Chapter 2: The Gilded Summons

The intercom crackled again, a harsh, grating buzz that scraped across Elara's nerves. She turned to the security panel near the door, sleek and modern, at odds with the primal current that hummed through her studio. The screen flickered to life, revealing two indistinct figures huddled close outside, their faces hidden by shadows and grainy resolution.

She frowned. Couriers knew the protocol. Packages were dropped with the concierge, never brought upstairs. Julian would never appear without calling. This visit wasn't routine. It wasn't welcome.

With a weary breath, Elara pressed the button. "Yes?" Her voice came out rough, still thick with sleep and the dream's residue.

"Elara? Darling, is that you?"

The voice, thin and anxious, filtered through the speaker like static. Her mother. Clarissa Vance.

Elara's hand clenched around the console. Cold spread through her stomach. Had it been six months since their last stilted exchange? A year since they'd stood face-to-face? Time lost its shape when you made a point of ignoring certain chapters.

"Mother," she said. Her tone was flat, carved clean of anything sentimental. "Why are you here? It's barely dawn."

"Oh, Elara, please," came another voice, lower but just as frayed. Her father. Richard Vance. His usual confidence was absent, replaced by a note of unease. "We have to speak with you. It's very important."

Important. Her stomach knotted tighter. They didn't do "very important" unless it involved some threat to their lifestyle. Last time, it had been a will and a fight over heirlooms.

She hesitated. Every instinct screamed to shut them out. This place was hers, built to protect what remained of her peace. But the strain in their voices, the sheer oddity of their appearance at this hour, struck something she couldn't quite name. Not concern, exactly. More like the dull compulsion to look at a wreck as you drive past.

"The concierge has an emergency key," she said, her voice still cool. "Use it. I'll buzz you up." She would not meet them outside. If they wanted in, it would be on her terms.

She let go of the button before they could answer, then entered the access code to unlock the elevator. As it rose, its soft hum sounded like a countdown she couldn't stop.

She turned back toward the studio. Her eyes caught the bust still standing under the windows, the one born of dreams and fear. Its carved stare seemed to follow her. In one motion, she grabbed a canvas cloth and covered it. Her parents wouldn't understand. They never had. All they saw was value, not meaning.

She moved to the kitchen. The act of filling the kettle gave her something to hold on to, something ordinary. Her motions were practiced, almost mechanical.

The elevator chimed. Footsteps echoed across the polished floor, tentative at first, then faster. She didn't turn. She focused on the water, the click of the kettle as it powered off.

"Elara."

Her mother's voice was close, behind her now. The scent of Chanel No. 5 floated in, mingling with tension and hairspray.

She turned.

They looked smaller somehow. Clarissa's blouse was rumpled, her hair unstyled, eyes rimmed red behind designer glasses. Her father seemed drained of color, clutching an old leather briefcase as if it were the only solid thing left.

Their desperation, once a suggestion over the intercom, had taken full form now. It filled the room.

"Tea?" Elara said. The word felt strange in her mouth, but it was something to say.

Clarissa stared, her gaze caught on the scar. No makeup today. No effort to hide it.

"Oh, Elara," she whispered, her voice unsteady.

Elara stiffened. That tone, soft with pity, made her skin crawl.

"We need your help, Anya," Richard said. He used the name that wasn't really hers, the name that opened doors. His eyes moved across the loft, measuring what they saw. "It's a matter of survival. For all of us."

The word rang in the air like a dropped stone. Survival. This wasn't about family drama. It felt real, sharp.

Whatever quiet she had left was already beginning to fracture. This was more than a dream's aftershock. This was a breach.