Delights. I tried to recount to Liam what our professor had explained about its symbols and metaphors, stumbling over some parts.
Liam stood with his arms folded, listening quietly. When I finally finished and looked at him with a hint of anticipation, he only shook his head slightly.
"Not right?" I asked, feeling a little deflated.
"Not entirely." His gaze never left the painting, his voice low and steady. "See the lute player in the lower left corner? He's placed inside a halved fruit. That's not just a symbol of sensual pleasure. Notice the upside-down owl at his feet. In the context of that time, it often represented folly and evil rather than wisdom. And here," he gestured toward a bizarre scene in the center, enclosed in a translucent sphere, "this isn't mere fantasy. It could symbolize the fragility and transience of knowledge, and the dangers it can bring."
He spoke fluently, calmly, yet with impeccable logic, citing references with ease. His insight was so deep, his perspective so sharp, that it completely surpassed what one would expect from a "street artist who knows a bit about painting"—even sharper than some of my professors.
I stared at him, wide-eyed, hazel eyes round with astonishment. "Liam… how… how do you know all this?"
For a brief moment, he seemed to realize he had said too much, and the fluent words cut off abruptly. A flicker of subtle unease passed through his icy blue eyes, but it was instantly masked by his usual aloofness. He looked away, his voice returning to its calm monotone. "I… read some books when I was bored."
Another vague excuse.
But this time, that tiny seed of doubt Megan had planted in my mind seemed to stir ever so slightly. Could all this insight really come from a struggling artist who had "just read a few books"?
Liam seemed unwilling to continue the conversation. He turned toward the next gallery, and I hurried to follow, pushing my unease deep down. Perhaps he really was a buried genius, I told myself, choosing to believe in this romantic notion.
As we moved through the galleries, I noticed a small detail. Liam seemed unusually attentive to the museum's security measures—cameras, emergency exits, and even the flow of foot traffic. His eyes would casually sweep over these areas, sharp and evaluating, as if… as if he were assessing something.
"What's up?" I asked when I noticed him lingering for a few seconds near a fire exit.
"Nothing." He immediately looked away, his tone casual. "Just thinking that the museum's circulation layout could use some work."
The explanation made sense. Anyone who studied art and architecture would naturally notice spatial design. I convinced myself once more, attributing the dissonant feeling to my own sensitivity.
Yet, similar incidents weren't just a one-time thing.
Once, we were having dinner at a small restaurant near La Rambla. At the next table, a group of men who had clearly been drinking grew louder and louder, their words becoming coarse—some of it even directed at me.
I felt uneasy and was about to signal to Liam that maybe we should leave. But he acted first.
He didn't look at their table, didn't even shift in his seat. He simply picked up the table knife and began slicing the roasted fish on his plate, slow and deliberate. His movements remained elegant, yet somehow the atmosphere around him changed instantly. It was an invisible, icy pressure, like a cold wave quietly spreading.
He didn't utter a word, only occasionally lifting his eyes. When he did, those icy blue eyes were like actual icicles, briefly sweeping over the rowdy men.
Miraculously, their voices gradually dropped, and finally, they awkwardly paid their bill and left—without daring another glance in our direction.
I exhaled, genuinely relieved. "That scared me… thank goodness they left on their own."
Liam put down his knife, lifted his glass, and took a sip. "Hmm. Lucky," he said, his voice calm and understated.
Was it really just luck? I watched the calm, unruffled profile of his face, and that strange feeling stirred again in my chest. The presence he radiated in that moment was far beyond what any ordinary painter could command. It was more like… someone accustomed to controlling a situation, someone used to instilling fear.
And then there were the small, old scars on his hands—some of them didn't look like they came from paintbrushes or carving knives at all. When I asked, he just said they were "from work, long ago."
Details like these—small, grainy bits of sand—occasionally scratched at the perfect image of love I held in my heart. But I loved him too much: the brooding, talented, occasionally tender Liam I saw before me. I instinctively found explanations for all the inconsistencies: he had a complicated past, so he knew more; his personality was cold, so his presence felt commanding; he'd done rough work before, so his hands bore scars.
Love, I told myself, was a perfect excuse. It made me overlook every hidden current lurking beneath the ice.
I immersed myself in the tenderness he occasionally showed: remembering that I didn't eat cilantro, quietly leaving medicine at my apartment door when I was sick, sending short messages on stormy nights asking, "Are you okay?"
These tiny gestures, like scattered starlight, illuminated my busy, modest life as an exchange student, making the Barcelona sky feel somehow bluer simply because he existed.
I was like any girl in the throes of first love—blindly, blissfully happy.
I had no idea that everything I felt might only be the tip of a massive iceberg. Beneath the surface, a torrent of hidden currents and unimaginable truths churned silently.
And I had no inkling that a storm—one capable of shattering this fragile happiness—was quietly brewing in a place I could not see.
After returning from the Prado, that faint thread of doubt in my mind hadn't completely vanished—but it was quickly drowned out by a surge of joy from something else.
The academy's annual "Rising Lights" art exhibition was about to open, inviting curatorial proposals from students across the school. It was the dream opportunity for anyone studying art history: winning proposals would actually be executed, providing a massive boost to one's résumé.
I spent several sleepless nights, poring over countless references and racing across nearly every gallery in Barcelona in search of inspiration. Finally, I submitted a curatorial plan themed around "Urban Memory and the Intersection of Modernity," focusing on forgotten artifacts tucked away in the city's corners—objects that carried traces of history.
After hitting "submit," my heart was a mix of anxiety and anticipation. I didn't even dare tell Liam yet, afraid that any potential disappointment might dampen my excitement.
A few days later, I received the news that my proposal had made it to the final round! Even more astonishing, one of the visiting professors on the judging panel—Mr. Hernández, a figure I deeply admired and notorious for his exacting standards—had personally reached out through the academy, expressing that he was "very interested" in my project and inviting me for a face-to-face meeting.
I was ecstatic, and my first instinct was to share the good news with Liam. I rushed to Els Quatre Gats, but he wasn't in his usual spot. Javier, casually polishing a coffee cup, said slowly, "Liam? He just rushed out a moment ago. Got some kind of call… didn't look too happy."
A small pang of disappointment flickered through me, but it was quickly overwhelmed by excitement. I sent him a quick message, then turned my attention to preparing meticulously for the meeting with Professor Hernández.
The meeting was scheduled for two days later at the café in the hotel where Hernández was temporarily staying, near the academy. I arrived early, my palms sweaty with nerves. The professor appeared promptly—a silver-haired gentleman, impeccably groomed, with eyes sharp as an eagle's.
To my surprise, he knew my proposal inside and out, even pointing out ideas I had never shared publicly, concepts that existed only in the preliminary sketches of my manuscript.
"Miss Green, in your proposal, you mentioned using the series of photographs in the 'Time Fold' gallery—those images of corroded drainage parts from the old quarter. That's a bold choice. As far as I know, those works aren't publicly exhibited. How did you come across them?"
I froze. "I… I just happened to see them during a private viewing. It left a very strong impression on me. Professor, how did you know…" It had been an extremely small, even private, internal exhibition. I only got the chance because I was helping the curator with odd jobs.
Professor Hernández smiled faintly, deftly sidestepping my question. "Clever choice. And your interpretation of postwar Spanish realist painting is also unique—there's even a hint of the early tastes of the Castian family, though they've long since turned toward more avant-garde art."
The Castian family? Onyx Group? Liam's occasional serious expression while watching financial news flickered in my mind—but I immediately shook it off. Ridiculous. I hurriedly said, "You flatter me, Professor. I was just approaching it from the art itself…"
The meeting went remarkably smoothly. By the end, Professor Hernández not only gave me high praise but even offered, "I have a few old friends at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. If you ever want to develop your career there, I'd be happy to write you a recommendation."
I walked out of the hotel in a daze, feeling like I was floating on clouds. It all felt too good to be true! My proposal was solid, but could it really win the favor of such a high-level professor and prompt such a concrete offer so easily?
That evening, I finally saw Liam at the café. He looked more tired than usual, the shadows under his eyes heavier, yet when he saw my excited expression, the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.
"That's great." After I babbled on incoherently, he offered a simple assessment, his tone carrying a faint—almost imperceptible—trace of pride.
"Liam, isn't it strange? Professor Hernández knew so many details, he even—" I didn't get to finish before Liam cut me off, his voice carrying a hint of urgency. "He acknowledged your ability. That's what matters." He paused, then added, "Don't overthink it. Just seize the opportunity."
His phone buzzed at that moment. He glanced at it, and his expression sharpened instantly, icy and unreadable. The warmth I'd just glimpsed vanished. He quickly typed a reply, then stood. "I have something urgent to take care of… I need to go."
"But you haven't even touched your coffee…" I said, staring at the cup he barely touched.
"Next time." He grabbed his coat and left in a hurry, not even sparing me the usual glance.
That familiar sense of unease returned. He seemed to know something—yet was deliberately avoiding it.
A few days later, something even more dramatic happened. I ran into one of my disheartened rivals, Tom, in the corridor. With a thinly veiled sneer, he said, "Congrats, Alison. Didn't expect someone with your background to get Onyx Group involved to grease the wheels for you."
My smile froze. "What? The… Onyx Group? Who made a call?"
Tom gave me a strange look. "You're still pretending? Professor Hernández is a key advisor for the Onyx Group Art Foundation. They're also one of the sponsors for this exhibition. If someone from up there hadn't intervened, why would he show so much favor to an undergrad like you?"
A sharp buzzing seemed to explode inside my head. My mind went completely blank.
Onyx Group… the Cassdine family… Professor Hernández…
And then, for the briefest moment, I saw Lián's weary, mysterious face flash in my mind.
His sudden interruption…His warning, "Don't overthink it"…
Pieces of information collided in my mind like shards of glass, each one slicing at the edges of reason, yet no coherent picture emerged.
Lián? He… how could he possibly be connected to that sprawling empire? He was just a struggling painter, living modestly, with paint-stained hands and a quiet life.
And yet, every little detail—the knowledge that exceeded what a "streetwise artist" should know, the sudden uncanny luck that kept happening around me, his rare but commanding presence in tense situations—kept gnawing at my disbelief.
I took a shaky breath and closed my eyes, trying to convince myself it was impossible. It had to be coincidence… it had to be.
I returned to my apartment in a daze. Megan was sitting there with a facial mask on.
"Hey, what's wrong? You look pale… Isn't your curatorial project going smoothly?" she asked, her voice muffled through the mask.
I grabbed her hand, my voice trembling. "Megan… do you think… is it possible that… Liam… knows someone… really rich and powerful?"
Megan peeled off her mask, eyes widening. "Huh? Liam? That Liam, who couldn't have more than a hundred euros worth of clothes on him? Alison… are you okay? Are you just tired and talking nonsense?"
Yes, it sounded ridiculous. I shook my head hard, trying to cast away the terrifying, baseless suspicion. It had to be a coincidence—or maybe Tom was just jealous and making things up.
I resolved to stop overthinking and threw myself into the final touches of my exhibition proposal. Whatever the reason, the opportunity was real, and I had to seize it.
Yet, just one week before the exhibition opening, disaster struck. I was responsible for securing the loan of a key installation piece, only to have the lender suddenly back out, claiming the work had been sold to another collector at a high price and could no longer be loaned!
The news hit me like a bolt from the blue. That piece was central to the entire narrative of my exhibition. Without it, the impact of the whole project would be severely compromised—maybe even impossible to carry out!
I made countless calls, almost pleading, but all I received was cold refusal. I collapsed in the studio, despair pressing down on me so heavily that tears threatened to spill. All my hard work, my sleepless nights, might be wasted because of this one unforeseen obstacle.
That night, I barely made it through. The next morning, clinging to the last shred of hope, I dialed the collector's number again.
To my astonishment, their tone had done a complete 180. They apologized profusely and even offered to lend the piece as originally planned, going so far as to cover the additional shipping and insurance costs!
I held the phone, utterly bewildered, unable to comprehend what had changed overnight.
"B… but why the sudden change…?" I stammered.
There was a brief, awkward laugh on the other end, and then a slightly enigmatic tone: "Miss Green, you are far too modest. In the future, if you need any works, just contact me directly. Truly… I apologize for the inconvenience before."
I hung up the phone, standing frozen in place, my mind unable to process what had just happened.
What exactly occurred last night? Who had been working behind the scenes to help me?
A name almost slipped from my lips.
But I immediately stopped myself. No, impossible. How could he possibly have such influence? It must have been Professor Hernández—yes, it had to be him.
I forced myself to believe it, pushing down the wild, unsettling thoughts growing in the depths of my mind.
I was just an ordinary foreign student, and the one I loved was an equally ordinary, talented painter. Our lives should not be touched by elements worthy of financial headlines or spy thrillers.
I had to believe that.
After the euphoria of reclaiming the artwork came an even deeper unease. That sudden reversal on the phone was like a thorn, piercing the calm surface of my heart. I tried to explain it away as "Professor Hernández's influence," but the excuse was so flimsy that I couldn't even convince myself. The professor might wield academic clout, but there was no way he could make a stubborn private collector become so deferential—or even… fearful—overnight.
In the following days, I remained on edge. Preparations for the exhibition progressed with an almost unnatural smoothness; tasks that previously required endless negotiation now seemed mysteriously facilitated behind the scenes. This "luck" was suffocating.
Lian seemed busier than ever, and even more silent. Our meetings grew scarce, and when we did meet, he often seemed distracted. Those ice-blue eyes of his would drift into the void, swirling with complex emotions I couldn't begin to comprehend, like the suppressed surface of the sea before a storm. Occasionally, I would catch him looking at me, and there was a fierce, almost devouring sadness in his gaze—but when I looked closer, it would vanish, leaving only his usual coldness.
I asked if something had happened. He just shook his head, pressing his fingertips to his temple: "Just a little tired."
I could no longer deceive myself. Something had occurred, and it was connected to him. The possibility I had long refused to consider haunted my mind like a ghost—Onyx Group.
One afternoon, while researching in the library, I stumbled upon an outdated art-finance magazine. The cover featured none other than Marcos Castdine, chairman of the Onyx Group. Compelled by some instinct, I opened the article.
The piece was long and dense with business jargon, making my eyes glaze over. But near the end, a small question from the reporter caught my attention. The journalist asked Mr. Castdine about his views on the younger generation's artistic preferences, and whether they would continue to support traditional realism as in earlier years.
Marcos Castdine's answer was formal, but one sentence hit me like a thunderbolt:
"…Aesthetic tastes are always in flux. Just like my son—when he was young, he was also fascinated by the techniques of classical masters, even once considered studying painting himself, but now, he focuses more on the future of the Group…"
Son?
My heart raced, my blood boiling and then cooling in an instant. I fumbled to search online for keywords like "Castdine family" and "son." There was very little information. The family guarded their privacy fiercely. Only a few very early, vague financial reports hinted that Marcos Castdine had a son—someone extremely low-profile, almost never appearing in public, and whose name was never revealed.
I leaned against the cold bookshelf, shivering as my heart hammered in my chest, drumming so loudly it buzzed in my ears. Cold sweat soaked my palms.
If… if Lian really had connections to that family, why would he hide it? Why live such a frugal life? His mysterious movements, the rare glimpses of uncanny skill…
The fragments I had always filtered through love now surged back like a tidal wave, battering my reason:
He had lingered over the financial section of the newspaper with that unsettlingly sharp, evaluating gaze—once dismissed as an artist's curiosity.Professor Hernández's praise had been unusually precise, even referencing the Cardien family's early tastes as if he knew the blueprint beforehand.The collector's sudden, abject change in attitude—the mixture of fear and deference—was no ordinary courtesy.And Lian's knowledge at the museum, far beyond that of a street artist, combined with his instinctive attention to security cameras…
And the shadows of his past—the "dark side" he never spoke of, the place he left behind…
These fragments collided in my mind, spinning chaotically, refusing to form a coherent picture. I clung desperately to the comforting thought: "It must have been Professor Hernández… he just admires my work." But that explanation felt pitifully weak against the mounting evidence.
A single, insane thought struck me like lightning, making it almost impossible to breathe.
Could it be… Lian… Meyer… no, it's too crazy, it can't be…
But… what if?
What if the past he was fleeing wasn't poverty or trauma, but a colossal… inescapable empire he despised? What if his current exhaustion and silence weren't from artistic toil, but from pressures—and dangers—from a world I couldn't even imagine?
My fingers went numb, struggling to hold the heavy magazine. The thought terrified me, stretching far beyond the ordinary bounds of my student imagination.
Could none of it be a coincidence?
The thought terrified me. It was beyond anything I could have imagined. I would rather believe he was simply an artist with a secret past than connect him to that vast, wealth-and-power-laden business empire.
That night, I arranged to meet Lian at the café. I needed an answer, even if it was just a comforting lie.
I arrived early, nervously stirring my coffee with my fingers. Outside, a light drizzle fell, turning the Gothic Quarter's cobblestone streets slick and reflective under the dim streetlights.
Lian arrived on time, looking more haggard than in the past few days. His face was pale, shadows under his eyes deep, as if he carried some unbearable weight. He didn't even remove his raincoat, bringing a chill into the café as he sat across from me.
"Lian," I took a deep breath, forcing myself to meet his gaze, "do you… know anyone from the Onyx Group? Or… the Cardien family?"
The instant the words left my mouth, I saw his pupils contract, barely perceptibly, but enough for me to notice. A flash of instinctive alertness—like a secret had been touched. Yet his control was impeccable. Within seconds, his expression was calm again, tinged with just the right amount of curiosity.
"Why do you ask?" His voice was slightly hoarse, but even, steady.
I recounted my recent "luck," omitting the most outrageous suspicion. "I just feel… like someone's been helping me behind the scenes. Tom said it might have something to do with the Onyx Group. I… I can't help feeling uneasy."
He was silent for a moment, then let out a soft sigh, full of fatigue and, strangely, a hint of relief.
"Alison," he said, reaching across the table for my hand for the first time in public. His fingers were icy, wet from the rain, yet firm, as if trying to lend me strength—or to say goodbye. "Listen… sometimes, unexpected good things just happen. Your proposal is excellent; it deserves recognition. As for those rumors," he paused, his ice-blue eyes fixed on mine, unreadable, "don't listen. Don't believe them. Stay away from that world. It's not yours to touch."
I could feel the weight of his words pressing on me, both protective and forbidding. It was a warning, a boundary, a truth he wouldn't let me cross—not yet, maybe never.
"And your past?" I reversed my grip on his cold hand, pressing for the truth. "You've never been willing to tell me. Do you… have any connection with those people?" Though my question was vague, I finally voiced it.
He avoided my gaze, looking out at the drizzling rain. The lines of his profile, dimly lit, seemed sharper, colder, and lonelier than ever.
"My past… isn't a pleasant one, Allison," he said softly, his voice carrying a genuine pain that made every word feel utterly credible. "It's full of shadows I never wanted you to see. I left it to escape it. My life now is simple—just painting, and… you."
He turned back to me, the intense sadness returning to his eyes. "Trust me, okay? Don't let baseless suspicions ruin the life we have now. Those things… have nothing to do with me."
His eyes were filled with such pain and sincerity, and his tone was so heavy. He admitted that his past had a "dark side," yet firmly denied any connection to that glamorous business empire. It perfectly matched the image he had always projected—the struggling artist striving to escape a burdensome past and pursue a new life.
My heart softened immediately, replaced by a surge of guilt. How could I question him with such absurd suspicions, pressing him to reveal wounds that might still be bleeding?
"I'm sorry, Lian," I hurriedly apologized, my hazel eyes brimming with regret. "I shouldn't have asked, I shouldn't have doubted you. It's just… everything's been going so smoothly lately, and it made me a little scared."
He reached out, gently caressing my cheek. The gesture was incredibly tender, yet his eyes seemed as if they wanted to etch my face into the depths of his soul.
"Don't be afraid," he said, his voice soft, almost like a sigh. "Just focus on your exhibition. Don't overthink things."
At that moment, I chose to believe him. I chose to trust this carefully woven, half-true, half-false story. I believed in his melancholy, in his avoidance, in his wish to live a simple life with me.
How could I have imagined that the "dark side" he spoke of was far blacker and more dangerous than any past misfortune I could conceive? The world he urged me to stay away from was precisely the mire he himself was trapped in, unable to escape.
And that seemingly sincere denial—the words "It has nothing to do with me"—was the heaviest and most protective lie he ever told me.
He only wanted to keep me completely outside his storm, even if it meant letting me misunderstand him, even if it meant that one day I might hate him.
The rain continued to tap against the café windows like a sorrowful omen. We sat under the warm glow of the lights, hands intertwined, yet I had no idea that this was almost the last peaceful moment we would share.
A storm powerful enough to tear us apart entirely was already imminent. And the "luck" I had felt so far was nothing but the last deceptive calm before the tempest.