Page 32 of The Devil's Canvas

I exhale sharply, shoving the thought down.

"Not wasting it," I mutter. "Just not interested."

"You’re killing me, Lia!" he exclaims. "I know that you're interested!"

"I'm really not," I say. "I like what I'm doing now."

"What? You like working for hacks who don't care about you? Who hire you and claim your work as their own?" he asks.

"That's not how being a ghost artist works, Emilien. And you know that," I admonish.

"Explain to me how it works," he counters.

I sigh, pressing my fingers against my temples. "It’s not about being used. It’s about not being seen."

Emilien folds his arms, unimpressed. "You think that sounds better?"

"I think it’s the only thing that makes sense right now," I snap back. "You know how it works. Commission work, digital art, concept pieces—it’s everywhere. Some artists put their name on everything they create. Others sell it off. No attachment, no recognition, no pressure. You think every painting in a billionaire’s collection was actually painted by the guy who signed it? Or that every brand, book cover, or game concept comes from the name stamped on it? Half the time, someone else made it. Someone like me."

He exhales, shaking his head. "But that’s the point, Lia. You’re hiding." I stiffen. "You could have your own section in this gallery, your name up there in lights. But instead, you’re letting other people take credit so you don’t have to deal with it."

"It’s not about credit," I mutter. "I don’t care about my name being out there."

"Bullshit. It’s because you don’t think you deserve it."

My throat tightens.

"You don’t paint for yourself anymore. You don’t even try. You just bury it. You don’t have to care if a commission piece has no soul, right? It’s just a job. It’s safe."

I swallow hard, ignoring the way my fingers twitch at my sides. He’s too close to the truth, too close to touching something I’m not ready to deal with. "It’s what works for me right now," I say, voice steady.

"No," he corrects softly. "It’s what you think is easier."

I hate that statement, but I hate even more that he’s right. It is easier. But what’s worse? Doing this for a living—taking commissions, ghost painting, staying in the background where it’s safe—or putting my work out there again, just to get ripped apart? I already know the answer. I don’t even have to think about it.

Melanie is in the spotlight. She thrives under it, shines in it, moves through crowds like she was made for them, like she belongs. The cameras love her. People love her. She always knew how to be the person everyone wanted her to be—perfect, effortless, flawless. And me? I was always the one in the background. And when I wasn’t—when my art was supposed to speak for me—it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

I clench my jaw, forcing down the lump in my throat. Emilien doesn’t get it. He sees me as I was. He doesn’t understand that the person who painted with color, with passion, with something real—she’s gone. Because what happens if I try again? What if they look at it, tilt their heads, squint a little, and move on?

I think that would kill me more than anything, it wouldn’t just be a failure. It would be proof. Proof that I lost whatever it was that made me an artist in the first place. Proof that the gray is all I have left.

The thought sinks in too fast, too heavy. The edges of my vision blur. The room starts to spin, shifting around me, tilting at the edges. I think I'm going to pass out. I may be sick. I don't know, but suddenly, I feel weak.

The lights are too bright. Voices become garbled together. The ground starts to tilt beneath my feet, and I know I'm going to go down.

Before I can reach out and catch anything, I feel Emilien's arms around me.

"Are you okay?" he asks, lifting me to my feet.

I start to regain my footing. "I'm fine," I say.

I’m starting to feel better, but his arms are still around me. I'm grateful he's making sure I don't fall, but I can’t even express that.

A sudden presence presses against my back—warm, unshakable, impossible to ignore. Arms wrap around me, pulling me away from Emilien with a force that isn’t just possessive—it’s absolute. I don’t need to turn around. I know who it is.

His scent reaches me first—dark, spiced, electric, curling through my senses, searing itself into my bones. The room doesn’t just quiet, it stills, every conversation and movement dissolving into nothing.

"Don’t touch her." His voice cuts through the silence, low and edged with danger. Emilien stiffens. Everyone does. The gallery feels frozen, like the air itself is holding its breath.

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