Sweetheart, that was just the opening act.

Clara’s POV

The art room smelled of turpentine and old wood, a blend that usually calmed me, wrapping me in a familiar embrace. But not today. Today, it only heightened the bitterness choking me, clouding the air as I fought to push my emotions onto the canvas. My brush trembled in my grip as I dragged thick black strokes across the canvas, each one heavier than the last, blurring into a chaotic mess that mirrored the storm inside me. My chest felt tight, my throat raw, as the frustration and anger threatened to overflow.

The door creaked open. My stomach clenched, a prey instinct taking over. I didn’t even need to look; I knew who it was before he stepped inside.

Nolan. Again, the ruthless bastard.

I turned sharply, the brush still in my hand like it was a weapon, a futile shield against the force of his presence. “What do you want now?” I spat, forcing my voice steady, even as my heart raced.

He closed the door behind him with deliberate slowness, eyes scanning the room like a predator assessing its catch. “Relax. You’re not that special. I came here because I felt like it,” he replied casually, as if we were discussing the weather rather than his relentless tormenting.

“Then leave,” I said, although the vehemence of my tone cracked, revealing the underlying fear I couldn’t contain.

Instead of retreating, he stepped closer, that infuriating smirk fading, replaced with a chilling look of cold, ruthless amusement that sent a flash of dread down my spine. “Do you really think you can just dismiss me, Clara? After the little scene you made today?”

I tightened my grip on the brush, fighting to retain some semblance of control. “You humiliated me in front of everyone. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“Enough?” He let out a low, derisive laugh, the sound devoid of warmth, the kind that sent shivers down my spine. “Sweetheart, that was just the opening act. I’ve barely started scratching the surface of our little game.”

My stomach dropped, a deep pit forming as I recognized the sincerity behind his words. “Why are you doing this?” I managed to ask, but even I could hear the tremor in my voice, the vulnerability I tried so hard to conceal.

His eyes darkened, something dangerous flickering within them as he stepped even closer, invading my personal space. “Because I can,” he said, the words slicing through the air like glass shards. “Because you and your mother slithered into my house, clinging to my father’s money like leeches. The audacity of you both. Every time I see you pretending to be innocent, I see her—a whore who seduced her way into a family that was never hers.”

“No!” I protested, trying to fight back the swell of tears that threatened to betray me. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, but it is.” His lips curled into a fierce, dangerous smirk, an unsettling satisfaction dancing in his eyes. “And here’s the best part. I’m going to make sure every single day under this roof feels like hell. I’ll break you down piece by piece until you don’t even recognize yourself in the mirror.”

“How can you be so cruel?” I shouted, my voice laced with contempt, defiance bubbling up as fury ignited within me. Each accusation he threw only fueled the fire of my resistance.

“I never claimed to be a good person,” he replied, his tone calm but laced with menace. “But I will make you beg for peace, and then I’ll take pleasure in denying it.”

My pulse roared in my ears, every beat a reminder of the danger he represented, a dark conclusion I didn’t want to face. “You’re a monster.”

“Finally, she sees me for what I am.” He leaned in closer, the distance between us vanishing as his breath grazed my cheek, deepening the dark atmosphere surrounding us. “But monsters don’t just haunt—they own. And you, Clara… you belong to me now. Whether you admit it or not.”

The brush slipped from my hand, the clatter against the table far too loud in the suffocating silence that hung between us.

Nolan straightened, a cold satisfaction gleaming in his predatory gaze. “Paint all you want, little sister. Rage, cry, fight. It won’t matter. I’ll still be here. And I’ll still win.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in. “You may think you can outlast me, but I promise you, I love playing this game. The sooner you realize the rules, the less painful it will be for you.”

He turned, preparing to leave, and something snapped inside me. “You don’t get to just walk away!” I shouted, anger piercing through my fear. “You don’t own me! I refuse to be your plaything!”

His body stiffened, and he slowly turned to face me, a cruel smile spreading across his features, wicked delight sparking in his eyes. “Oh, Clara, but you already are. You’ve tangled yourself in my web, whether you admit it or not. Your pathetic little attempts to resist make it all the more entertaining. Don’t you see? Every act of defiance only cements my control over you.”

I fought the urge to recoil, to shrink before his coldness, but I held my ground. “This isn’t a game to me. You can hurt me all you want, but I won’t give you the satisfaction of breaking me.”

His laughter was dark, echoing in the otherwise quiet room as he leaned closer, invading my space further. “You think you’re so strong, don’t you? But strength can be deceiving, especially when you’re faced with your own weaknesses. And trust me—once I start unraveling those weaknesses, you’ll be begging for the monster in me to save you from the pain.”

“Get out!” I shouted, my breath coming in uneven bursts, fury coursing through me.

“Fine. But know this, Clara—from now on, wherever you go, I’ll be lurking in the shadows. Waiting. I might even enjoy the chaos this brings you.” He stepped back into the doorway, pausing for just a moment, locking eyes with me once more. “I’ll see you around... little sister.”

With that, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me in a haze of frustration, fear, and a bizarre thrill I couldn’t quite shake off.

A rush of conflicting emotions surged through me like a storm, and I dropped to my knees, the sound of his taunts echoing in my mind, clawing at the corners of my sanity, tempting me to acknowledge an attraction I couldn't feel. I seized the brush once more, this time painting furiously, unwilling to give in to the darkness that threatened to consume me.

Every stroke against the canvas was a way to purge my anger, each layer of paint a desperate attempt to drown out the memory of him—the monster who would stop at nothing to claim what was his.