The door is not locked. I step into the apartment and immediately realize that Vlad is here. I pull my suitcase behind me and stop in the living room. Indeed, the Saint is sitting on the couch, one leg over the other, reading something intently from a stack of papers. With a habitual gesture, I fix my hair and toss it over one shoulder. I freeze and remain still. I'm not sure what to do: should I go into the bedroom and not disturb him, or should I wait?
— Why did you go alone? — he snaps.
I grip the suitcase handle tighter, as if that would help.
— I just didn’t understand… I thought Timur would pick me up from there, but…
— And you should teleport to your own house, — he cuts in. I can't tell if he's joking. The man doesn’t take his eyes off the papers, so I can't read anything from his expression.
— I’m sorry, Vlad, — I say slowly.
The Saint suddenly lifts his head. In his blue eyes hides a mysterious night. His gaze narrows.
— “I’m sorry, Vlad”? — he repeats, and I hear a note of surprise in his low tone.
I drop my eyes to the floor. I want to sink through the earth. Shame floods my entire body with heat. It feels as if I said something wrong, but I don’t understand what exactly.
— My mistake, — I finally add to my apologies.
— Mistake, — he prolongs the word.
I take a deep breath. The scent of the forest, of danger, touches the tip of my nose with something tangible. I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to look up. Vlad looks serious. He gazes at me thoughtfully, tilting his head slightly to the side and almost imperceptibly grimacing.
— I didn’t think…
— Stop it, Julianna, — he cuts sharply. — I’m not your father. No need to report or justify yourself. Sit down.
I hesitate. The suitcase is still here…
The Saint sighs. A flash appears in his blue eyes, brief and flickering, like the moon peeking through the clouds. I don’t understand its meaning.
— Leave the suitcase alone. Sit down. Our agreement is ready.
I nod quickly and approach the sofa. Now the forest is everywhere, as is the smell of paints, the car salon, and a feeling I can’t quite identify. I sit on the couch and place my hands on my knees. Vlad doesn’t comment on my clothes, though he glances once more at his own pants. He places the papers in my hands and gestures for me to read. There are so many words that could have been entirely omitted, the meaning wouldn’t change, but finally, I come across the main point. It is clearly written that if Vlad achieves the goals he set, though they are not specified, he must free my mother and brother from the oppression of my father by any means necessary. I stop reading. I take the pen from the Saint's hands, find a spot for my signature, and write my initials.
— Aren't you going to finish reading? — he asks dryly.
— I read the important part.
— Rash, Julianna.
— Hmm, — I mumble. — It can’t get worse.
Vlad narrows his gaze. The blue of his eyes slowly darkens. I realize it’s practically impossible physically; it's more likely a play of light, or my imagination, but I can really see the blue approaching black.
— Was your father at home when you arrived?
— He was. — I hand the papers back to Vlad.
— Did he offend you?
A bitter laugh escapes involuntarily.
— No.
— And what does offense mean to you, Julianna? — he asks. He leads me into a thicket, because… I don’t know the answer.
How far do I need to go for it to really feel like an offense? All of my father’s ways of belittling me, all the words, the hatred, the emptiness I felt every time — it’s normal. So…
— I can’t answer, — I confess honestly.
The Saint leans back against the couch. Serious, his jaw tightly clenched. I feel his gaze on my back. It pierces through the thin fabric of my t-shirt.
— I am your fiancé, Julianna. He can no longer threaten you.
I turn sharply. A strange desire to pour all my pain onto him ignites like fire in my heart. But the moment I collide with his calmness and sense of strength, I suddenly know — he won’t understand.
— My father thinks that I’m with Timur. He thinks he can…
— You agreed to my proposal so you wouldn’t have to live like this anymore, — he shrugs. — Education, — he changes the subject. — What did you decide?
A brief smile escapes me.
— So soon? You asked this morning.
— I asked if you wanted me to solve everything myself, without your involvement.
— I don’t know… I want to go to an art academy. Or something like that.
The Saint nods.
— We’ll take care of that. Anything else?
I tuck my hair behind my ears.
— Yes, — I whisper softly. I’m deathly ashamed to ask for this, but I have no money. — Could you buy me an easel, canvases, and… pencils?
Vlad raises his eyebrows in surprise, interest gleams in his eyes, brightening his gaze.
— I’ll bring them by this evening.
He suddenly stands, hides the stack of papers in a folder, and strides toward the exit. No farewell, no words sound. The man disappears silently, as if it is the right thing to do.
My gaze falls on the suitcase. It stands, lonely, in the middle of the living room, and I can’t move from my spot. Everything trembles with emotion. I can’t believe I actually did it, deceived my father, and now officially, or rather on paper — I am the Saint’s fiancée. There was no proposal, and there won’t be. I can’t believe I will have an easel. I will be able to paint. I will be able to pour my emotions onto the canvas. No need to hide sketches under the bed. No need to conceal my own preferences. And what if I go to study fine arts... God, this would be the best gift. Dreaming about it is scary. What if it doesn’t come true?
***
The day flies by quickly. At first, I wander around the apartment. I don’t go anywhere except the kitchen and my own bedroom, eventually peering into the refrigerator and finding a heap of groceries inside. I’m not very good at cooking, but for some reason, I feel a desire to try. So I search for a recipe. I find one I like — spaghetti in cream sauce, with mushrooms and tempting pieces of meat. Luckily, everything is laid out step by step, and in the Saint's refrigerator, all the necessary ingredients are present. And thus, evening comes. To my surprise, I manage it. The food looks appetizing, and smells even better.
Around ten in the evening, when the spaghetti grows cold, I suddenly realize that Vlad isn’t coming. He did say he is rarely home. I’m just a fictitious fiancée, so why would he hurry home?
I sadly have dinner alone, concentrating my gaze on the night city outside the window. With every bite, it becomes painfully deep within my soul. I understand — it’s not the Saint’s fault. It’s mine. Just mine. Because I wanted… I don’t even know what I wanted… To impress him? To please him with this? To make him look at me differently?
I failed. I messed up. I don’t know what my father expected when he sent me to Timur and asked me to seduce him… I really am a failure…
After my lonely dinner, I wash the dishes. Then I start wandering around the apartment again. There are no friends to call, my father never let me go anywhere. Not because he cared about my safety, but because he didn’t want me to embarrass him like other acquaintances’ children.
As I walk through the hallways, I stop in front of a door I haven’t peeked into. On purpose. I left Vlad’s space personal. It feels uncomfortable to intrude into someone else’s life like this, especially when the person isn’t even home. Yet, curiosity ultimately overcomes the fear of being caught. I unlock the door. I turn on the light. To my surprise, this... is an art studio. The room is huge. The walls are white. Around there are easels, canvases, paints, tables cluttered with brushes, a bunch of unfamiliar jars, and several different chairs. The scent that only these items possess hits my nose with something pleasant. I look around. Just in case. I walk ahead. I scan my eyes across the already painted canvases. Not all of them are like the first one I saw at the exhibition where we met. A few of the paintings are landscapes. Amazing ones. They make my soul tremble. The gray, black, and white tones demonstrate loneliness, at least for me. There are also fantasy drawings. They convey power and authority, might and the calm that exists in the strong. Then I stumble upon a canvas that strikes me. A girl is painted, sitting alone in the darkness. Not complete darkness, no. Each black spot represents fears. Their outlines resemble human forms. The girl sits with her legs curled beneath her and embraces them. Her face is hidden, her wheat-colored hair fluttering from the invisible wind. The canvas emanates despair and pain. Terrible. Burning. The kind that makes the soul howl.
I don’t know why, but I touch the paint with my fingers. I glide over the strokes with my fingertips and notice that there’s another canvas behind this one. I step back from the first and curiously inspect the second. It’s exactly the same. Completely. The only difference is — a boy covers the girl. His hands embrace her waist, tightly, as if to say he’s there, he won’t leave her. His head is lowered to her temple, and his lips brush against her hair in a gentle kiss. He’s a brunette, slender but strong in spirit, it’s clearly felt in his boyish pose.
There's another canvas behind this one. Exactly the same, only there the girl is now protected by two boys. They are almost identical, just one difference — now the girl looks forward with hope, as if awakening from a terrible nightmare. The boys, on either side of her, hold her by the arms and shoulders. On their faces, there’s faith and strength that everything will be alright. I notice that these three look similar to each other. The girl is light-haired, but their faces… they seem like brothers and sister.
I notice dark spots behind them. Slowly they are disappearing. The light strikes their backs making them thinner, smaller, and less frightening…
— There’s a concept of personal space, Julianna, — a rather rough voice breaks into my consciousness.
I turn sharply. Vlad stands in the doorway of the room. Something strange is happening in his blue eyes, but I manage to recognize anger.
How did I not notice him? How did I not hear him? Did I immerse myself in the painting so deeply that I tuned out?
I divert my gaze from the Saint's face. I clear my throat to avoid hearing the silence that rings in my ears, creating a tension-filled rhythm between us.
— I didn’t mean to, — I say quietly. — Forgive me.
And again, silence. The man says nothing. I hear him approaching. Again and again. Suddenly, his fingers touch my chin and lift my face. He forces me to look at him.
— You wanted pencils, easels, canvases, so you paint, — he states smoothly. His blue eyes are now just blue. Not dark, not light. Ordinary… — And that means you know what it’s like when foreign eyes look at those images you would never show anyone else. Those images that should always be only yours. Personal. Because you want it that way.
— I understand, — I stammer, barely moving my lips.
Vlad smirks crookedly.
— You’ll understand when you show your drawings. All of them.
He suddenly pulls his hand away. It feels cold, as if a frosty wind bursts into the room in the middle of summer, which is strange.
— I… now? — I ask submissively.
— Now.
I bite my lip. I don’t want to show my images. They… Vlad is right, they are mine. Personal. But despite my thoughts, I obediently go to my room and take the sketches from the suitcase, returning to the living room. Vlad is waiting there. I hand them to him and freeze in place.
The man grips the sketches with his fingers, doesn’t open them, and inspects them scrutinously... He exhales loudly:
— Take them back, Julianna.
I look into his eyes in surprise.
— Why?
Now the blue darkens. The color reminds me of the turbulent night before a storm. Any moment now, and it will rumble. Any moment now, I’ll hear the sound of the downpour.
— You will show them if you want to, — he states in a low voice. I catch notes of purring in his tone. — Let’s go. You’ll take what you need. I bought everything.
The sketches end up in my hands. I tremble as I press them to my chest and realize clearly what Vlad has done — respect for me. Something I’ve never seen from my father. Something not accepted in our family. The Saint demonstrated that he wouldn’t intrude into my personal space, he delineated us. And in doing so, he showed that I should follow his example.
The art supplies are in the corridor, near the front door. Two cardboard boxes, already opened, with white bits of canvases peeking out.
The Saint gestures toward them with his gaze and says:
— I can carry everything to your room.
I crouch in front of the gifts, things I thought I would never have. I raise my gaze to the man. All of it. He offers all of this to me.
— Can I? — I whisper.
The Saint nods.
I don’t even look at what is hidden beneath the canvases. I need everything. Like a little child who has been taken to a toy store for the first time. A new feeling of euphoria ignites in my soul. Happiness? I don’t know, the last time I felt something like this was when my brother was born, and my father distracted himself from us for a couple of weeks to celebrate. Perhaps those times can be called the happiest memories.
— Thank you, — I sincerely reply. A smile slowly appears, and along with it, I feel my cheeks turning red.
Vlad looks indulgently. A spark of satisfaction lights up in his blue eyes. The recent anger over the intrusion of my personal space has vanished, at least I hope so.
— Sometimes you remind me of a star, Julianna. Unknown to anyone, distant to all, unreachable, and maddeningly lonely.
— Why? — I ask slowly as I rise.
— You are not visible, — he says firmly. — Even at night. Just a shimmer.
— Not everyone can shine brightly, — I respond quietly.
— Not everyone truly wants to shine brightly, — he corrects. — Come on.
He bends and picks up the two boxes as if they are light. I follow him in amazement, looking at the man’s back hidden behind a dark jacket. Questions arise again: what am I really to Vlad and Timur? What are these two plotting? But the moment the boxes are in my bedroom, I forget everything. Joy currently overshadows everything else.
Vlad leaves me alone instantly. In the silence of the apartment, I hear that he has gone to take a shower. The sound of water somehow calms me.
I open the first box and pull out the canvases. Next, I find a folded easel and a stand for paints and brushes. I place all of this in a corner against the wall. Then I lay out and sort the paints, pencils, even markers. I lovingly run my fingers over the various types of brushes, seeing some for the first time.
I decide that I should start right away. It doesn’t matter that it’s night. I’ve never had the chance to paint like this, truly, without hiding, without worrying about who will see. So I slide the easel near the bed, grab the black paint, and cover the entire canvas. Then, when the black dries, I take a thin brush, find white paint, and outline the girl’s figure. She has no face, but her hair is stirred by an invisible wind. She hugs herself around her waist and kneels, as if in silent prayer to God. Surprisingly, everything turns out beautiful on the first try, as if euphoria brought inspiration along with it. After drawing all the necessary lines that give realism to the girl, I stand and step back from the easel. I examine the painting for a while. The girl inexplicably reminds me of Vlad’s painting with the boys. Mine now resembles that first one: just as scared and in complete despair.
This needs to be corrected.
I take the brush again and outline the mysterious figure of the man. He softly touches the girl by her shoulders from behind. His head is lowered to her crown, his chin resting against her. The man is not kneeling at all; he is strong and powerful. The angel of this girl. My hands instinctively draw wings. Big, strong, with exceptionally delicate feathers.
Then I start to shade. I mix white with black, giving life to the heroes of this strange story. But fatigue overtakes me. I feel sleep is stronger than me, yet I lack the strength to put everything away, so I fall asleep with the brush in my hands.
In the night, I have a strange dream. It’s as if someone is in my room. A shadow, foreign, but the danger that waves disturb the tranquility of the night is safe for me. For some reason, I cannot remember what happens next. I just sense the presence of someone unknown, like the lingering scent of perfume that refuses to fade away…
I wake up with the first rays of the sun. I sit up abruptly, to my own surprise, feeling filled with strength. I immediately recall why that is. I instinctively clench my fingers; they still remember the surface of the brush, but it’s not there. I anxiously spin around and spot the easel against the wall. The table is there as well. The paints on it are organized by colors with the precision of a perfectionist. The brushes are washed and dry, so I immediately feel ashamed. And under the easel, I can see another detail, new in the interior — a stool with a comfortable back, the same as in Vlad’s studio…
A smile appears on my face effortlessly. I fully understand — the Saint made an effort. For me. This realization touches my heart with warmth. It beats faster, ready to fly on wings to this man. To throw myself into his arms and feel the scent of the forest, of paint, and of dark nights full of danger. Only my body does not obey. It has learned to be afraid and to keep its distance. It has learned to be emotionless. Just a beautiful shell.
Suddenly there’s a knock at the door. I hoarsely respond that it’s open and pull the snowy blanket over myself. Vlad freezes in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe:
— Good morning, Julianna.
— H-h-hello.
A curious smile plays on his tanned face. I can’t define it and explain why it unsettles me.
— I have free time today, — he continues with confidence, despite my wide-open eyes and frequent breathing. Explaining why I feel this way is impossible. — Let’s go to your new university. By the way, — Vlad tilts his head to the side, his gaze darkens, — it turns out your father is not against the change of profession.
— You talked to him? — I ask hoarsely.
— Timur, — he corrects.
— Yes, Timur.
— Get ready, — he concludes the conversation, scanning me with his eyes, with a hint of mockery or perhaps indulgence, it’s hard to tell, and smoothly exits, locking the door behind him.
I exhale. My heart is racing since the moment he entered, but only now do I fully realize it. It turns out that it’s not just my breathing that betrays me.
I fall onto my back and close my eyes. I question why I react this way when the Saint gives no reason, shows no sympathy… though I’m not very experienced in that. It’s a shame that there are no answers.
I get out of bed. I need to make myself presentable. After all, not every day do I get a chance to change my life. So I grab my clothes and dash to the bathroom. Luckily, Vlad isn’t in the living room, so I manage to pass unnoticed. I wash my face, brush my teeth, comb my hair, noticing again the reddish reflections that my father hates so much, and I tie up my hair into a high ponytail. I put on a top and jeans and exit the bathroom. Vlad is already in the living room. He stands with his back to me, talking on the phone. His voice is low, the same tone that instantly commands respect, and his tone is authoritative and self-assured:
— If you don’t understand the elementary things, Milana, I have nothing to say to you.
I hear a woman’s voice, but I can’t make out the words. I freeze and eavesdrop. Not because I want to discover any secrets or anything like that about Vlad. But because my body simply freezes, and I am afraid to take a step. Once, this happened with my father. Once, I walked by at the wrong time when he was talking to someone and resolving his own issues. As it turned out, it was a mistake — to declare my presence.
— Listen, — the Saint continues and suddenly turns his face toward me. He remains calm, but I can’t even breathe due to the panic that constricts my chest. — Your proposal doesn’t suit me, — he cuts and hangs up.
His blue eyes pierce into mine.
— I’m sorry, — I say quietly.
Vlad raises an eyebrow. Surprised, he immediately becomes serious, and his gaze shifts to one of interest, as if a timid doe stands before him. I think now he will take back his words spoken in the restaurant.
— Again? — he asks sternly.
— I just was listening, I didn’t want to… — I start to justify myself.
— Stop, — he interrupts, adjusts his bracelet on his wrist, and rolls up his shirt sleeves. — Are you ready? — I nod and press the clothes I wore yesterday tighter to myself. — Then let’s go.
I quickly dash to my room, put my things in the wardrobe, and come out again. Vlad is already in the corridor, waiting. I put on my shoes, trying not to look at him, and I follow him, intending to show that I’m ready. Within a few minutes, we are seated in the car and exiting the parking lot. I’m still anxious, but now for everything at once. Chances to make a dream come true don’t come often.