It began with a knock.
Not a hesitant one. Not soft.
Three firm raps at the door, sharp enough to cut through the calm they'd been carefully nurturing.
Amelia froze mid-stroke, her brush hovering over the canvas. Daniel stood from the couch, tension rippling through his frame like a quiet wave. He looked at her—not with fear, but readiness.
"Are you expecting someone?" he asked.
She shook her head.
He moved first, slow but certain. The door creaked open, and standing there—wearing a navy coat and an air of entitlement—was Julian Marrow.
Amelia's body went cold.
Julian's gaze swept past Daniel as though he were part of the furniture, fixing itself on her with that familiar, disarming smile—the one she once mistook for kindness.
"Still painting in silence, darling?" he said.
Daniel didn't speak. He simply stepped aside enough to let Amelia see him, but not enough to let Julian in.
"I didn't invite you," she said, her voice low but steady.
Julian cocked his head. "You left your piece at the gallery. I thought I'd return it personally."
He gestured to the wrapped canvas leaning against the hallway wall—the one she'd painted in grief, not for sale but for catharsis. She hadn't realized it was missing.
"I didn't authorize that," she replied.
Julian's smile thinned. "You don't return calls. I was worried. You're not as fragile as you think, Amelia—but you are impulsive."
Daniel stepped forward then, calm but unmistakable.
"She said no, Julian."
Their eyes met. Tension, thick and silent, filled the space between them.
Julian didn't argue. He simply placed the wrapped canvas against the wall, brushed invisible lint off his coat, and turned away.
But as he walked down the hallway, he called back over his shoulder, "Be careful who frames your story, Amelia. Some muses turn into cages."
The door closed.
Silence returned—but it wasn't peaceful this time.
Amelia pressed her hands to her chest, breathing in, slowly. The fear wasn't for Julian—it was for what his presence still stirred inside her. Doubt. Shame. The sense that she might always be seen through someone else's lens.
Daniel came to her side. He didn't say anything, just gently lifted the canvas Julian had left and carried it to the far corner, setting it down like it was radioactive.
"I want to burn it," she said.
"You can," Daniel said.
"Not yet," she whispered. "I need to look at it first."
He nodded.
Because that was who he was—not her shield.
Her witness.