Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Gabriella’s Provocation

Sophia’s P.O.V

As the rest of the students filed into the art room, I stood by my desk, hands folded neatly in front of me, my face carefully neutral. It wasn’t difficult—I had spent years mastering the art of restraint, of keeping every emotion locked away where it couldn't be read, where it couldn't be used against me. Today was no different. Today, I was just their teacher, guiding them into the world of creation.

However, the notice on my desk from the Director of the institute told me that I now had to deal with my husband’s mistress on a daily basis.

Gabriella Harrison. That’s what her name was, but there was something familiar about it that I couldn’t quite pinpoint at the moment.

"Class," I called out once everyone was settled, my voice steady, controlled. "We have a new student joining us. This is Gabriella." I gestured toward the woman sitting in the front row, her arms crossed loosely over her chest.

"Welcome, Gabriella," I said, my voice steady, betraying none of the unease that her smirk seemed designed to provoke.

“Oh, Sophia, I’ve heard so much about you.” Hearing this left me unsettled and provoked. Her dark eyes met mine, unreadable, before she offered a small, almost dismissive nod to the rest of the class. Some students murmured greetings, others barely looked up from their seats, already eager to get started on today’s assignment.

I cleared my throat, shifting the attention back to me. "Today's class is a little different. Instead of working with an assigned object, I want you all to draw whatever your heart desires." A ripple of excitement moved through the students, a few exchanging eager whispers as they reached for their materials. "There are no restrictions today—just let your imagination run wild and put whatever you feel onto the canvas."

There were more than a few eager faces, lit with delight at the new perspective and freedom this class provided. Some were already deep in thought, their pencils poised, while others began chatting with their neighbors about what they might create. I let them have their moment, walking slowly between the tables, offering a quiet comment here, a brief word of encouragement there.

Gabriella, I noticed, didn’t ask for any guidance. Her brush moved across the canvas with a kind of determination that felt deliberate. Every so often, I caught her glancing up at me, that same smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. My jaw tightened, but I refused to let her get under my skin. It’s all in your head, Sophia, I reminded myself, keeping my movements smooth and my expression calm.

I stopped by Jason’s table, where he was frowning at his half-drawn sketch. "Need some help?" I asked, leaning slightly to get a better view of his work. "I don’t know if this shading looks right," he admitted, holding up the charcoal pencil.

"Try softening the edges here," I said, demonstrating with a quick swipe of my finger on his paper. "It’ll give it more depth." He nodded, already making the adjustments.

Moving on, I paused near Lila, who was struggling with a watercolor piece. "You’re overthinking it," I said gently. "Let the colors blend naturally. Watercolor is all about flow, not control." She looked up at me, uncertain, but nodded and dipped her brush in water.

I kept making my rounds, but Gabriella’s presence was like a faint buzz in the back of my mind. No matter how much I tried to focus on the other students, my eyes kept drifting toward her. Her strokes were bold and unapologetic, her canvas already half-covered in stark contrasts. And then, there it was again—that smirk.

"Is everything alright, Gabriella?" I asked finally, keeping my tone even as I stopped near her table. She looked up, feigning innocence. "Oh, I’m great," she said with a hint of mockery in her voice. "Just really inspired by this… freeing environment you’ve created." Her words dripped with sarcasm, but I refused to rise to the bait.

"Good," I replied curtly, moving on before she could say anything else.

Halfway through the class, the students were proudly displaying their works. I made my rounds again, offering genuine praise where it was due, reminding myself to treat Gabriella’s work with the same neutrality I gave the others. She remained at her canvas without a word, but the smirk lingered. I didn’t react, didn’t let her see that she’d unsettled me. Whatever game she thought she was playing, I wasn’t about to let her win.

A few minutes later, the classroom was silent, the only sounds being the faint scratching of brushes against canvas and the occasional shuffle of feet as someone adjusted their stance. I sat at my easel, my own painting far from finished, as my eyes kept darting to the clock. Everyone seemed so absorbed in their work, yet my mind wandered, unwilling to fully commit to the scene I was supposed to be creating. Gabriella, seated at right in front of me, had been unusually quiet . Her smirk had vanished and she seemed laser-focused.

When she stood abruptly, my curiosity piqued. I watched her stride toward the instructor’s desk with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, the completed painting clutched firmly in her hands. She was the first to finish, which surprised me, as this was her first day, but something about the way she smirked at me before handing it in set me on edge.

“Sophia,” she called, her voice cutting through the quiet room like a knife. “Why don’t you come check this out? I think you’ll find it... interesting.”

I hesitated, my brush hovering midair, unsure if I wanted to indulge her. But her tone had a taunting edge that made it impossible for me to ignore. Slowly, I put down my brush and stood, my steps hesitant as I approached her. She was already holding the painting up, her eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and challenge.

The moment I saw it, my breath caught in my throat, and I felt the blood drain from my face. It took me a second to process the image, but once I did, I wished I hadn’t.

On the canvas was a graphic depiction of two people locked in a passionate embrace, completely naked. The woman was straddling the man, her head thrown back in ecstasy, while his hands—oh God, his hands—were gripping her breasts with blatant intimacy. Every detail was rendered with such precision that it was impossible to dismiss it as abstract or interpretive.

“Gabriella,” I gasped, my voice barely above a whisper as I stepped back, my hands instinctively coming up as if to shield myself from the image. “What the—what is this?”

Her grin widened, and she leaned casually against the desk, completely unbothered. “What does it look like, Sophia? It’s art. Aren’t we supposed to be expressing ourselves in this class?”

I shook my head, unable to tear my eyes away from the painting despite the growing pit of horror in my stomach. Because it wasn’t just the explicitness of the scene that shocked me—it was the faces. Even distorted and hazy, I still recognized them. The man, with his chiseled jawline and familiar messy hair, was Tristan. And the woman, even though their faces were abstract, there was no doubt in my mind that it was Gabriella herself.

"Where did you get this image?" My voice is flat, controlled, but my insides are spiraling.

Gabriella just shrugged, completely unfazed. “From a blend of real life and imagination, of course. Art is meant to provoke, isn’t it? And besides, it’s not like it’s a lie. Every stroke of that brush is based on real experience.”

My stomach churned at her words, and I felt an overwhelming urge to slap that smug expression off her face. My nails dug into the wood of my desk. I wanted to look away, to tear the canvas from her hands and throw it across the room, to make it disappear. But I didn’t. Because that would mean she’d won. That would mean she’d gotten under my skin, and that’s exactly what she wanted.

I don’t move. I don’t speak. I don’t let the horror show on my face. But inside, I feel like I’m about to shatter.

There was a challenge in her eyes, a taunt, daring me to react to her grotesque masterpiece.