Chapter 4: Embers and Ultimatums

CALEB'S POV

The light was a broken thing against the blinds, slicing my madness of a studio into jagged, meaningless geometry. The dust motes whirled, suspended. Everything was heavy and suffocating. Even the air. She was still here. Her scent. A ghostly remnant of jasmine and something else, something bitter and clean, like rain on hot pavement. It clung to the stale canvas, the spilled ink. My bedclothes. God, the bedclothes.

I rolled onto my back, the bed groaning, a symphony of forgotten springs. Her face, etched vividly in my mind behind my closed eyes. Hell and damn her. Not just her face. The curve of her throat, the hitch of her breath, the soft weight of her body against me. The almost-kiss. A burning scrapefire on my mouth, a flame that smoldered on. I screwed my eyes shut harder. Pitiful. That was what I was. Obsessive. A fever dream of a man, consumed by a girl who probably thought I was a monster. Or worse, just an error.

My sketchbook, open on the ground, a casualty of last night's rage or this morning's misery. Even when closed, I knew what it contained. Page after page. Her. Her eyes, wide and rebellious. Her mouth, a perfect bow. Her hair, unkempt around her face. I’d drawn her from the heat of proximity, from the phantom touch of her fingers on my arm. A hundred versions of the same obsession. Each line a testament to how deeply she’d burrowed.

My leg was entangled in something soft. Not fabric from my clothing. Too thin. Too. perfumed. I kicked it out from under the blanket. An ivory scarf. Hers. Forgotten. Or left there on purpose? A test? A mean reminder?

I picked it up. Soft. Cool silk. Not just the scent now; the touch, the heaviness of it. Her body heat, somehow, still lingering in it. It hit me like a blow to the body. The catch of her breath, the set of her chin. She hadn't been scared. Not really. Adventurous, maybe. Stirred. And that was the terrible part. That I'd glimpsed something in her, some madness that matched my own. I saw it. I felt it. And then I'd backed away. Or charged too strongly. What difference did it make?

Guilt. A stifling, suffocating blanket. I had scared her. I must have. I was poison. My world, dark and shattered, would spoil anything so innocent as hers. She required light. Not the darkness that I lived. Not the chaos I breathed. She deserves…Pure. Not me. Never me.

Victoria. Her words still burned in my eyeballs, a brand on my already fucked-up head. I pulled my phone out of the back of my jeans, the broken screen where I'd punched it last night. The message staring back.

Victoria: Tell Ava the truth about her mother, "If you don't, I expose Julian. The waterfront scandal. Toxic chemicals. Bribes. Everything." The threat hung there, exposed.

My stomach churned. Isabelle's truth. What truth? What on earth was she talking about? And how could it possibly be worse than 2”what Victoria had led me to expect? Sterling Architecture. My father's kingdom. His entire dirty, well-built life. All of it, going up in flames. And Ava. Her reputation. Her career. Everything she'd struggled for. Ruined. Collateral damage. A planned casualty.

The scarf in my hand suddenly weighed too much, was too fragile. This was her world. This fragile loveliness. And Victoria wished me to destroy it.

Tell Ava the truth. Shatter her world with some secret, nasty thing about her silly, mother. A mother who imagined, unaware, content in her gilded cage. Or… let Victoria ruin it all. My father. His legacy. My own precarious standing. And Ava. Always Ava. Her future, lost.

Anger boiled over. A black, liquid flood. It had no place to go. My painting. My retreat. My escape. It turned against me. Fists were clenched and trembling. I tore through the canvases, ripping across the half-finished forms, the abstract landscapes. Paint burst apart. Frames splintered. Glass shattered, a thousand small explosions of my own desperation.

No. God, no.

Both paths led to her destruction. Both paths led to me losing her. One, I'd be responsible for her pain. The other, a helpless observer, standing by as I watched her world burn. My own world already set ablaze. She was the one thing, the one incredible, maddening thing I wanted to leave untouched. And I couldn't.

I charged at the door, the scent of new paint and splintered wood and her jasmine-scented shawl a whirling head. My throat was tightened. My chest, a vice. I had to know. Had to know this "truth" Victoria clutched in her hand like a gun. I could not barge in unprepared. Would not. Not with Ava in the crosshairs.

The street closed in around me. The harsh realities of the alley air, cold and hard, were balm for the fire burning in my head. Walked rapidly, phantom limb dragging behind. Fought through the throngs, faces a blur. Stood firm with each step a call for clarity.

The underground bar was a familiar haven. A place for shadows. For secrets shared in hushed voices over cheap whiskey. The scent of stale beer and desperation clung to everything. Low illumination, one bare light above the cracked pool table, casting long, distorted shadows on the walls. Anonymity. I wanted that. And an answer.

He sat there, in his usual corner booth. A ghost in the shadows. The private detective. Lean, inconspicuous man with eyes that saw everything and said nothing. Didn't even look up as I slid into the chair opposite him. Just nodded toward the bartender to bring him another round. His silence was already a question.

I pushed the crumpled twenty along the table. Enough for a round. Way, way more than enough. My heart still racing with the dread of Victoria's deadline. The slide of Ava's scarf, still an unsettling touch on my inner wrist, where I'd pushed it past my sleeve.

"Isabelle Thompson," I let out, the words scraping, odd. "Ava's mother."

His eyes finally looked up. Flat, knowing. Unchanged.

"I need it all. All the secrets. All the cover-ups. Whatever Victoria Hayes thinks she has on her. I need it in the morning." I leaned in closer, my voice dropping, gritty. "I need it yesterday."

He nodded. Slowly. No judgment. No question. Just the silent acceptance of a dangerous transaction. The truth. Buried deep. A risk. My one move. Time was running out. And I had to discover how to breach the impossible before it destroy us all. Before it destroys her.