Chapter 1 - Blood Upon a White Canvas

Camila’s brushstrokes on the canvas looked so beautiful. She was painting white lilies, which she planned to give to her sister-in-law, Clara Xavier.

Outside, Manhattan was besieged by the most ferocious blizzard in a decade. The wind howled behind the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, but inside the room, the temperature felt warm from the softly crackling fireplace.

Camila Wilson took a deep breath. The distinct aroma of oil paint—a mixture of linseed oil and thinner—had always been an addiction for her.

Camila’s hand moved gracefully, applying a thin stroke of pearl white to the lily petals she was painting. Clara would surely be happy to receive this gift from her.

In this house, only Clara truly accepted her—aside from her husband, Damian Xavier, of course.

Lady Beatrice, her mother-in-law, hated her. Ever since Camila Wilson entered this mansion with the status of Damian’s wife, Lady Beatrice had been hostile toward her. She never acknowledged her existence.

Was it because Camila was an orphan raised in an orphanage? She didn’t know.

"Just a little more," Camila whispered to herself.

She stroked her still-flat stomach with her left hand, which was slightly stained with blue paint.

No one knew that she was currently pregnant, only a few weeks along. She planned to tell Damian tonight, after Clara’s birthday party was over. She imagined the spark in her husband’s eyes—that man who loved her so intensely would surely be overjoyed to hear that a Xavier heir would soon be born.

Suddenly, the studio door swung open with a violent thud.

Camila gasped, her brush slipped and left a long black streak across the crown of her white lily. She turned and found Clara standing in the doorway. The girl’s blonde hair was disheveled, and her expensive silk dress looked crumpled.

"Clara? You startled me, dear," Camila stood up immediately, trying to hide her disappointment at seeing her ruined painting.

However, as she looked at Clara’s face, her brow furrowed. The girl was deathly pale. Her hand, clutching a phone, was trembling violently.

"Camila... you have to help me," Clara’s voice was hoarse, almost drowned out by the howling wind outside. "Only you can help me. Mommy... Mommy locked me in. She doesn’t understand."

Camila approached, holding her sister-in-law’s shoulders, which felt cold to the touch. "Calm down. What happened? Why aren't you in your room getting ready for your party?"

"My friend, Sophie... she’s in danger at the docks. She sent an emergency message. I have to go there now, Camila! But Mommy confiscated my car keys. She says this storm is too dangerous for me, but she doesn't care about Sophie’s life!" Clara began to sob, her cries sounding desperate.

Camila looked out the window. Visibility was nearly zero. The snow was falling so heavily that the streetlights appeared only as blurry dots.

"Clara, your mother is right. This storm is very bad. Let’s call Damian, he can send a security team to check on Sophie—"

"No! No police or security teams! This is Sophie’s private matter. If Damian’s people find out, Sophie’s reputation will be ruined!" Clara gripped Camila’s arm, her nails digging slightly into the skin.

"Please, Camila. Give me your car keys. I only need an hour. I promise I’ll drive very slowly."

"I can’t, Clara. It’s too risky."

"So you’re just like them?" Clara released her grip, staring at Camila with profound disappointment.

"I thought you were the only person in this house who had a heart. It turns out you’re just another doll obeying the Xavier family."

Those words pierced Camila’s heart. Since entering this family, she had always felt like an outsider trying hard to be accepted. Clara was her only emotional bridge. Seeing the usually cheerful Clara so broken, Camila’s defenses crumbled.

She turned toward her desk drawer. There, behind the paint bottles, lay the spare key to her Mercedes.

"Clara, listen to me," Camila took the key, but didn't give it to her yet. "Promise me. Do not go over forty miles per hour. And you must keep the GPS on so I can monitor you."

Clara’s eyes brightened, a small smile appearing on her tear-stained face.

"I promise, Camila. Thank you."

Clara snatched the key and ran out before Camila could add another word. Camila stood at her studio door, staring down the long, empty hallway. A sudden, uneasy feeling washed over her. A strange chill crept from the soles of her feet to the back of her neck.

She went back to her canvas, staring at the black streak that ruined the white lily. Camila took a rag and tried to wipe it away, but the black color only spread further, staining the pure white until it became a dull gray.

A few minutes passed. Outside, the snowfall grew thicker. Camila walked to the window.

"Why do I feel so uneasy?" she murmured softly.

Camila tried to call Clara’s phone, but there was only the operator’s voice. Once, twice, ten times. Her anxiety began to turn into real fear. She paced back and forth in her painting studio, staring at the wall clock that ticked with a sound that seemed to mock her.

One hour passed.

Two hours.

Until finally, the silence of the mansion was shattered by the sound of sirens from ambulances and police echoing from the distance, piercing through the thick walls of Xavier Tower.

Camila ran toward the main living room. There, she saw Damian having just entered, his coat covered in snow. Her husband’s face, usually firm and stern, now looked shattered. Behind him, Lady Beatrice fell to the floor, letting out a hysterical, heart-wrenching scream.

"Damian! What happened?" Camila cried out, her voice high with fear.

Damian turned. The gaze that was usually full of adoration when he looked at Camila had now changed into something foreign. Cold, dark, and filled with pure hatred.

"Your car, Camila," Damian’s voice was low, trembling with restrained fury. "Your car was found at the bottom of the river."

The world seemed to collapse beneath Camila’s feet.

"Clara... what about Clara?" she asked with a trembling voice.

Damian didn’t answer. He just walked slowly toward Camila, each step feeling like the approach of the Grim Reaper. He threw an object onto the marble table.

It was Camila’s car key. A key that was now stained with blood.