Chapter 369: The peculiar painter

CYAN

The morning sun fell across the marble floor of the balcony at an angle that most painters would have spent hours trying to recreate, but I was too busy staring at a man wearing nothing but a pair of leather cowboy boots and a strategically placed Stetson hat.

My father’s estate stretched out below us, a massive, sprawling expanse of manicured lawns, vibrant lavender beds, and ancient cherry blossoms that dropped their petals into a quiet koi pond.

A fountain clicked and hummed somewhere in the distance, its waters catching the light, while the morning birds filled the air with loud, cheerful noise.

It was the kind of pristine, untouched beauty that generational wealth buys you when it’s working exactly the way it’s supposed to.

But the view was old news. I had painted those gardens a thousand times.

The six-foot-two man standing near the stone railing, however, was a completely fresh addition to the collection.

I sat cross-legged on a low wooden stool, a massive canvas propped up in front of me.

Dark blue paint was smeared across my forearms, my knuckles, and a tiny spot right on my left cheek.

I held the brush tight, focusing on the canvas with the kind of absolute absorption I only ever give to things I actually enjoy doing.

His name was Matteo.

He was half-Italian, half-Brazilian, possessed an architecture degree he wasn’t using, and was currently backpacking through Europe to "find himself" after breaking off an engagement three weeks ago.

He had a face that was entirely ridiculous in the best possible way... warm hazel eyes, a heavy, clean mustache that somehow worked against all logical odds, and a dense scattering of freckles across his broad shoulders like a string of punctuation marks.

He was young, right around my age, and had the kind of effortless, golden-skinned confidence that usually came from never having to worry about a single bill in his life.

We had met at a club the night before, got thoroughly wasted on expensive tequila, and ended up back here because I decided I needed my insides rearranged and his collarbones were too pretty not to put on a canvas.

"My right arm is completely cramping," Matteo complained, shifting his weight slightly but keeping the cowboy hat firmly in place over his waist. "I have to tell you, sweetheart, holding this position is surprisingly demanding labor. My thighs are on fire."

I didn’t lift my eyes from the canvas, the brush dipping into a puddle of dark ochre. "Suffer for your art, darling. True beauty always requires a little bit of a sacrifice."

Matteo let out a soft groan, reaching with his free hand toward the small glass table beside him to pop a green grape into his mouth.

"If Michelangelo wanted realism, he would have carved me with a comfortable lounge chair. Or at least a cushion."

"Michelangelo would have told you to shut your pretty mouth before he threw a chisel at your head," I shot back, a slow smirk spreading across my lips as I dragged the bristles across the canvas to catch the curve of his ribs.

He let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed right off the stone pillars. It was completely unselfconscious and wild. "Fair point. The man had a terrible temper, didn’t he?"

"Exactly. So be a good boy, drink your wine, and keep telling me about the crazy olive oil heiress."

Matteo chuckled, shaking his head as he chewed on another grape.

The story had been escalating for the last twenty minutes, each detail more unhinged than the last.

Apparently, his ex-fiancée had become entirely convinced that their hired wedding photographer was a deep-cover CIA asset sent specifically to spy on her family’s international olive oil distribution business.

"She literally made me destroy my phone," Matteo said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Three separate times. In the span of a six-month engagement. I swear to you, Cyan, I thought it was incredibly romantic at first. I told myself, Wow, she cares about my safety so much. It was definitely not that."

I kept working, my hand moving in small, quick circles to texture the shadow along his hip. "What was it, then?"

"Pure paranoia," he said, his voice dropping into a dramatic whisper. "She was checking up on me. The girl had a literal folder. An actual, thick manila folder with my name printed on the tab, full of receipts and flight logs. Can you believe that?"

I paused, the brush hovering an inch from the fabric as a wave of genuine delight washed over me.

"Honestly? I respect her dedication. A girl who keeps receipts is a girl who knows what she wants."

Matteo rolled his eyes, laughing again. "Of course you would side with the crazy one."

The conversation drifted after that, moving the way talk always does when the air is warm, the wine is flowing, and there isn’t a single deadline in sight.

We spoke about his university days in Florence, the months he spent studying the archways in Lisbon, and how much he missed the smell of his grandmother’s kitchen.

"My mother still calls me every single Sunday morning," Matteo muttered, his gaze softening as he looked out over the lavender beds.

"I ignore at least half of them because I’m usually hungover or asleep, but she never stops dialing. Parents, right? They just can’t let go."

He shifted his gaze back to me, his smile open, completely innocent. "Do yours call you?"

The paintbrush stopped dead In my hand.

A heavy blob of dark blue paint gathered at the tip of the bristles, hung for a second, and then dropped onto the pristine white marble floor with a quiet splat. I didn’t notice it. I couldn’t move.

My entire body went completely cold, my lungs locking up as if the air had suddenly turned to solid ice.

The balcony, the estate, the warm morning light... all of it vanished, replaced by an instant, violent rush of jagged, broken images that slammed into my brain before I could lift my defenses.

It wasn’t a memory that came back in an orderly line; it was a cluster of sharp, bleeding fragments.

I heard the terrible, deafening sound of glass shattering across a hardwood floor in a dark room I had spent years trying to forget.

I heard a woman’s scream... high-pitched, raw, and full of a specific terror that stays trapped inside your ears long after the actual throat has gone silent.

Then came the visual: bright, hot blood spilling over pale, thin wrists, looking impossibly bright against white skin.

And finally, the distinct, metallic clatter of a heavy kitchen knife hitting the floorboards, rolling until it bumped against my own small shoes.

None of it made any sense. It was just a chaotic storm of old horror, but it was more than enough to make my chest tighten so hard I couldn’t draw a breath.