The night the fire swallowed her sister, the sky over lake Ballamy had glowed like a dying sun.
A year later, Rhea vale still woke to the smell of smoke. It clung to her hair, her heart, her dream,and her paint stained hands. No matter how much time passed, the flames of her sister's death never stopped chasing her.
She stood in her studio now, barefoot and restless, the moonlight cutting through the windows in pale ribbons. The canvas before her was chaos streaks of crimson and ash—gray tangled together like bruised skin. A woman's outline shimmered in the center, faceless, reaching toward something she could never touch.
Serena.
Rhea's brush hovered above the canvas, trembling. Her sister had always been the golden one, the voice that filled a room with laughter, the smile that turned strangers into admirers. And yet, behind that perfection, there had been whispers. Late night calls. Panic in the eyes when she spoke of the man she was about to marry.
Luca Moretti.
The name stilled tasted like a poison to Rhea.
When the tabloids called his fiancée's death a tragic accident, Rhea had screamed until her throat tore. The fire at his estate had burned her sister's body beyond recognition, and somehow, he'd walked away untouched—untouched and untouchable.
But monsters always left traces.
Her phone buzzed on the table. An email notification blinked on the cracked screen. Rhea moved closer to check the email.
Ms. Rhea verdan
Your portfolio has been reviewed. Mr. Luca Moretti requests a private commission—a portrait to commemorate the late Miss Serena Vale.
Discretion required. Transportation arranged.
Payment in full upon completion.
.S. Hartwell, executive assistant to Mr. Moretti.
Her pule stuttered.
He didn't know who she really was. He thought she was Rhea verdan. A reclusive painter from Florence known for her haunting portraits of grief. The irony made her laugh…soft and bitter.
Rhea Vale had died with her sister. Only this version remained, reborn with a brush and a mission: to loom the devil in the eye and make him confess.
She touched the edge of the email again, re-reading the words "commemorate Serena Vale." The idea of him wanting to immortalize her sister twisted her stomach. Guilt? Nostalgia? Or was he just trying to bury the evidence under layers of art and money? The thought of what he was trying to do made her even more desperate.
She stepped closer to the painting. In the wavering candle light, Serena's painted silhouette seemed to shift, her mouth curving into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"I Rhea Vale will find out what you did to my sister," she whispered, her voice rough. "And when I do, you'll burn for it."
The car that arrived two mornings later was black and silent, a shadow with wheels.
The driver said nothing as Rhea slid into the back seat, holding her portfolio case. The world outside blurred, gray skies, endless trees, colorful streets and a lake that shimmered like polished steel.
By the time the mansion came into view, dusk has settled, turning everything gold and hollow. The house rose from the cliffside like something carved from glass and sorrow—elegant, sprawling and heartbreakingly cold.
Luca Moretti kingdom.
Inside, marble floors reflected chandeliers like fractured stars. Every sound seemed to echo too long, as if the house remembered what silence was supposed to mean.
"Mr. Moretti will see you in the west hall," a woman in gray murmured, leading her past tall mirrors and locked doors.
Rhea's steps slowed when she reached the grand staircase. Above it hung a massive painting Serena, radiant and laughing, frozen in time. For a second, Rhea forgot to breathe.
"She insisted he hang that portrait," the woman said quietly, catching her glance. "He hasn't moved it since then."
A chill ran down Rhae's spine. Of course he hasn't.
The west hall door stood half open. She pushed it gently and froze.
Luca Moretti stood by the window, his reflection fractured by the rain streaked glass. Tall, dressed in black, the kind of presence that pulled light toward him and crushed it. He turned when she entered, and in that single motion, she understood why people followed him without question.
His eyes were cold. Precise. Yet something haunted flickered beneath them like someone who'd been living with ghosts too long.
"Miss verdan." His voice was deep, smooth, and distant. "Thank you for coming."
Rhea lowered her gaze, keeping her tone even.
"It's an honor, Mr. Moretti. I…"
"You look nervous." He stepped closer cutting her off, his movements deliberate. "Most artists are talkative. You…are not." Hope you are good?
"I am good Mr. Moretti, I just prefer to let my work speak."
"Oh that sounds good." He studied her for a long moment, his eyes lasting too long on her face as if searching for something he'd already lost. "You'll find your studio at the end of the east corridor, he said finally. Everything you need is there."
"Thank you."
She turned to leave, desperate to escape the weight of his stare. But his voice stopped her at the door.
"One more thing, Miss verdan."
She looked back.
His expression didn't change, but his words slid through the air like a blade.
"If you are here to paint Serena," he said softly,
"Make sure you capture the truth. She was never as innocent as she looked."
Rhea's heart stopped beating for a seconds.
He turned away, and the conversation dismissed but her pulse thundered as she stepped into the hall. And she began to wonder if Luca Moretti wasn't the only one with secrets.