Chapter 4

At the estate, Kevin and I reached an understanding.

I didn't ask about his business. He didn't interfere with my dreams.

Every day, I stayed in my room, painting with the tools Kevin left behind.

But the elders grumbled.

In their eyes, a woman who spent all day playing with paint was nothing but a gilded canary with no real purpose.

Kevin never argued with them. He just kept having paper and paint delivered to my room, a steady stream.

That quiet stalemate held until half a month later.

That afternoon, I went to the end of the hall to get a palette. Passing the conference room, I found it locked in a tense argument.

The arms dealer Frank slammed blueprints onto the table, his tone arrogant.

"Fifty million. Final price. I know you're in a hurry to flip this for a big profit. No one but me can deliver in a month."

The elders exchanged looks. Having spent years behind the scenes, they didn't know much about this new class of weapon. And they were anxious to move the goods. They were being played and had nothing to say.

At the head of the table, Kevin's face was dark. He was about to cave and sign.

I didn't hesitate. I pushed the conference room door open.

I walked up and picked up the blueprint sample, flipping through it casually.

"Don't sign."

I tossed the blueprint back onto the table, my voice calm.

"The design contradicts itself. Even the rifling ratio is cobbled together."

"Junk like this, taken to the front lines, would get people killed. Mr. Frank, do you really think no one in this house has ever held a real gun?"

Frank's face changed drastically. He shot to his feet and jabbed a finger at me.

"You're a woman who plays with paintbrushes all day. What makes you qualified to talk about weapons?"

"Kevin, does your family have no rules? I'm not selling this shipment!"

I smiled. Said nothing. Then poked the pen barrel into the gun's chamber twice.

Click.

The whole gun came apart into a pile of parts.

Frank went pale. Cold sweat poured down his face.

He knew better than anyone what happened to people who defrauded the arms dynasty.

"A misunderstanding... Young Master Kevin, this is a factory error..."

Frank's legs went weak. He nearly collapsed.

Kevin closed his pen without expression, not even glancing at him.

"Take him away. Find out what factory is behind this."

Guards stepped forward immediately and hauled the wailing, begging Frank out.

The elders who'd been so disdainful moments ago now exchanged looks in silence.

After that, the gossip about me in the family dropped by more than half.

They still weren't warm. But openly, no one criticized my hobby anymore.

Late that night, Kevin knocked on my door for the first time on his own.

He came in with two cups of hot coffee, handed me one, and looked at the sketches on my desk. His expression was softer than usual.

"You were on the front lines before?"

He leaned against the desk, voice low.

"Seeing through a gun's design at a glance isn't something you learn from books."

I held the cup and smiled calmly.

"I was at the family shooting range a lot as a kid. Handled a lot of guns. It stuck with me."

He looked at me for a few seconds. Didn't push.

Then he turned to the unfinished painting on the easel.

"The composition is clean." He pointed to the dim tones at the edge of the canvas.

"But add a little light here. The layers in the shadow will come out better."

I looked at him, a little surprised.

"When I was young, I wanted to be a painter." Kevin's mouth twisted slightly. A flicker of loneliness passed through his eyes.

"Unfortunately, I was born into this family. A lot of things aren't up to me."

From that day on, we grew closer.

He came back to the estate more often. Sometimes passing by my room, he'd stop to watch me mix colors and talk about new paintings he'd seen in Europe.

In front of others, he was still all business. But when he looked at me, the guard in his eyes had fallen away.

Not long after, Kevin held a solo exhibition for me.

The whole European art world turned its eyes toward it.

In the glittering gallery, I met many people who genuinely understood painting. Magazines fought to send me invitations.

Hearing praise I hadn't heard in so long, I felt dazed.

In that moment, I truly felt it. Away from the scheming and power struggles, life could be this easy. This happy.

Late that night, the guests were gone. Kevin and I were in the center of the gallery, counting frames.

The overhead lights went out without warning.

Bang!

A sharp gunshot tore through the night. Shatterproof glass exploded.

Several masked men with guns burst through the windows, a dense spray of fire raking toward us.

"Watch out!"

Kevin yanked me behind a marble pillar and drew his gun, returning fire cleanly.

But they'd clearly come prepared. A red laser dot flickered from the dark on the second floor, locking onto my chest.

I had nowhere to retreat.

The next second, Kevin lunged and threw himself in front of me.

Thud! Thud!

Two bullets hit him. Hot blood splattered across my collar.

Kevin pushed me down and shot the gunman above.

The assassins outside saw the hit had failed and retreated fast. Dead silence fell.

"Kevin! Kevin!"

I pressed down on the blood pouring from him, my hands stained red.

Kevin's face was ashen. He looked at me, untouched, and forced a faint smile.

He raised a blood-soaked hand and wiped the tears from my face. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.

"Thank God..."

"Thank God this time... the bullets didn't hit you..."

Before he finished, his hand fell. His eyes closed.

I froze in the pool of blood, like I'd fallen into an ice cellar.

This time?

What was he talking about?