CHAPTER SIX: THE CONFESSION AND THE CATACLYSM

—Thursday Evening, Golden Hour—

The children had long since departed, leaving behind smudges of ochre and cobalt on the charity center's walls, their laughter still clinging to the high ceilings like the last notes of a song. Syra wiped her hands on a rag, the pigments staining her fingers in vivid streaks—war wounds from an afternoon spent teaching Mei's class how to paint their dreams.

Lou Yan appeared at her elbow, silent as a shadow. He held out a glass of chilled barley tea, the condensation beading on the surface like morning dew.

"Mei says you're leaving," he said. His voice was calm, but his fingers tightened imperceptibly around the glass.

Syra took it, their fingers brushing. A spark, swift and electric. "The class is over."

"You could stay."

"For what?"

Lou exhaled through his nose—the closest he ever came to a sigh. "Dinner."

The simplicity of the offer was a trap. Syra knew this. Knew the way his eyes darkened when she challenged him, the way his jaw tensed when she refused to yield. She took a sip of tea to buy time, the nutty flavor blooming on her tongue. "I have plans."

"Cancel them."

She laughed, sharp as shattered glass. "You don't get to command me, Lou Yan."

"I'm not commanding." He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the faint scar beneath his left eyebrow, the flecks of gold in his otherwise dark eyes. "I'm asking."

He said it not like a man used to hearing yes—but like one who knew the worth of waiting.

The air between them thickened, heavy with unsaid things. Syra set down the glass before she dropped it. "Why?"

Lou didn't hesitate. "Because I want you."

Three words, delivered with the same quiet certainty as a verdict.

Syra's pulse stuttered.

Not at the boldness—but at the gentleness. At the absence of force. At the unbearable honesty in his voice, stripped of games and guarded charm.

She looked at him then, fully—searching his face for the line between desire and intention, between control and care.

And for a moment, just one, she forgot how to run.

---

—The Restaurant—

The private dining room overlooked the city, the skyline glittering like a spilled jewel box beneath them. Lou had ordered for her—steamed fish with ginger, bamboo shoots in oyster sauce, a soup that tasted of childhood memories she couldn't name.

"You're staring," Syra said, chopsticks poised over her bowl.

Lou didn't deny it. "I like watching you eat."

Heat crept up her neck. "Why?"

"You savor things," he said simply. "As if each bite might be your last."

The observation was too intimate, too knowing. Her breath caught, but she masked it with motion—focusing on the fish, letting the clean steam curl up into her lashes as she flaked the flesh apart. A small movement. A shield.

"You're being unusually forward tonight."

Lou set down his chopsticks with deliberate care. "I'm done waiting."

"For what?"

"You."

The word landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through her composure. She blinked, once—too slowly. Her hand stilled.

Syra forced a laugh. It cracked at the edges. "You can't just decide you're done waiting and expect me to—"

"Marry me."

The world stopped.

Syra's chopsticks clattered against the porcelain. The sound echoed louder than it should have. "What?"

Lou's expression didn't change. "Marry me."

Her heart thudded—once, hard. "You're insane."

"I'm certain."

Syra pushed back from the table, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. The noise grated like her pulse.

"This isn't some boardroom negotiation. You don't just—just declare things into existence."

Lou rose with her, his movements fluid. No aggression. No force. Just presence—measured and magnetic.

"I've watched you for months. I know how you take your tea, which brushes you favor, the way you hum when you're concentrating." His voice dropped, a quiet gravity in the space between them. "I know you, Syra Alizadeh-Li. And I want to know you for the rest of my life."

The raw honesty in his words was a blade between her ribs—sharp, not cruel. Measured, but unrelenting.

Syra took a step back, her hand trembling just slightly. "You don't love me."

"I will."

The arrogance of it took her breath away. She blinked, startled by the sheer weight of those three words. "You can't just decide to love someone."

Lou advanced, slow but certain, crowding her gently against the floor-to-ceiling window. He didn't touch her, not yet—but the city lights blurred behind him, a kaleidoscope of gold and shadow. She felt his presence like pressure in her chest.

"Watch me."

Syra shoved at his chest. He didn't budge. "No."

"Why?"

"Because I won't be another one of your acquisitions!" The words tore from her throat, ragged with something too close to fear. "I won't be something you collect."

Lou's hands framed her face, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man who looked carved from stone. His thumbs hovered near her cheekbones, not quite brushing.

"You already own me," he murmured. "I'm just asking you to keep me."

For one terrifying moment, Syra wanted to say yes. Wanted to melt into his touch, to surrender to the certainty in his eyes.

Then she remembered—

Not just men who left, but men who looked.

The way they saw her beauty first, and little else after. The way their obsession felt like admiration, until it burned.

She remembered being praised and pursued, envied and possessed—never known.

Her ex, who said he loved her, but only stayed until she said no.

He couldn't understand her desire to wait—to be certain, to feel safe.

He told her she was cruel, as if her boundaries were a personal offense.

And when he tried to take what she wouldn't give,

she saw, finally, what love without respect looked like.

She remembered never truly having friends.

The way other girls eyed her from across the room—

how their laughter always dimmed in her presence,

how insecurity turned their kindness into suspicion.

She hadn't been welcomed. She had been compared.

Until Lin and Jia.

The first women who saw her and stayed. Who didn't flinch when the room turned to watch.

Who reminded her that connection could be safe, even in the spotlight.

She remembered what that kind of attention did to people.

To her.

To those who dared care for her.

The pain. The destruction.

The loneliness that came from being wanted, but never understood.

Like Helen of Troy—envied, adored, blamed, and punished.

A woman seen as a symbol, never a soul.

A face that launched ships. A name whispered in curses and songs.

A war fought over her body, not with her permission.

Lou Yan was different. He didn't look at her with hunger.

He never stared like the others did, never touched without reason.

He watched her like someone trying to understand.

And still—she didn't trust it.

Didn't want to believe it.

Because what if she was wrong?

What if he was just better at hiding the same sickness?

She wrenched free. "No."

Lou went very still. "No?"

"No." She grabbed her bag, her hands shaking. "I won't marry you. I won't be your—your project."

The hurt that flickered across his face was there and gone so fast she might have imagined it. By the time he spoke, his mask was back in place. "As you wish."

Syra fled before he could see her cry.

Later

The studio was dark when she returned, the half-finished mural of Lou's face looming in the moonlight like a ghost. Syra pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, the city lights below blurring into streaks of gold.

Her phone buzzed.

Lou: I'll be here when you're ready.

Syra threw it across the room. It hit the mural square in the chest—right where her heart should have been.

Outside, the first autumn leaves began to fall.