Chapter 70: Ivan’s Lesson in Lies

The morning light felt aggressive. It spilled across the studio floor, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. Leo sat on his stool, staring at a blank canvas. His head throbbed from the stress of the previous night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the disappointed faces of the twins and the judgmental stares of the gallery guests.

The door clicked open. It wasn't the heavy, purposeful stride of Dmitri. It was the quieter, more rhythmic step of Ivan.

"You haven't touched your breakfast," Ivan said. He was carrying a tray with a pot of tea and a single plate of sliced fruit. He set it down on a side table, moving a few paint-stained rags out of the way.

"I'm not hungry," Leo muttered. "I feel sick."

"That’s the adrenaline leaving your system," Ivan replied calmly. He pulled up a chair and sat directly across from Leo. He didn't look angry today. He looked... patient. That was almost worse. "Last night was a disaster, Leo. We both know that."

"I told the truth," Leo said, looking up. His eyes were red-rimmed. "Is that a disaster now?"

"The truth is a luxury, Leo. One you can't afford right now." Ivan poured two cups of tea. The steam rose between them, smelling of bergamot and honey. "People don't go to galleries to hear about walls and locks. They go to feel sophisticated. When you tell them you’re a prisoner, you make them feel like accomplices. And people don't buy art from people who make them feel guilty."

Leo let out a dry, hollow laugh. "So I should just lie? Tell them I’m living the dream?"

"No," Ivan said, leaning forward. His gaze was intense, but his voice was soft. "A flat lie is easy to spot. People can see it in your eyes. What you need is the art of the half-truth. You need to give them a version of the truth that satisfies their curiosity without giving away our secrets."

Leo gripped the edge of his stool. "I don't know how to do that. I'm not like you."

"I'm going to teach you," Ivan said. He took a sip of his tea and set the cup down. "Let's practice. I'm a nosey reporter, or perhaps a rival collector. I ask you: 'Leo, we never see you out at the clubs or the cafes. Where do you spend your time?' How do you answer?"

Leo looked away. "I stay in my room because I'm not allowed to leave."

Ivan shook his head. "Too blunt. Too dark. Try again. Think about the studio. Think about the hours you spend here."

Leo sighed, rubbing his temples. "I... I spend a lot of time working. I'm very focused on my art."

"Better, but boring," Ivan coached. "You need to make them feel special for even getting to talk to you. Try this: 'I find that the city's noise distracts from the colors I'm trying to capture. I prefer the silence of the studio. It’s a sanctuary, really.'"

"A sanctuary," Leo repeated, the word tasting like poison. "It sounds like a lie."

"It’s a perspective," Ivan corrected. "To me, this place is a sanctuary for your talent. If you believe it, they will believe it. Now, let’s try a harder one. Someone asks: 'Who handles your affairs? It seems the twins are always by your side. Don't you find it a bit... suffocating?'"

Leo’s heart hammered against his ribs. He looked at Ivan, who was watching him with a small, encouraging smile. "I'd say... I'd say I don't know what I'd do without them."

"Good," Ivan whispered. "Go on."

"They... they take care of everything so I can just paint," Leo continued, his voice trembling. "They’re my protectors. My patrons. My... friends."

Ivan reached out and squeezed Leo’s hand. His palm was warm. "That was perfect, Leo. Your voice hitched just a little at the end—it made it sound emotional, sincere. Use that. People love a young man who is grateful to his mentors."

Leo pulled his hand back, feeling a wave of shame. "I feel like I'm erasing myself. Every time I say these things, the real me disappears a little more."

Ivan stood up and walked behind Leo, placing his hands on Leo's shoulders. "The 'real' you is safe in here," he said, tapping Leo’s chest. "The version you give the world is just a shield. If you don't build that shield, they will tear you apart. They will consume you until there’s nothing left to paint."

Leo leaned back, his head resting against Ivan’s stomach. He felt exhausted. "Why does it have to be so hard, Ivan? Why can't I just be an artist? Why do I have to be a politician too?"

"Because you are a masterpiece," Ivan murmured, his fingers gently massaging Leo's tense muscles. "And masterpieces are kept in vaults for a reason. But occasionally, we have to open the vault and let the light in. When we do, we need the world to see beauty, not the shadows."

Leo closed his eyes. He could almost imagine he was safe. He could almost believe that Ivan cared about his soul and not just his hands.

"One more," Ivan said. "What if they ask why you don't have a phone? Why you don't post on social media like other artists your age?"

Leo didn't even have to think this time. He felt the words forming, slick and easy, just like Ivan wanted. "I'd tell them that I prefer real connections over digital ones. That the blue light of a screen ruins my eye for natural pigment. That I’m old-fashioned."

Ivan leaned down and kissed the top of Leo’s head. "See? You’re a natural. You’re learning that the best way to hide a secret is to dress it up in a tuxedo and introduce it to the neighbors."

Leo looked at the blank canvas. He felt like he was becoming a painting himself—a series of layers applied by someone else’s brush, hiding the rough, ugly sketches underneath.

"Go eat your fruit, Leo," Ivan said, moving toward the door. "Dmitri wants to see you in the library later. We have a list of names for you to memorize. People you’ll meet at the next dinner. You’ll be charming. You’ll be vague. And you’ll be ours."

The door closed with a soft thud. Leo picked up a slice of apple. It was sweet, but he couldn't stop thinking about the "sanctuary." He wondered if a bird in a cage ever convinced itself that the bars were just there to keep the wind out.

He picked up a charcoal pencil and began to draw. Not a masterpiece. Just a small, hidden eye, buried under a la

yer of beautiful, lying flowers.