Shadows at Noon

Clara couldn't sleep. The photo haunted her — the man's face burned into her mind, that cryptic message a threat that lingered in the edges of her every thought.

She'd slipped it into an envelope and tucked it beneath her sketchpad, unsure whether to confront Lucien again or give him space.

But there was no more room for half-truths.

She grabbed her keys.

Wednesday Morning – Lucien's Apartment

The door was slightly ajar.

That wasn't like him.

Clara knocked once, then pushed it open.

The place was wrecked.

Drawers pulled open, cushions tossed, a chair knocked over. One of Lucien's cameras lay cracked on the floor. The photos from their collaborative project — shredded across the kitchen tile.

"Lucien?" Clara's voice trembled.

No answer.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

"He's with me. Let's talk about what's owed. You have until midnight. Alone."

Attached was a location.

A warehouse on the edge of the industrial district.

Her blood went cold.

Wednesday Evening – Warehouse District

Clara's cab dropped her a block away. The warehouse loomed, dark against the city skyline, its windows like blind eyes.

She walked slowly, pulse hammering, every instinct screaming don't do this. But she didn't hesitate.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and rust.

Then — a voice.

"Well, look who's brave."

She turned.

Lucien sat in a chair, hands bound. A man stood beside him — older, lean, eyes like knives.

The man who haunted the photograph.

Lucien's father.

"You must be the girl," he said, smirking. "Heard a lot about you."

Clara kept her voice steady. "Let him go."

He chuckled. "Oh, sweetheart. That's not how this works."

Lucien struggled. "Don't touch her. Don't talk to her."

"Easy," the man said, smacking the back of Lucien's head. "You always had your mother's temper. And look where she ended up."

Clara stepped forward. "What do you want?"

The man's expression darkened. "Money. From a few years ago. Lucien took something from me. Now I want it back."

Lucien spat blood. "I took freedom. You want to sell my name to pay for your debts? Go to hell."

The man pulled something from his coat — a flash drive.

"On here," he said to Clara, "is everything about Lucien's past. Police reports. Medical records. Old photos. I send this to the gallery boards, the university… and your golden boy becomes a cautionary tale."

Clara's breath caught. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" He dangled the drive. "Give me $10,000, or Lucien loses everything."

Clara stared at him. Then looked at Lucien — battered, but defiant.

"Let me talk to him. Just for a second."

The man shrugged. "One minute."

She knelt beside Lucien. His lip was split, eye swollen.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"Don't be," he rasped. "Don't give him anything. He doesn't win."

She touched his cheek. "You don't get to decide what I give. I choose. And I choose you."

A second later, she stood. "Here's the deal," she said, facing the man.

"You let him go — now — and I give you the $10,000 tomorrow. Cash. No cops. But if you so much as blink wrong, I leak this address to every officer in the city."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're bluffing."

She pulled out her phone — a text screen already typed out, one tap from sending.

"Wanna bet?"

Silence.

Then, slowly, he cut Lucien loose.

Later That Night – Clara's Apartment

Clara sat beside Lucien on the bed, cleaning his wounds. He flinched but didn't pull away.

"You shouldn't have come," he whispered.

"You think I could sit home while you bled in a warehouse?" she snapped. "Lucien, this isn't just your fight. Not anymore."

His fingers curled over hers.

"You're not scared of me?" he asked.

"I'm terrified," she said. "But not of you. Of losing you."

His breath hitched. "I've never had someone fight for me before."

"Well, get used to it," Clara murmured, resting her forehead against his. "Because I'm not done."

Thursday Morning – Lucien's Studio

They returned together.

The place felt different now — less like a battleground and more like a sanctuary they'd earned.

Lucien pulled a new canvas out. "We finish this piece," he said. "Before Paris."

Clara blinked. "How did you—"

"I found your letter," he said gently. "Didn't mean to snoop. But… I think you have to go."

Tears stung her eyes. "What if I'm not ready?"

"You are. And I'll be here when you're back."

He handed her a brush.

Together, they began again — splattering color over broken things, building something neither could name but both refused to lose.