The next morning, Elias was busy sorting through art supplies in his studio, the quiet hum of the city outside a familiar comfort. He was humming a low tune, thinking about a new painting idea. The memory of Zariah's face, so sharp and cold when she told him to leave, still bothered him. He knew he'd been drunk, but her words had cut deep.
The door to his studio opened, and Nick walked in, a wide grin on his face. "Well, well, well," Nick said, looking around. "Look at you, Mr. Art Teacher, back to your quiet little world after your wild night."
Elias sighed, putting down a box of paintbrushes. "What do you want, Nick?"
Nick's grin didn't fade. "Just checking in on my buddy. And, you know, wondering why the queen of The Obsidian paid you a visit yesterday. Did she come to collect your soul?" He raised an eyebrow, teasing.
Elias leaned against a table, crossing his arms. "She came for a painting. The 'Stardust Wanderer.' The one with the mother and daughter." He paused, then added, "And… I apologized for what happened the other night. For kissing her."
Nick's eyes widened. "You apologized? To Zariah Cruz? Dude, most guys would be bragging about that kiss for weeks! You got a death wish or something?"
Elias just shrugged. "I was drunk. It was wrong. I don't act like that."
Nick shook his head, still grinning. "You're a weird one, Elias. But hey, at least you're alive. Most people who cross Zariah Cruz don't get off that easy." He walked over to a half-finished canvas, looking at it closely. "You know, there are stories about her. Lots of them."
Elias felt a prickle of interest. He tried to keep his face blank, but he couldn't help but be curious about the woman who had stirred so much inside him, then dismissed him so coldly. "Stories?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
Nick nodded, his voice dropping a little, as if sharing secrets. "Yeah. My cousin used to work for her, years ago, before The Obsidian was even a thing. Said Zariah came from nothing. Worse than nothing, actually." He paused, looking at Elias to see if he was listening. Elias just stared at him, so Nick continued.
"They say her mother… was bad news. Really bad. Used Zariah, even when she was just a kid. Made her do things for money. Things no child should ever have to do. That's how she lost her… you know." Nick looked uncomfortable for a second, then cleared his throat. "Her innocence. They say that's why she's so cold now. So hard."
Elias felt a sudden, sharp ache in his chest. The painting of the mother and daughter, the one Zariah had bought, flashed in his mind. Unconditional love. Safety. Comfort. He remembered how Zariah's face had looked when he explained it, a flicker of something raw and painful. It made sense now. A terrible, heartbreaking sense.
"So, she grew up fast," Nick went on, his voice serious. "Learned to fight dirty. Learned to take what she wanted. Heard she killed a few people to get where she is. Not with a gun, usually. More like… with her mind. Or with a knife. Or with a quiet word that made someone else do the dirty work. She's ruthless, Elias. A real baddie. They say she doesn't feel anything."
Elias listened, his gaze fixed on Nick, but his mind was picturing Zariah. The way she moved, like a predator. The sharp, unyielding look in her gray eyes. The way she commanded everyone around her. It all fit the stories. But then he thought of the way her lips had felt against his, the brief widening of her eyes, the unexpected flutter in his own stomach. And the way she had looked at his painting. Could someone so brutal also be so… touched by a painting of love?
"She commands attention, man," Nick said, shaking his head slightly. "Walks into a room, and everyone just… stops. Even the biggest, toughest guys. They admire her, they fear her, but nobody gets close. Nobody dares. She's like a queen, but a queen made of ice and steel."
Elias didn't say anything. He just kept listening, taking it all in. The stories painted a picture of a woman forged in fire, hardened by unspeakable pain. It made her coldness, her dismissal, suddenly make more sense. It didn't make him less interested. It made him more. He felt a strange mix of pity and a deeper curiosity. He wanted to know the real Zariah, the one hidden beneath the layers of ice and steel.
***
Meanwhile, in Zariah's sleek black car, the silence was thick, but not empty. Chloe was humming a happy tune, but her eyes kept darting to Zariah, a playful glint in them.
"So," Chloe finally said, her voice light, "that was… an interesting art dealer."
Zariah kept her eyes on the road, her hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than usual. "He's just an artist, Chloe. Nothing more."
"Oh, really?" Chloe's voice was full of amusement. "Because he looked an awful lot like the guy who kissed you at the club the other night. The one you said was 'just a hungry one' and told to get out."
Zariah's jaw tightened. She hated being teased, especially about something that had unsettled her so deeply. "Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, her voice sharp. "They look nothing alike. And even if they did, it was a drunken mistake. It meant nothing."
Chloe just laughed softly. "Uh-huh. Sure, Zariah. Because you usually let 'drunken mistakes' hold your hand and apologize to you. And you usually turn red when someone mentions them."
Zariah felt a flush creep up her neck. She hated that Chloe could see through her so easily. "I am not turning red," she growled. "And he just apologized for being rude. It's over."
"If you say so," Chloe sang, clearly not believing her. "But he seemed very… polite. And those eyes! So warm. Not like the usual vultures you have circling you."
Zariah didn't respond. She just focused on driving, her mind replaying Elias's calm face, his soft apology, the way he'd looked at her when he explained the painting. And the way he'd smiled, that small, knowing smile, after she'd given him her stern warning. He hadn't been scared. He hadn't been impressed. He had just… smiled. It was infuriating. And intriguing.
Soon, they pulled up to Chloe's apartment building. The afternoon sun was starting to dip, casting long shadows.
"Thanks for coming with me, Chloe," Zariah said, already reaching for her purse. She pulled out a thick wad of cash. "For your time." It was her habit, her way of paying for favors, of keeping things clear, of keeping people at a distance.
Chloe looked at the money, then at Zariah, her smile fading a little. She didn't take it. Instead, she leaned over and, before Zariah could react, pulled her into a warm, tight hug.
Zariah stiffened for a second, unused to such open affection. Her body was stiff, her arms frozen at her sides. She hadn't been hugged like this in… she couldn't even remember when. It felt strange, uncomfortable, yet a tiny, unfamiliar warmth spread through her.
Chloe held her for a moment longer, then pulled back, her eyes soft and serious. "Zariah," she said, her voice gentle, "you don't need to pay me for spending time with you. You're my friend. And I just… I wish someone would be daring enough to break through all those walls you've placed around yourself." She squeezed Zariah's arm. "You deserve more than just… this." She gestured vaguely at Zariah's controlled world.
Zariah didn't know what to say. The words hung in the air, heavy with truth. She just nodded, a small, tight movement.
Chloe smiled sadly, then got out of the car. "See you soon, Zariah. Call me."
Zariah watched her go, then slowly drove away. The warmth from Chloe's hug still lingered, a strange, unwelcome feeling. Walls. Chloe was right. She had built them high and thick, brick by painful brick. And for good reason.
She drove back to her apartment above The Obsidian. The club was quiet now, waiting for the night. She took the elevator up, the silence of her penthouse apartment greeting her. She walked straight to her bedroom, her steps slow.
The large, carefully wrapped painting leaned against the wall where she had left it. She pulled off the protective covering, revealing the vivid image of the mother and daughter hugging and smiling. The pure joy on their faces, the loving embrace, seemed to glow in the dim light of her room.
Zariah stared at it. She walked closer, her fingers tracing the painted lines of the mother's arm, the child's soft cheek. Unconditional love. Safety. Comfort. Elias's words echoed in her mind. He had painted this. He explained it. He had looked at her with those warm, honest eyes.
She thought of her own childhood. The screams. The pleas. The cold, calculating look in her mother's eyes. The rough hands of strangers. There had been no hugs. No safety. No unconditional love. Only pain and betrayal.
A single tear, hot and unexpected, tracked a path down her cheek. Then another. And another. She didn't try to stop them. She didn't try to wipe them away. She just stood there, letting them fall, letting the raw, aching sadness wash over her. The painting, so full of the love she'd been denied, broke something open inside her that she had kept locked away for decades. She sank to the floor, her legs giving out, her gaze fixed on the smiling mother and child. And Zariah Cruz, the brutal, ruthless queen of The Obsidian, simply cried. Not angry tears, but tears of deep, lonely sorrow. The walls, for a brief, precious moment, had crumbled.