003

Recognition came slowly, then all at once. Christiana blinked water from her eyes and stared at him.

The sharp jaw.

The dark eyes that had always seemed to see too much. Julian Frost. Her father's best friend.

The man who used to visit their house when she was younger, who would sit in the study with her father for hours discussing business she did not understand.

The man she had stupidly, hopelessly crushed on when she was sixteen.

Her stomach twisted. Of all the people to appear now, it had to be him.

"I know who you are," she said, her voice flat.

"I thought you might." He kept the umbrella steady above them both. "Do you want to go back inside?"

She looked at the funeral hall behind her, where people were probably still talking about what she had done. "No."

"Then come with me."

She should have asked where. Should have questioned why he was here at all. But exhaustion pulled at her bones, and the rain was cold, and she had nowhere else to go. So she nodded.

He led her to a black car parked near the curb. She climbed into the passenger seat, dripping water onto the leather. Julian got in beside her and started the engine without a word. The heat kicked on immediately, but she still felt frozen.

They drove in silence for several minutes before he finally spoke.

"Why did you break the portrait?"

Christiana stared out the window at the blurred streetlights. "Because it was a lie."

"How so?"

"They looked happy in that picture. United. Like they actually gave a damn about each other." She turned to look at him. "They didn't. My father cared about money and reputation. My mother cared about maintaining appearances. That portrait was just another performance."

Julian's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, but his expression remained neutral. "You're angry."

"I'm realistic." She leaned her head back against the seat. "Everyone in that room was pretending to mourn people they barely knew. People who were apparently criminals. So I stopped pretending too."

He did not respond right away. When he did, his voice was careful. "You have nowhere to stay, do you?"

She thought about the house she had grown up in, now locked and tagged with government notices. Her dorm room that she had not returned to since the phone call. Marc's messages asking if she was okay, messages she had not answered.

"No," she admitted.

"You can stay with me."

She turned to look at him sharply. "Why would you offer that?"

"Because your father was my friend. Because you're alone. Because it's the right thing to do." He glanced at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "You don't have to accept. But the offer stands."

She should have said no. Should have found somewhere else, anywhere else. But she was too tired to argue, and the alternative was sleeping in her car or going back to a dorm full of people who would ask questions she did not want to answer.

"Fine," she said. "But only until I figure something out."

His house was larger than she expected. Clean lines and tall windows, furniture that looked expensive but unlived in. Everything was in shades of gray and white, like color had been deliberately removed. It felt more like a gallery than a home.

He showed her to a guest room on the second floor. It had a bed, a dresser, and an attached bathroom. Nothing personal. Nothing warm.

"There are clothes in the closet that might fit," he said from the doorway. "My sister leaves things here sometimes."

"Thank you."

He nodded and turned to leave, then paused. "I'm transferring you to my university. I teach there. It will be easier for you to finish your degree without the scrutiny you'd face going back to your old school."

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. He was right. Going back would mean facing Marc, facing classmates who had probably already heard about her parents, facing questions she had no interest in answering.

"When does the semester start?"

"Two weeks."

"What do you teach?"

"Art history."

She almost smiled at that. "Not business?"

"I left that world a long time ago." He stepped back into the hallway. "Get some rest. We'll talk more tomorrow."

After he left, Christiana wandered through the hallway. She noticed paintings on the walls, abstract pieces with bold strokes and dark colors. They felt raw in a way that did not match the sterile house. She stopped in front of one that looked like a storm, all blacks and grays with a slash of red cutting through the center.

Julian appeared beside her, silent as a ghost. She had not heard him approach.

"Did you paint this?" she asked.

"No."

"Liar." She tilted her head, studying the signature in the corner. J.F. "These are yours."

He said nothing.

"They're good," she continued. "Angry, but good."

"They're old." His voice was clipped. "I don't paint anymore."

She looked at him, at the tension in his jaw and the way he would not quite meet her eyes. She took a small step closer, testing. "Why not?"

"Because some things are better left in the past." He moved away, putting distance between them. "You should sleep."

But she did not move. Instead, she let her gaze linger on him, the same way she used to when she was sixteen and did not know better. "Do I make you uncomfortable, Julian?"

His expression hardened. "You're grieving and exhausted. Don't mistake that for something else."

"I'm not mistaking anything." She kept her voice light, casual, even as something darker curled in her chest. "I'm just noticing."

"Then stop noticing." He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

Christiana returned to her room and closed the door. She pulled off her wet dress and found clothes in the closet that fit well enough. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and reached into her purse, pulling out a small photograph she had taken from her parents' house before the government seized it.

It showed her family at a park when she was eight. Her mother was laughing at something off camera. Her father had his arm around Christiana's shoulders. They looked normal. Happy. Real.

She stared at the photo, her throat tightening. Then the tears came.

They fell fast and hot, soaking the picture as she bent over it. Her shoulders shook. Her breath came in gasps. Everything she had held back for three days crashed through her all at once, and she could not stop it.

"They should've used this one," she whispered.