ESTHER'S POV
I stood in front of the canvas for a long time before I touched it.
The room was quiet, but not empty. It held something. Something I had not felt in months–maybe longer. It felt like a memory waiting for me to step back into it.
My fingers hovered over the brushes, I didn't know where to start.
Six months ago, I would not have hesitated. I would have picked a color without thinking and let my hand move before my mind could catch up but now everything felt heavy. Even choosing a color felt like a decision I could get wrong.
I picked up a brush anyway. My hand trembled slightly. I dipped it into blue, the first stroke was messy. I stared at it, then I added another and another.
It wasn't good or neat but it was something. I didn't realize how tight my chest had been until it loosened just a little.
"You're holding the brush too tightly," he said.
I froze, I hadn't heard him come in. I turned slowly and looked at him.
Gideon was standing at the door, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the canvas. Not on me–on the canvas.
"How long have you been standing there?" I asked.
"Long enough," he replied.
"That's not an answer," I said.
"It's the one I'm giving," he replied.
I exhaled slowly and turned back to the canvas.
"You're going to criticize my technique now?" I asked.
"I wasn't criticizing," he said. "Your hand is shaking."
"It's been six months," I said quietly.
He didn't respond immediately. Then he stepped into the room. I felt it more than I saw it. The shift in the air when he moved closer.
"Then don't try to be good," he said. "Just try to be authentic."
I let out a small breath.
"That sounds like something people say when they don't know what else to say," I said.
"It's something people say when they know exactly what to say," he replied.
I glanced at him. He was closer now–close enough that I was aware of him in a way I didn't want to be or maybe I did.
I turned back to the canvas before that thought could settle. I dipped the brush again this time in red. The color spread across the canvas in a way that felt too much, but I didn't stop.
I paint faster now. I didn't notice when my breathing changed and didn't notice when my thoughts got quieter.
All I knew was that for the first time in months, I wasn't thinking about bills or hospital calls or what would happen tomorrow.
I was just there. When I finally stopped, my hand dropped to my side. The canvas was a mess–colors clashed and the lines didn't make sense but it wasn't empty anymore.
"That's not bad," Gideon said.
I let out a small laugh.
"That's a lie," I said.
"It's not," he replied. "It's unfinished."
I turned to him.
"Is that your way of saying I should keep going?" I asked.
"It's my way of saying you didn't stop because you wanted to," he said. "You stopped because you got scared."
My chest tightened slightly.
"You assume a lot," I said.
"I observe," he replied.
I held his gaze for a moment, then I looked away.
"I used to paint with my dad," I said before I could stop myself.
The words surprised me, I hadn't planned to say them. Gideon didn't interrupt.
"He would close the restaurant on Sundays," I continued. "We'd set up in the kitchen. He was terrible at it. Like… actually terrible. But he acted like he was creating something important."
I smiled faintly.
"He used to say the worst paintings were the honest ones," I added.
Silence settled between us. "I haven't painted since he died," I said.
"I know," Gideon replied.
I looked at him sharply.
"How would you know that?" I asked.
"You packed everything away," he said. "People don't do that unless they're trying to forget something."
My throat tightened. "That's not always true," I said.
"Most of the time," he replied.
I didn't answer, he suddenly stepped closer. Too close enough that if I turned slightly, I would brush against him. My heart started to beat faster.
"You can hate me," he said quietly. "But don't take this away from yourself because of what happened".
"This has nothing to do with you," I said.
"Everything in this house has something to do with me," he replied.
"That doesn't mean you understand it," I said.
"I don't need to understand it," he said. "I just need to know it matters."
I turned to face him fully.
"Why do you care?" I asked.
The question came out sharper than I intended. His expression didn't change but something in his eyes did.
"I notice things," he said.
"That's not an answer," I said.
"It's the only one you're getting," he replied.
We stood there for a moment and I won't lie I could feel the space between us like something alive.
"Esther," he said quietly.
I didn't answer–i didn't trust my voice. He took another step closer and suddenly the space between us was gone, I could feel the heat from his body.
My heart was beating too fast. This was a mistake, I knew it. I should step back but i didn't. His hand was lifted up, for a second, I thought he was going to touch my face.
He stopped but rght before he did, his fingers hovered near my cheek in a way like he was holding himself back.
I exhaled slowly.
"I should go," I said.
"Yes," he replied.
I turned and walked out before I could change my mind.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him standing there. Close enough to make me forget everything I had promised myself.
I turned to my side– then back again. This was not supposed to happen, i was not supposed to feel anything. This was a contract–nothing more, nothing less.
So why did it feel like something was changing?
JOSEPH'S POV
I knew it the moment I saw the photograph.
The way he stood beside her–the way his hand rested at her back, that was a strategy and I didn't like it.
I sat in my study, the glass of whiskey untouched in front of me, the photograph open on my phone.
Esther Collins.
Robert's daughter.
The girl I had watched grow up, the girl who trusted me. She was supposed to be mine.
I smiled faintly, it had taken me years to get here.
Years of patience, of careful planning but Robert had always been the problem.
He was too proud and too stubborn and also too blind to see what was right in front of him.
I leaned back in my chair. I could still remember that night clearly, six months earlier.
The glass in my hand, the way he laughed, unaware. "You worry too much," he had said.
I smiled at the memory–he had always trusted me.
"That was his weakness, so stupid". I thought to myself.
"I'm trying to help you," I had told him and he believed me. Of course he did.
I poured the substance into his drink slowly and it watched the liquid settle.
And I watched him take it without hesitation–that was the moment everything changed.
Or at least, it was supposed to be.
I had planned everything carefully.
The financial collapse that led to the restaurant's debts, the pressure, the slow collapse.
He was supposed to fall apart and he did but just not the way I expected.
I frowned slightly, something had gone wrong. I didn't know what yet but I would find out. I know I always did.
My eyes returned to the photograph. Gideon Cross–that man had interfered where he had no right to.
Interference could be dealt with, everything could be dealt with. So I picked up my phone, dialed a number.
She answered on the second ring.
"You're late," she said.
"I like to take my time," I replied.
"Don't play games with me ," she said.
I smiled.
"I can tell," I replied. There was a pause, then she spoke again.
"She's not what I expected," she said.
"Esther?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied. "She's quieter than I thought, that makes her more dangerous."
I leaned forward slightly.
"She's not dangerous," I said. "She's predictable."
"No one is predictable," she replied.
"You'd be surprised," I said.
She paused.
"What's your plan?" she asked.
I smiled slowly.
"The same as it has always been," I replied. "We take everything from him."
"And her?" she asked.
I glanced at the photograph again.
"At the right time," I said. "She will choose the wrong side."
"And if she doesn't?" she asked.
I leaned back, then my voice softened slightly.
"She will," I replied, because she trusts me–she always had.
People like Esther, they didn't betray familiarity, they ran back to it–no matter how dangerous it was.
I ended the call, picked up my glass and this time, I drank slowly and patiently because I knew one thing for certain, this was far from over and when it ends, I would be the one standing.