Chapter 9: the artist's lie

The Artist's Lie

Leo Pov

It had been four days since I ran out of Volkov Tower. Four days of trying to rebuild the walls of my life, only to find the mortar was crumbling, poisoned by shame and obsession. I was back in my studio in DUMBO, a vast, messy space overlooking the bridge, but the familiar grit and dust of my working life felt alien. The air here was supposed to be cleaner, yet all I could smell was the faint, lingering trace of Dmitri’s cologne clinging to the cuff of the shirt I’d worn that night.

My latest canvas was supposed to be an architectural study of the bridge supports—solid, grounded, objective, but it was a disaster. I stood back, scrubbing my hands clean of the charcoal, and stared at the mess. I hadn't been painting; I had been fighting. Every frantic brushstroke was an attempt to overwrite the memories of the twins, but instead, I kept seeing their faces, their cold, identical gray eyes mocking my struggle.

The worst part—the part that made me punch the canvas in sheer self-hatred, was the realization that the pleasure was real.

I hate them. I hate the way they look at me like an equation to be solved. I hate their casual brutality and their power. But God, I hated myself more for the way my breath fractured when Ivan touched my wrist. For the complete, blissful surrender my body offered Dmitri.

My thoughts were an endless, exhausting loop of self-flagellation. They were right: my resistance was inefficient. I tried to focus on the gallery ledger, on the upcoming exhibit, on anything that required structure, but I kept checking the door, waiting for the key card to slide in, waiting for the sixty-minute deadline of their note to reset. They had weaponized my own anticipation.

The harsh ring of my cell phone shattered the silence, making me jump. It was Sasha.

I swiped to answer, forcing a light, professional tone. “Hey, sorry, I’m buried. What’s the damage report on the Larson consignment?”

“Oh, the Larson consignment is fine,” Sasha’s voice, sharp and immediate, cut through the pretense. “What I’m wondering about is the damage report on you. Where the hell have you been, Leo? It’s been four days. You missed the Tuesday meeting, you didn’t respond to the grant query, and you’re ghosting the only people who know how to use the espresso machine here. Are you sick?”

I turned away from the canvas, walking toward the window so Sasha couldn't hear the frantic energy in my voice. “No, I’m not sick. Look, Sasha, something came up. Something massive, actually.”

“Massive how? Did your muse finally possess you and force you to paint a masterpiece?”

“Bigger than a masterpiece. It’s professional. I got a sudden call, a consulting offer. It’s entirely confidential, tied to a private collection, and it’s enormous. I mean, career-defining enormous.” I was inventing it on the spot, but the corporate jargon came easily now, a terrible echo of the Volkovs.

Sasha paused, the silence heavy with skepticism. “A consulting offer that requires you to go completely off the grid for four days, ditching your own gallery during a funding push? Leo, you don’t do confidential. You practically live-stream your coffee breaks.”

I leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane. “I know, I know. But this is different. It’s an anonymous European patron who is restructuring their entire contemporary portfolio. It requires absolute discretion, full-time commitment, and it's heavily weighted toward... assessment.”

I swallowed, hating how close the lie was to the truth. They were assessing me.

“‘Assessment’?” Sasha repeated, her voice dripping with doubt. “Since when do you use words like ‘portfolio’ and ‘assessment’? You sound like you swallowed a bad stockbroker.”

“It’s the environment,” I said quickly, trying to sound stressed but excited. “The clientele demands a certain formality. I’m basically doing a deep dive into valuation and integrity checks on some genuinely high-stakes pieces. Think of the connections, Sasha. This could fund the gallery for years.”

There was a long pause. Sasha was thinking, weighing the impossibility of Leo Vance suddenly developing business acumen against the promise of financial security.

“Okay,” she finally conceded, but her tone was guarded. “Fine. But if you don’t show up for the structural meeting tomorrow, I’m coming over there with bolt cutters and a therapist. Just tell me you’re eating, at least. And Leo?”

“Yeah?”

“You sound… hollow. Like the energy has been sucked out of you. This ‘assessment’ better be worth whatever it’s costing you.”

“It will be,” I assured her, cutting the call quickly before my carefully constructed lie collapsed.

I managed to spend two more hours staring blankly at the wall, scrubbing at the charcoal smudge that looked too much like Dmitri’s jawline, before the next inevitable contact arrived. This time, it was my mother, Eleanor, via video call.

I answered, forcing a wide, bright smile, but I knew my eyes looked bruised.

“Oh, darling, there you are!” Mom’s face filled the screen, her relief palpable. She was already dressed in something chic and clearly Volkov-approved. “You’ve been so quiet. Arthur and I missed you at the opera last night. Was the commission really so taxing?”

“Mom, hi! Yeah, it’s intense,” I lied easily, the words flowing like oil. “I’ve been locked in a professional cocoon. Total immersion, you know? It’s a lot of long hours reviewing data, but it’s fascinating. Really high-level stuff.”

“Oh, I know it is, sweetheart! Arthur said that’s how the Volkov boys operate, total immersion. He said it’s a wonderful trait to see in you, that focus. He was so impressed you jumped right into something so high-stakes.”

He was impressed because he knows exactly what I ‘jumped’ into. Arthur had obviously provided a narrative for my disappearance.

“It’s a necessary pivot, Mom,” I continued, using the jargon I was starting to loathe. “I realized that the gallery needs a stronger financial buffer. It’s all about sustainability and resource acquisition.”

“That’s my boy! You’re thinking like Arthur!” She beamed, but then her face softened with genuine concern. “But Leo, are you happy? You sound a little… distant. Like you’re talking about someone else’s job.”

The question hit me like a physical blow. Am I happy? I was trapped in a cycle of self-hatred and fear, constantly anticipating the next moment of forced, shameful pleasure.

“I’m fine, Mom. Just focused,” I insisted, pushing the smile harder. “I’m realizing I need to be more ruthless, actually. Arthur was right. Resilience only lets you survive; ruthlessness lets you conquer.”

The words felt like ash in my mouth. I was reciting the Volkov doctrine, replacing my own belief system with theirs, purely to maintain the public façade for my mother.

“Oh, well, perhaps a little ruthless isn’t bad!” she said happily. “Listen, darling. Arthur and I are hosting a small, intimate dinner on Saturday. Just a few key associates. It’s casual, but important. You absolutely have to be there.”

My stomach dropped. Saturday. The next scheduled maintenance break.

“Saturday? I… I don’t know if I can break away from the portfolio review, Mom.”

“Nonsense, Leo. You need a break! Besides, Arthur wants you there. He said it’s important for his key resources to be present when he makes certain announcements. And Dmitri and Ivan are flying back from Zürich just for the evening. They specifically asked about you.”

They specifically asked about you. That wasn't a request; it was an execution order. They wanted me visible, exposed, and compliant in their environment.

“Okay, Mom. I’ll be there,” I said, the battle draining out of me. “I’ll put it in my… my schedule.”

“Wonderful! See you then, sweetheart. I’m so proud of how mature and focused you’ve become.”

She hung up, leaving me staring at my own exhausted reflection on the screen. I walked back to the failed canvas, resting my hands on the rough, dusty surface. I hadn't been painting the bridge; I had been painting a desperate self-portrait.

I had tried to forget, I had tried to run, I had tried to lie my way back to normalcy. But in the space of four days, I had completely compromised my life, invented an elaborate lie for my best friend, and embraced the language of my captors just to keep my mother smiling.

The hatred was still there—a cold, steady fire directed at Dmitri and Ivan. But beneath it, a terrible, thrilling paranoia had taken root. I wasn't fighting the twins anymore; I was fighting myself, and I was losing. Saturday was coming, and I knew exactly what kind

of "announcement" they had planned for me.