Chapter 72: The Missing Friend

The rain drummed against the studio windows, a steady, lonely sound that matched the rhythm of Leo’s heart. He hadn't slept since he saw the bank statement. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those zeros—the price tag attached to his soul.

He sat on the floor, surrounded by half-finished canvases. He felt like a ghost haunting a museum. Everything around him was beautiful, expensive, and fake.

"I need to hear a real voice," he whispered to the empty room. "Just one person who knew me before I became an 'asset'."

Chloe. His best friend from the art college. The girl who used to share her cheap noodles with him and laugh at his terrible jokes. She was the only tether left to the world where he was just Leo, the guy who worried about rent, not the guy who owned millions in a hidden account.

Ivan had given him a new phone weeks ago. It was sleek, gold-rimmed, and felt heavy in his hand. He hadn't used it for anything other than taking reference photos for his work. He had been too scared to try and call the outside world, but today, the fear was replaced by a desperate, aching hunger for home.

He pulled the phone from his pocket. His hands were clammy.

"Please be there," he prayed. "Please just pick up and tell me you’re annoyed that I disappeared."

He typed in her number from memory. He knew it by heart. He had called it a thousand times when he was lost, or happy, or just bored. He pressed the call button and held the cold glass to his ear.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again."

Leo frowned. "Maybe I typed it wrong."

He tried again, slower this time. Each digit felt like a tiny confession.

"The number you have dialed is not in service."

The robotic voice felt like a slap. He tried his own old number next, just to see if his phone still existed in some dusty drawer back at his old apartment.

"Welcome to the mobile network. Please enter your activation code."

His old life was gone. It wasn't just paused; it was disconnected.

The door to the studio opened. Ivan walked in, carrying a tray with a steaming teapot and two cups. He looked cheerful, his hair slightly damp from the rain outside.

"You’ve been hiding in here all morning, Leo," Ivan said, setting the tray on a low table. "I thought you might want some jasmine tea. It’s a new blend, very calming."

Leo didn't look up. He kept staring at the phone in his hand. "Where is she, Ivan?"

Ivan paused, his hand hovering over the teapot. "Where is who, Leo?"

"Chloe. My friend," Leo said, his voice trembling. "I tried to call her. Her number is dead. My number is dead. What did you do?"

Ivan sighed and sat down on the floor across from Leo. He didn't look like a monster; he looked like a concerned older brother, which made it ten times worse. "Leo, we talked about this. Your old life was... complicated. It wasn't safe for you there."

"It was my life!" Leo shouted, finally looking up. His eyes were red-rimmed. "She’s my best friend! Does she think I’m dead? Did you tell her I died? Or did you just pay her to forget me like you pay for everything else?"

"We didn't pay her to forget you," Ivan said softly, pouring the tea. The scent of jasmine filled the air, thick and cloying. "We simply ensured that the transition was clean. People move on, Leo. It’s the way of the world. She went back to her family in the north. She’s doing well."

"You talked to her?" Leo leaned forward, hope and rage warring in his chest. "What did she say? Did she ask about me? Tell me exactly what she said!"

Ivan looked into his tea cup, a small, sad smile on his lips. "She was confused at first. But when we explained that you had found a patron and needed to focus on your career without distractions... she understood. She’s a practical girl, Leo. She knew she couldn't give you the life you deserved."

"You lied to her," Leo whispered. "You made me sound like I chose to leave her behind."

"Didn't you?" Ivan asked, his eyes meeting Leo’s. There was no malice in them, only a terrifyingly calm logic. "You walked into that gallery. You accepted our help. You signed the papers Dmitri gave you. You chose to be a great artist. Greatness requires sacrifice, Leo. You can't be a world-renowned master and still be the boy who shares a studio with a girl who paints postcards."

"I loved those postcards," Leo sobbed, the first tear finally breaking free. "I loved my life. It was messy and I was broke, but I was me. Now I’m just... I'm a ghost in a gold cage. I have millions of dollars and I can't even call my best friend to say hello."

Ivan reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Leo’s ear. His touch was gentle, almost tender. "You’re not a ghost, Leo. You’re becoming a legend. In a hundred years, no one will remember Chloe. But they will remember you. They will see your heart on these canvases."

"I don't want to be a legend!" Leo pushed Ivan’s hand away. "I want to talk to Chloe! I want to tell her I’m sorry! Give me her new number, Ivan. If you ever cared about me, even a little bit, give me her number."

Ivan stood up slowly. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, hard finality. "I can't do that, Leo. For your sake, and for hers. If you contact her, you put her in danger. The people looking for our family don't care about art. They care about leverage. Do you want Chloe to become leverage?"

Leo went cold. He looked at the phone, then at Ivan. The walls of the studio felt like they were closing in.

"You've taken everything," Leo said, his voice barely a whisper. "My name, my money, and now my friends. What’s left?"

"Us," Ivan said, walking toward the door. "You have us, Leo. And we are the only ones who truly understand what you are worth."

As the door clicked shut, Leo curled into a ball on the floor. He gripped the expensive, useless phone in his hand until his knuckles turned white. He was more alone in this mansion than he had ever been in his life. He wasn't just an asset on a bank statement anymore. He was a secret that was being kept from the world, and

the world was being kept from him.