Chapter 7

CHARLOTTE’S POV

“Someone is already trying to find out what you mean to me.” Zade's words followed me through the night, and when morning came, I woke in his guest room with the memory of my destroyed apartment rushing back. The message on my wall, the debt, and the agreement all returned at once. Thirty days. I only had to survive thirty days.

I dressed quickly and went downstairs, determined not to become comfortable in Zade's world. I wasn't his guest. I was here because my mother's debt had left me with nowhere else to turn, and I refused to forget that simply because his house was beautiful.

Instead of finding Zade, I found breakfast waiting for me. Beside my plate was a small box containing a new phone, charger, and several essentials. When I asked about them, the housekeeper explained that Zade had ordered them after seeing how badly my old phone had been damaged.

“Mr. Stone said you shouldn't be without a secure phone while you're staying here,” she explained politely. “He also asked us to make sure you had everything you needed this morning,” she added before leaving.

I stared at the phone, unsettled by the gesture. Cruelty would have been easier to understand. Thoughtfulness made everything more complicated. I picked it up anyway, reminding myself that expensive things didn't change why I was here.

When I entered the studio, Zade was already working on one of the unfinished canvases. He glanced at me before returning to his painting, and I immediately noticed how different he seemed here. At the university, he was cold and controlled. In the studio, his entire attention belonged to his work.

“You're early,” Zade said, checking the clock. “Today's session isn't about completing anything. I want to understand how you carry yourself before I decide what I want from the collection,” he explained.

I moved toward the marked position. “Then you already know why I'm here,” I replied. “I'm here because my mother left me with a debt I couldn't pay, people threatened me, and you offered a solution. That's all.”

“I didn't ask you to pretend otherwise,” Zade answered calmly. “But I need to understand your natural posture and how you respond when you're uncomfortable. That's more useful than anything you could tell me about yourself.”

I followed his instructions, though I deliberately kept my shoulders tense. He adjusted the lighting and asked me to change positions several times until I finally frowned.

“You keep changing the position without explaining what you're looking for,” I said. “If you want me to follow your instructions, at least tell me why they matter.”

“Because you're fighting every instruction,” Zade replied, studying me. “You're standing like you're waiting for something bad to happen, and you're trying so hard not to show it that the tension has become the strongest thing about you.”

“Maybe that's because something bad did happen,” I replied. “My apartment was destroyed yesterday, someone threatened me, and now I'm standing in your studio pretending everything is normal. Forgive me if I'm not relaxed.”

For a moment, something almost like amusement crossed his face. “Fair enough,” he said, returning to his canvas. “Then don't relax. Hold the tension exactly where it is.”

The session continued, and I slowly stopped thinking about the agreement. Zade studied every small movement before returning to his canvas. The longer I watched him work, the more obvious it became that painting wasn't simply something he enjoyed. It consumed him.

“You're different when you paint,” I said eventually. “At the university, you act like everyone around you is an inconvenience, but here you actually look like you care about something.”

Zade's brush paused. “A painting doesn't lie to me. If something is wrong, I can see it. People are much better at hiding what they're thinking,” he replied, and something bitter beneath his words made me wonder what he wasn't telling me.

Before I could ask, my new phone vibrated. An unfamiliar number had sent a photograph. The moment I opened it, my stomach dropped. It showed me entering Zade's estate that morning, photographed from outside the gates.

The message beneath it warned me that someone knew about my arrangement with Zade and threatened to expose me if I didn't cooperate. My first thought was Lucas. He knew enough about my situation to understand how damaging this could become.

“It's Lucas,” I said, holding the phone tightly. “He knows about my problems. He could have followed me here or paid someone to watch this place.”

“Don't answer,” Zade said immediately, holding out his hand. “Give me the phone. If someone is trying to frighten you into responding, don't prove that they've succeeded.”

I reluctantly handed it over. Zade studied the photograph instead of reacting to the message, zooming in on the background and the position of the estate gates. His expression slowly hardened.

“This photograph wasn't taken from the main road,” he said quietly.

I stepped closer. “What does that mean?”

“Whoever took this was positioned somewhere they shouldn't have been,” Zade explained. “They had a clear view of the entrance without appearing on the estate's external cameras. They either knew the blind spots or had been watching long enough to learn them.”

My fear returned. “Then someone was actually watching me?”

Zade immediately called his head of security and ordered him to check every camera around the property and surrounding roads. He wanted to know exactly where the photograph had been taken and whether anyone had been near the estate when I arrived.

“Why would anyone care about me?” I asked after he ended the call. “I'm just a student. Why would someone spend their time watching this place because I'm staying here?”

Zade remained silent for several seconds before looking at me. “You're right. This isn't about a student being seen at my house. Someone wants information about why you're here, and they're willing to watch my property to get it.”

I swallowed. “Then who would care enough to find out what I mean to you?”

Zade looked at the photograph one final time before handing the phone back. His expression had completely changed.

“This wasn't taken by Lucas,” he said quietly.

I stared at him. “Then who took it?”

His eyes shifted toward the windows overlooking the estate.

“I don't know yet,” he replied, “but whoever took it wanted us to know they were watching.”