Christine's POV
The sun filtered weakly through the curtains, casting pale streaks across the room. I sat at the desk, my legs folded under me, staring at the blank sketchpad in front of me. It had been weeks since I’d started the open-university art program, and though I had signed up with a glimmer of hope, the weight of Luca’s presence in my life made it difficult to feel like myself anymore.
Still, today was different. My first online class was about to begin, and for once, I felt a faint stirring of excitement—a flicker of something normal amidst the chaos. The laptop screen glowed, the video call ringing through the small speakers. When I clicked the "Join" button, my professor’s face filled the screen, youthful and bright.
"Hey, Christine! Nice to meet you. I’m Ethan. Let’s dive right in, yeah?”
Ethan looked no older than thirty, his warm, easy-going demeanor instantly putting me at ease. His American accent reminded me of home—a past I’d tried hard to bury but still ached for.
“Hi, Ethan,” I said, my voice soft but steadier than it had been in weeks.
The session began with basic introductions and the fundamentals of still-life drawing. Ethan was passionate and knowledgeable, explaining everything with a contagious enthusiasm.
“Art is all about perspective,” he said, holding up a sketch of a wilted flower. “You don’t have to draw what you see. Draw what you feel. What story does this flower tell you?”
I bit my lip, unsure how to respond. “It… it looks tired. Like it’s been neglected but still holding on.”
“Exactly,” Ethan said with a grin. “You just captured the essence of it. See? You’re already thinking like an artist.”
The unexpected praise made my chest tighten. When was the last time someone had said something kind to me? Encouragement felt foreign, almost painful, as though my mind didn’t know how to process it.
As we moved on to the assignment—a simple half-eaten apple—I found myself talking more freely than I’d intended. Ethan’s questions were innocent, but they unlocked things I hadn’t meant to share.
“So, Christine, why art? What drew you to this course?”
I hesitated. The truth hovered on the tip of my tongue, but I forced myself to give a vague answer. “I guess it feels like… an escape.”
“Escape’s not a bad reason,” Ethan replied. “Sometimes we all need a way to process things. Art’s great for that. What about you? Got any favorite artists?”
I laughed lightly, surprising even myself. “I used to like Van Gogh when I was younger. I thought he was dramatic, but now I kind of get it. The way he painted… it’s like he was fighting with himself through his work.”
Ethan nodded thoughtfully. “Van Gogh’s work was all about feeling everything so intensely it hurt. Art like that is honest. Raw. I think a lot of us can relate, whether we realize it or not.”
His words hit something inside me, and I felt tears prick at my eyes. I quickly blinked them away, focusing instead on my shaky attempts to sketch the apple.
When the session ended, Ethan smiled warmly. “Great first class, Christine. Keep at it, and don’t be afraid to let go a little, yeah? Art’s messy, and that’s what makes it beautiful.”
I thanked him and logged off, staring at the half-eaten apple on my sketchpad. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a small victory. For the first time in weeks, I had something to look forward to.
But as soon as the door opened downstairs, my chest tightened. Luca was home.
I froze, my hands instinctively balling into fists. The sound of his heavy footsteps echoed through the house, each step a harbinger of doom. I quickly closed the laptop and pushed the sketchpad under some papers, as if hiding it would somehow shield me from what was coming.
The sound of the door slamming jolted me from my daze. My heart jumped to my throat as Luca’s voice thundered through the house.
“Christine! Where is she? Where did she go?”
The aggression in his tone was new, sharper than anything I’d heard before. My hands trembled, my chest tightening as if the air had been sucked from the room. He’d never shouted like this—not for me. He used to find me silently, appearing like a shadow that I couldn’t shake.
This… this was different.
My mind raced as his voice echoed closer, each angry call of my name making my legs weak. I glanced at the sketchpad on the desk, the half-eaten apple staring back at me like a fragile piece of another world. Tears welled in my eyes, unbidden and unstoppable. Nothing good could come from this.
For a fleeting moment, I considered hiding. I could slip into the closet or crawl under the bed. Maybe he wouldn’t look too hard. Maybe I could buy myself a few moments of peace.
But I dismissed the thought just as quickly. I was living in his house. This was his world. There was no escaping him here.
Taking a shaky breath, I stepped out of the spare room, my fingers clutching the doorframe for support. The hallway felt endless, his shadow at the other end growing larger as I walked toward him. My knees threatened to buckle, but I forced myself forward.
The moment I turned the corner, I bumped into him—hard.
“There you are,” he growled, his dark eyes locking onto mine.
Before I could speak, his hand clamped around my arm. The grip was like iron, unyielding and painful. “Luca, you’re hurting me,” I whimpered, trying to free myself.
He didn’t let go. Instead, his hold tightened as he began to drag me toward his room, his pace relentless. “You don’t get to hide from me,” he snapped.
“I wasn’t hiding!” I protested, pulling back, but his strength overpowered me. “Let me go! Luca, please!”
“You’re mine, Christine,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “Mine alone. And you will never, never try to get away from me. Do you understand?”
The words stung more than his grip. My heart raced as I stumbled to keep up with him, his possessiveness suffocating me with every step.
By the time we reached his room, my tears had started to fall freely, silent and bitter. He didn’t even bother to lift me over his shoulder as he had before. Instead, he shoved the door open and pulled me inside, slamming it shut behind us.
The fear that had simmered beneath the surface for so long now boiled over, threatening to consume me whole. And yet, deep in the recesses of my mind, a new thought emerged—one that I couldn’t ignore.
Run.
It was the first time the idea truly struck me, raw and unbidden. But as his grip burned into my skin, I knew there was no running today.
I had nowhere to go.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “Luca, can we please do this later? I just finished class and am a little tired.”
“Don’t,” he interrupted, his grip tightening slightly. “Don’t ever dream of running away.”
The words hit me like a blow, and for the first time, the thought of escape flared to life in my mind. I had no plan, no means of getting away, but the idea had taken root, fragile but growing.
“Why would I run?” I said bitterly, surprising even myself with the defiance in my voice.
His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought he might snap. But instead, he laughed—a low, dangerous sound that sent chills down my spine.
“Good,” he said, his lips curling into a smirk. “Remember that.”
He didn’t give me a chance to respond before he lifted me off the chair and threw me over his shoulder. I struggled weakly, my heart pounding as he carried me to the bed.
“Luca, stop! Please—”
But he silenced me with a growl, his hands roaming possessively as he pushed me onto the mattress. The faint spark of life I’d felt during the art class was extinguished in an instant, replaced by the familiar numbness that came whenever he touched me.
As he claimed me with a ferocity that left bruises on my skin, I stared blankly at the ceiling, my mind drifting to Ethan’s words: Art’s messy, and that’s what makes it beautiful.
There was nothing beautiful about this.
By the time Luca was finished, I was a hollow shell, my body aching and my soul crumbling. He left without a word, the door slamming shut behind him.
I curled up on the bed, my hands trembling as I reached for the sketchpad I’d hidden. The half-eaten apple stared back at me, a small, imperfect reflection of myself.
And as tears blurred my vision, I realized that even in this darkness, I wasn’t ready to let go of the one thing that still felt like mine.