CHAPTER 7: Anonymous Artist

My chest felt entirely hollow. I sat in the middle of the crowded lecture hall, my hands folded tightly on the wooden desk in front of me, trying to ignore the painful lump forming in my throat. I just kept my eyes focused on the blank pages of my notebook. I didn't want to look up. I didn't want to see him. I didn't want to cry.

Adrian stood at the front of the room, behind a heavy podium, speaking in the deep, familiar voice that used to comfort me through the phone on my darkest nights. But right now, that voice held no warmth. It was strictly professional, distant, and completely foreign. He wore a dark grey suit that made his shoulders look impossibly broad. He controlled the entire room without even trying. It was as if I didn't know him. And he wouldn't look at me.

Not even a glance. The man who had held me so tightly just a few hours ago, the man who had brushed the hair away from my forehead while I cried in a strange bedroom, was pretending I didn't exist.

It hurt far more than I expected. The rejection settled deep in my stomach, a heavy, aching weight that made it hard to take a full breath. I felt stupid for thinking things would be different, for thinking the connection we shared in the dark would mean anything in the daylight.

"Post-Renaissance art wasn't about morality," Adrian said to the class. He stepped out from behind the podium, his hands casually resting in his pockets. "It was about sending a message. Who can name a piece from this era that was commissioned purely to establish dominance?"

A girl sitting in the very front row raised her hand instantly.

"Sienna," Adrian called on her. It seemed like it wasn't her first time answering questions like that.

I looked up at her. Sienna was breathtaking.

She had this vibrant, bright blonde hair that cascaded perfectly down her back, catching the fluorescent lights of the room. It made my own plain brown curls feel messy and dull in comparison.

She had delicate, sharp features and wore a fitted red sweater that looked effortlessly expensive. I found myself admiring her confidence. She didn't look nervous at all to be speaking in front of a hundred people. Or someone as intimidating as Adrian.

"The portrait of Pope Innocent X," Sienna answered. She shifted in her seat, leaning forward slightly and resting her arms on her desk. She kept her eyes locked right on Adrian, a soft, inviting smile on her face. It was obvious she wanted his attention.

"The artist didn't paint him to look holy. He painted him to look terrifying. It was a warning to anyone who tried to cross him."

Adrian paused, looking down at her.

"Exactly right," Adrian said, his tone softening with approval that it made me roll my eyes. "The artist understood that fear commands more respect than reverence. That is a very good observation, Sienna."

Sienna beamed. Her smile widened, and she tucked a strand of that perfect blonde hair behind her ear, clearly thrilled by his praise. She didn't turn around to gloat. She didn't even look at the rest of the room. She was entirely focused on him.

I shrank back into my chair. I didn't hate her for it. She was just a beautiful girl trying to impress a handsome professor. But watching Adrian give her the warmth and attention he was actively denying me hurt. I felt incredibly small.

I realized how easy it was for him to shut me out, to build a wall between us and carry on with his life while I sat here hurting.

I picked up my pen and forced myself to write down the dates he was listing. I focused on the feeling of the pen scratching against the paper. I refused to let the tears welled up in my eyes fall.

I wasn't going to cry in the middle of a classroom. I just swallowed the hurt, letting it harden into a quiet, stubborn anger. He wanted to ignore me, so I would survive the class.

When the hour finally ended and the bell rang, the room filled with the loud noise of students packing up their bags and talking over each other. I didn't rush. I carefully put my pen away, zipped my bag, and stood up. I kept my gaze fixed entirely on the exit doors and I joined the crowd shuffling out of the lecture hall. I didn't look back at the podium once.

The cold morning air felt amazing the second I pushed the exit doors open. I took a deep, shaky breath, letting the chill cool my warm cheeks. I hugged my leather jacket a little tighter around myself and walked across the campus courtyard, heading toward the art wing.

I just wanted to be alone. I wanted to find my locker, drop my heavy supplies, and find an empty corner where I could draw until my mind stopped racing.

Hall B was a large brick building with massive windows. The hallways were cluttered and loud, filled with students carrying canvases and covered in paint splatters. Pushing through the doors, I instantly felt a tiny bit of the tension leave my shoulders. It smelled like wet clay, and charcoal. It smelled like the only thing that had ever made sense in my life. Art.

I pulled my phone out to check the email from the campus office. Locker 402.

I started walking down the main corridor, dodging a group of students arguing about color theory, when I heard someone call out.

"Hey, Nirvana."

I stopped and turned. Leo was walking toward me, pushing his glasses up his nose. He looked tired, carrying a huge black portfolio case that seemed entirely too heavy for him, and he had a dark smudge of charcoal right across his forehead. His presence was comforting. He was just a normal guy worrying about normal college things. Not someone like me.

"Hey, Leo," I said, managing a small, tired smile.

"You made it through Cross's lecture," Leo said, shifting the heavy portfolio to his other hip. "I saw you sitting near the back. You looked miserable."

I chuckled. "I was just trying to keep up," I lied softly. "He talks fast."

Leo nodded, leaning closer to me so he didn't have to shout over the noise of the hallway. "Just a piece of advice. Keep your head down in his class. Do the reading, don't argue with him, and don't try to stand out."

I frowned, looking at him. "Why? Is he really that bad?"

"He doesn't mess around," Leo said, his voice dropping lower. He looked genuinely nervous just talking about it. "There was a guy last year. Thomas. He was a senior, really arrogant. He tried to correct Cross in the middle of a lecture. He actually brought a reference book and tried to prove Cross was teaching a concept wrong."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Cross didn't even yell," Leo explained, shaking his head. "He just stood there and looked at Thomas. Just stared at him in complete silence until the whole room was holding its breath. Then he told Thomas to get out."

"And he left?"

"He left the room," Leo said quietly. "But then he dropped the class the next morning. A few days later, Thomas completely withdrew from Rodrigo University. He left his apartment, left his car, and just vanished. Nobody knows where he went."

I stared at Leo, my heart giving a heavy thump. I knew Adrian was no ordinary. I knew he might be a man who lived a violent life in the dark. But hearing a student talk about him this way made it all feel terrifyingly real. Adrian had power here, too. He could ruin someone's life without ever throwing a punch, just by making a few phone calls.

"I'm not saying Cross actually did something to him," Leo added quickly, shrugging his shoulders. "Thomas probably just cracked under the pressure. But people are terrified of Cross for a reason. He has zero patience. Just do your work and stay off his radar."

"I will," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Thanks, Leo."

"No problem. I have to get this to the grading room," Leo gestured to his portfolio. "Your locker should be down the left hallway, right past the ceramics studio. See you later."

I watched him walk away before turning down the corridor. The noise of the students began to fade the further I walked toward the back of the building.

The walls here were lined with tall, metal lockers. It was quiet in this section. I found number 402 tucked in the very corner.

It had a heavy metal combination lock holding it shut. I checked my phone again for the numbers. Ten left, eighteen right.

My fingers were cold as I grabbed the metal and I pulled the metal door wide, the old hinges making a harsh squeaking sound in the empty hallway.

I expected to see bare metal shelves. I expected to see a dirty interior left behind by whoever used it last year. Instead, a thick, expensive-looking sketchbook sat right in the middle of the top shelf.

I froze. I looked over my shoulder, scanning the length of the hallway. It was completely empty.

I reached my hands inside the locker. I grabbed the book. The cover was made of smooth, premium black leather. There was no name on the front. There was no note attached to it explaining why it was inside a locked locker assigned to me.

My breathing picked up, turning shallow and fast. I leaned my back against the metal lockers for support. I opened the heavy black cover and flipped past the blank protective page.

I stopped breathing entirely.

The white page was completely covered in dark, heavy charcoal strokes. The shading was incredibly precise, capturing the exact way the shadows fell across a dark room. I notice everything, every stroke.

It was a drawing of a girl sleeping. Her face was pressed deep into a large pillow. Her hair was tangled, falling across her cheek. Her lips were parted just slightly.

Wait, it was a drawing of me.

I stared at the paper, my vision narrowing until the only thing I could see was the charcoal lines. It wasn't just a random sketch from memory. It was the exact angle of my face from the last night at Ronan's penthouse. I recognized the embroidered pattern on the edge of the pillowcase. It was the bed in my room at Ronan's.

A cold wave of pure dread washed over my entire body. My stomach dropped violently, and my hands started to shake so hard the heavy book almost fell from my hand.

I had been on the second floor of a secure house, or so I thought. The doors were deadbolted.

But looking at the perfect, detailed lines on the paper, the horrifying reality set in. The locks didn't matter. The security didn't matter. Someone had been standing inside my dark bedroom, watching me sleep.