Chapter 1: Emily's new purchase

Emily walked slowly through the gallery, her fingers unconsciously gripping her sketchbook. Her gaze glided over the paintings, warmth spreading through her body. The gallery's high ceilings, the diffused light, the bare pink bodies on the canvases… She studied the brushstrokes as if trying to feel their touch.

In one painting, a nude woman in a provocative pose—with small breasts but full, rounded hips—looked at the viewer over her shoulder. The oil strokes were so rich it felt like she could sense the texture of the skin with her fingertips. Wow, the guy who painted this was definitely having a great time, she thought, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Art was supposed to be like this—alive, sensual, pulsing under the skin.

Galleries had been a place of power for Emily since childhood, maybe because her late mother used to take her there.

The girl's long, glossy, dark-chocolate hair cascaded over her shoulders as she leaned closer to the paintings. She was graceful, slender, but with a figure that made not only men but also perfectly heterosexual women stop and stare. Damn, this is what real aesthetics means, she thought, staring at the painting and adjusting the strap of her modest black sundress.

She pulled out her sketchbook, quickly sketching the fluid lines. She had always loved observing nude bodies in paintings—not as objects, but as stories. If her father saw her now, he would purse his lips in disdain and say something like, Art is a hobby, not a career, Emily. To hell with that. She knew she was meant for more, and the Paris Academy was her chance to prove it.

***

"He's just a chipmunk in an Armani suit!"

Liana, a tall blonde in a leather jacket, stuffed a caramel muffin into her mouth, still gesturing wildly. "If he doesn't believe in your dream, why even bother with him as a father?"

"Because my father is my father," Emily sighed, stirring her flat white. "And because he's funding my economics degree… and bought me my apartment… and, well, he even handpicked my boyfriend."

"Okay, what's the deal with the rich pretty boy?" Claire chimed in. She was a petite redhead in a polka-dot blouse, looking like a 1950s pin-up model.

"Great in bed," Emily answered honestly, earning a round of approving giggles. "But I'm not sure it makes sense, you know? He's nice, but… I don't know, he doesn't burn like I do. And I swear, my dad loves him more than he loves me. And he loves dad too."

Liana made a face. "That's creepy."

That was true. Grant was nice to her, and their sex life was great - Emily has always had an appetite to satisfy, but Grant was… rather studious in bed, than interesting or innovative. Just like he was in his finance job. Emily could not shake off the feeling that she was missing out on something in this life, and that she was meant to feel more, to experience more.

"What matters is that you have a chance!" Claire winked. "You'll get into the Academy and make art your life! And all those old bourgeois guys with their lace doilies can go to hell. My mom won't let me start my own business until I graduate. I'm wasting my young genius on boring formulas when I could already be making my first million!"

Emily smiled. She was lucky to have friends like these. Even if they were just as spoiled and reckless as she was.

***

She walked along Sydney's waterfront, inhaling the night air—thick and rich with the scents of the sea and faint trails of food scents drifting from the restaurants. Streetlights cast golden reflections on the wet asphalt, and the city pulsed with energy—alive, restless, unpredictable.

But Paris was still calling her, luring her with its history, its dark studios, its secrets. She felt that she would be happy there, even if it scared her like hell.

Of course, Emily had doubts about herself and whether she could live on her own. After all, she was used to living in her father's shadow and spending his money. She was used to dating the rich kids of her dad's banker friends, the ones who didn't understand why anyone would try to build a career elsewhere when there was already one waiting, right across from Daddy's office. She was also used to thinking of her art as an escape, her private world where she was in control—more so than in her own life.

But her father had made it clear—he wouldn't fund her studies at the Academy.

Her artistic ambitions felt so real in her mind, but was she truly capable of making it on her own, without his financial support? What if she was just a spoiled girl playing at being an artist rather than a future great painter?

On one hand, Emily was strong—fiery, sexy, a little vain. She had a reputation as a girl on fire. But at the same time, she knew she was immature. Ever since her mother's death, her father had shielded her from challenges, and it seemed like he never really expected much from her. She had grown used to luxury and an easy life thanks to him, but deep down, she had always felt that she wanted more than just being a rich girl. She wanted to paint without fearing herself when she did.

***

She stumbled upon the flea market by accident. She had been passing by when she saw the paintings laid out on the cobblestones and couldn't resist. Artists, antique dealers, vendors selling vintage trinkets to tourists…

And then she saw it.

A canvas depicting early 20th-century Paris—the kind of Paris from her dreams. Shadowed, unreal, with streetlights glowing like molten gold. It felt as if just around the corner, a gentleman was sipping his evening drink, while prostitutes leaned against the walls… There was something about it that hit deep.

She bought it without haggling, called an Uber, and brought it home.

In her apartment, she leaned the large painting against the only empty wall. Ever since her father had given her this place, she hadn't known what was worthy of that wall—the main wall in the living room, visible from every angle except the bedroom. Her spacious, sketch-covered living room seemed to tremble at this new addition—like a stranger had entered and settled in the most prominent spot.

Emily switched on the lamp by her desk, spilling warm light across the room. The painting was dark, detached, yet strangely alluring in a way that tugged at her subconscious. She stared into the shadowy alleyways, the blurred outlines of old Paris, and… couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed.

She sighed, pushing the thought away, and sat down at her desk. Scattered sketches, drafts, fragments of ideas begging to be put on paper surrounded her. She picked up her phone, scrolling through the screen and sending off a few overdue emails.

But the uneasy feeling didn't leave her. Goosebumps prickled her skin.

The sudden ring of her phone snapped her out of it.

"Well, baby, have you vanished completely?" The voice on the other end was smooth, low, laced with that same infuriatingly seductive sarcasm that both annoyed and intrigued her—like she resented her own taste in men, shaped by her father's social circle.

"I'm sketching," she replied, still staring at the canvas.

"Dressed? Or not quite?" A sly smile crept into Grant's voice.

Emily rolled her eyes, but the corners of her lips twitched.

"If that's what you want to believe, go ahead."

"Mmm, if you're in that mood…" He drew out the words, making her bite her lip.

"Oh, cut it out," she leaned back, allowing herself a brief pause. Her relaxed posture contrasted with the tension still smoldering inside. "By the way, I've got a new piece. Old Paris. Looks like it was shot in black and white and only then hand-colored."

She hadn't told Grant about her dream of studying in Paris—she was afraid he'd drop her the moment he found out she was planning to leave for so long. Guys like Grant didn't handle inconvenient relationships very well.

"Are you hinting at a vacation in Paris?" He laughed, and Emily was just about to shoot back something ironic when she suddenly froze.

A dull click. From somewhere in the corner of the room.

She turned sharply, like a cat. Silence. Just the faint crackling of a scented candle.

"Em?" His voice in the receiver sounded curious.

"No, just… I thought I heard something." She forced herself to relax.

"Uh-huh. I know your "I thought I heard something."" His voice was teasing, but she wasn't in the mood to appreciate it anymore.

She glanced at the painting. The flickering light from the lamp and candles made it seem as though the streets of Paris were shifting, changing shape ever so slightly.

She blinked—and everything was back to normal. She ran a hand over her face. Nonsense. Probably just exhaustion.

"Alright," she took a deeper breath. "I'll text you tomorrow, okay?"

"Well, I hope you're not cuddling with that Paris of yours tonight. But if you are, I hope at least it knows how to give massages." He laughed.

Emily ended the call and set her phone aside. Nonsense. Just a new painting, just a weird atmosphere.

She stepped closer to the canvas again, leaned in. Something was off. That corner, that building's edge… Wasn't it different? She remembered it in detail, and yes—there had been more shadow there before, and now… it was as if someone had nudged the lamplight's reflection a few millimeters further.

Her fingers tightened around the pencil. One stroke. Fix it—or leave it? Fix it to calm your mind? Finally, she bought it, she did not know the author, and it was hers. Her fingers moved on their own, gliding over the canvas. The correction came naturally, as if it had been waiting.

With a quiet sigh, she stepped back. That's it. Enough. Time to rest. And tomorrow—tomorrow, she will send in her application to the Academy. Living in doubt like this was unbearable.

But somewhere, in the dark alleyways, someone had finally noticed her.

***

Emily lay stretched out in her sheets. The room was steeped in dusk, with only the moonlight spilling through the window. Relaxed after a hot bath, she reached for her favorite vibrator—a birthday gift from Liana when they'd celebrated her 20th in one of Sydney's hottest clubs—and settled in for some pleasure. Tomorrow was going to be a tough day.

And then—a rustling sound.

A sticky, creeping fear coiled inside her, the kind that was always right.

She froze. Silence.

Maybe the wind? Maybe the neighbors? But the feeling was… strange. As if someone was moving. Slowly, carefully. Inside her apartment.

Her heart pounded against her ribs.

And then—the floor creaked.

Emily shot upright, staring into the darkness.

There, in the doorway of her bedroom, stood the silhouette of a man.