Reminder: After being abducted from her studio, Elif finds herself in Arian Dorman's fortress—a place of cold luxury and hidden dangers. Arian gave her a crimson rose and a terrifying command: Draw the truth he cannot see.
The first rays of moonlight had long vanished, replaced by the sterile, artificial glow of the hidden lamps in Elif's new room.
She hadn't slept. How could she? Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the phantom touch of Arian's cold fingers against her neck. The scent of that crimson rose sat on the nightstand, filling the room with a fragrance that felt like a beautiful lie.
She paced the length of the suite. It was a masterpiece of architecture—velvet curtains, a bed that felt like a cloud, and gold-leafed furniture. But to Elif, it was just a high-end prison cell. There were no windows, no clocks, and no way out.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors clicked.
Elif spun around, her heart jumping into her throat. She expected Arian, but instead, a woman in a sharp, grey maid's uniform entered. She carried a tray of food and a fresh set of clothes. Her face was a mask of indifference, her eyes focused strictly on the floor.
"Mr. Dorman is waiting for you in the West Gallery," the woman said, her voice devoid of emotion. "You have thirty minutes to prepare."
"Wait!" Elif called out as the woman turned to leave. "Where am I? What city is this?"
The maid didn't stop. She didn't even flinch. The door closed and locked behind her, leaving Elif with more questions than answers.
Exactly thirty minutes later, the door opened again. Two large men in black suits—Arian's shadows—escorted her through the labyrinthine corridors of the mansion. The walls were covered in priceless art, but they all shared a common theme: darkness, suffering, and power.
They reached the West Gallery. It was a vast, circular room with a glass dome ceiling, through which the grey morning sky was visible. In the center of the room stood an easel, a fresh canvas, and a set of the most expensive charcoal and paints Elif had ever seen.
And standing by the glass wall, looking out at the sprawling, misty estate, was Arian.
He was wearing a white dress shirt today, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. He looked less like a businessman and more like a warrior in a temporary state of peace.
"Sit," he said without turning around.
Elif walked toward the easel, her legs shaking. "I told you, I don't know what you want me to draw."
Arian turned then. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn't slept either. He walked toward her, his presence shrinking the massive room. He picked up a piece of black charcoal and held it out to her.
"Close your eyes, Elif," he murmured.
"No."
"Close them," he commanded, his voice vibrating with an authority that left no room for argument.
Reluctantly, she shut her eyes. The darkness was immediate.
"Think back to the dream you had before I came to your studio," Arian whispered, stepping behind her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body. "The garden. The roses. There was a third person there, wasn't there? Someone standing in the shadows behind me."
Elif's breath hitched. How did he know? She hadn't even finished that part of the sketch.
"I... I saw a shadow," she stammered. "A man with a silver mask."
Arian's hand came up, resting lightly on her shoulder. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through her, but his grip was tight—almost desperate.
"Draw him," Arian hissed. "Draw the man in the mask. He has been haunting my family for generations. He is the ghost that even my money cannot kill. Only you can see him clearly, Elif. Only you can bring him into the light."
Elif opened her eyes and looked at the blank white canvas. It felt like a trap. "Why me?
Why can I see things that you can't?"
Arian leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Because you are the daughter of a woman who saw too much. And because you belong to me, your eyes are now mine to use."
The mention of her mother made Elif's blood run cold. Her mother had died in a 'random' house fire when Elif was six. She had never known the truth.
"What do you know about my mother?" she demanded, turning to face him.
Arian's expression became a cold, impenetrable mask. "Draw, Elif. If you finish the sketch, I will give you one answer. One truth for one drawing. That is the contract."
Elif looked at the charcoal in her hand. She had no choice. She was a bird in a cage, and the only way to get a scrap of freedom was to sing—or in her case, to draw.
She turned to the canvas and began.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The sound filled the gallery. Arian stood behind her, watching every stroke, every line, like a hawk watching its prey. He didn't move. He barely seemed to breathe.
Hours passed. The grey sky outside turned into a dull afternoon. Elif's fingers were covered in black dust, her back was aching, and her mind was beginning to fracture under the intensity of the memory.
The man in the silver mask was coming to life.
He was terrifying. He stood tall, draped in a tattered black cloak, his face hidden behind a cold, expressionless silver plate. In his hand, he held a long, thin blade that seemed to drip with something dark.
As Elif drew the eyes of the masked man, she felt a sudden, sharp pain in her chest. It was as if the drawing was breathing, drawing the life force out of her.
"He's... he's watching us," she whispered, her eyes wide with a strange, hypnotic fear.
Arian stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the canvas. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white. "Keep going. Don't stop."
"I can't... it hurts..."
"Draw!" Arian roared, his obsession overriding his restraint.
Elif made one final, violent stroke across the man's throat.
Suddenly, the charcoal snapped.
Elif gasped, her hand flying to her nose. A warm, red liquid began to drip onto the white canvas, right where the masked man's heart was supposed to be.
A nosebleed.
The blood splattered against the drawing, blooming like a dark rose on the charcoal sketch.
Elif felt dizzy. The world tilted. She began to fall, but before she could hit the cold marble floor, a pair of strong arms caught her.
Arian held her against his chest, his heart thundering like a war drum. He didn't look at the drawing anymore. He was looking at her, his eyes filled with a terrifying mixture of horror and hunger.
"Elif!" he called her name, his voice cracking.
He took a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped the blood from her face. His movements were surprisingly tender, a sharp contrast to the monster he had been moments ago.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her consciousness fading. "I couldn't finish..."
"You did enough," Arian whispered back, his voice thick with emotion. "You did more than enough."
He lifted her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing. He looked at the canvas one last time—at the masked man and the fresh, red blood staining his chest.
Arian's eyes darkened. The truth was messier than he had imagined.
"Carry the canvas to my private study," Arian commanded the guards who had rushed in. "And tell the doctor to meet me in the girl's room. If a single drop of her blood is wasted, I will have your heads."
As Arian carried Elif back through the dark corridors, he didn't look like a captor anymore. He looked like a man who had finally found a treasure he was willing to burn the world to protect.
He brought her back to the room with the red rose. He laid her on the bed, his hand lingering on her forehead.
"You asked for a truth, Elif," he murmured to her unconscious form. "Here is the first one: Your mother didn't die in an accident. She was killed by the man you just drew. And the only reason you are alive... is because I chose to save you."
He leaned down and kissed her temple, his lips lingering on her skin.
"Sleep now, my little artist," he whispered. "The war has just begun."
He turned and walked toward the door, but stopped at the threshold. He looked at his own hands, stained with her blood and his charcoal.
He didn't wash them. He wanted to feel the weight of her.
The Gilded Cage was no longer just a prison. It was a battlefield. And Arian Dorman was ready to kill every ghost in his past to keep the girl who saw them all.
Too be continued...
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