The tension in the studio was thick enough to paint. Julian didn't let go of Elara's hand immediately. He felt the callouses on her fingertips—the marks of a true musician who had spent thousands of hours practicing.
"You're not going back to that tunnel tonight," Julian stated. It wasn't a request.
Elara pulled her hand back, her hazel eyes flashing. "You don't get to tell me where I go. I'm a model, not a prisoner."
"You're bleeding, you're exhausted, and someone is looking for you, aren't they?" Julian watched her face closely. He saw the flicker of fear before she masked it with a scowl. "I saw a black sedan following you yesterday. Don't lie to me."
Elara's silence was her confession.
"Stay here," Julian said. "There are four guest rooms. The security is top-tier. No one gets past the lobby without my permission."
"And what do you want in return?" Elara asked bitterly. "Another portrait? A pound of flesh?"
Julian walked over to his canvas and looked at the unfinished sketch of her. It was beautiful, but it was missing her fire. "I want you to play for me without fear. I want to see the version of you that isn't hiding in a yellow cardigan. I want the music that you're too afraid to play for the world."
Elara looked at the luxury around her, then at Julian—a man who had everything but seemed just as empty as she was.
"Fine," she whispered. "But the five hundred an hour still stands."
Julian smirked, the first real smile Elara had seen on his face. "Deal. Dinner is at eight. Try not to break any more of my furniture."