Page 5 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

“I’m fine,” she says, her voice soft, but steady. There’s something in the way she says it that suggests it’s not just a response—it’s a promise. To herself. “But I don’t think you brought me here for pleasantries.”

I can’t help but smirk. She’s got fire, this one. Not the kind that threatens to burn her out, but the kind that quietly demands attention. There’s a part of me that wants to test her, see how much she can take.

“Sit,” I order, my voice commanding, as I gesture toward the chair across from me.

She hangs back for just a moment—enough for me to notice—but then she moves, her steps measured and precise as she lowers herself into the seat.

I lean forward slightly, allowing the influence of my words to settle between us. “Your brother made a mistake,” I begin, my voice deep, quiet, the kind that carries in this vast room. “A mistake that could cost him his life.”

She stiffens at the mention of her brother, but she doesn’t allow the emotion to show. I can see the conflict flicker behind her eyes, but she keeps her face neutral. “I know,” she says, almost too softly, before her voice hardens with eagerness. “Like I said, I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this.”

I study her, noticing the way her lips purse slightly, as if she’s trying to hold herself together, to not let this moment break her composure. There’s no pleading, no desperate desperation. Just resolve.

“I’ve been thinking about what you can do for me,” I say, my voice low, almost a growl. “You’re an artist. And the answer is right there—you’ll create something for me. A piece of art.”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly incredulous. “Art?” she repeats, her voice laced with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

I shake my head slowly, never breaking my gaze. “Isabella, do I look like someone who would be kidding You’re an artist, aren’t you? You’ll paint for me. Something that has value beyond just a pretty picture.”

“That’s all?” she asks, biting her lip.

“You’ll get paid the same as your bestselling painting,” I add, watching her eyes widen in surprise. She probably hadn’texpected payment—I’m not that heartless, and I have more than enough money to compensate her talent.

Her gaze drifts down to the reference photo I’ve slid across the desk—a stark image of a single rose drifting on a river. It’s simple, yet holds a quiet power in its symbolism. A power no one will truly grasp until the piece is complete.

She studies it for a long moment before looking up at me, her expression hardening. “I don’t copy,” she says softly, but there’s a firmness behind it. “I don’t mimic anyone else’s work; I create my own”

Her words strike me like a slap, a sharp reminder of my mother—the first true artist in our family’s long line. A knot tightens in my chest. For a fleeting moment, the urge to order her out of my sight burns hot within me.

I lean in slightly. “You dare defy me,” I say, my voice cold and devoid of emotion. “Most people would be grateful for the opportunity to save their brother.”

Her lips press together in a tight line. “Most people aren’t me,” she responds, almost too quietly, but the words resonate in the space between us.

There’s a flare in my chest, a tightness I’m not used to. It’s not irritation—it’s... intrigue. This woman, with her soft voice and her defiance, is unlike anyone I’ve ever encountered. And for the first time in years, I feel something that isn’t power. It makes me pause. Everyone just obeys my orders, it’s been too long since I had a challenge, and that too from a woman. I don’t even remember when the last time was that I even talked to a woman.

I stand from the desk, walking toward the large window that overlooks the estate. The city lights glimmer in the distance, but even here, the darkness feels heavier, the weight of what I’ve just proposed hanging between us. I have no idea why her refusal bothers me. It should be a challenge. It should be easy to crush.

But it’s not.

“You have one chance to prove yourself,” I say, the words carefully controlled. “And to save your brother. Don’t forget his life is in my hands.”

When I turn to look at her again, she hasn’t moved. She’s still sitting there, her posture perfect, her expression calm. But there’s an understanding in her eyes now.

“I’ll do it,” she says, her voice soft but unwavering. “But like I said, I won’t mimic the painting and I require my own inspiration. I can’t just pick up a brush and copy another picture.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of my lips, but I fight it back. This woman is impossible to read. I don’t want her to copy the picture in the first place, just create something similar. But she doesn’t know that. She’s playing a dangerous game, one where the stakes are high and the consequences unforgiving. But two can play this one. And I’ll always win.

I stride back to my desk, each footstep echoing sharply in the stifling quiet. “You have one week to say your goodbyes,” I say, my tone cutting and absolute. “After that, you’ll remain here for as long as I decide. No contact with anyone outside the estate. No socializing. And don’t forget…” I pause, locking eyeswith her, my voice dropping even lower. “You belong to me now, until the debt is paid.”

She stands, not hesitating for even a moment. I watch her as she walks toward the door, the soft click of her shoes against the marble floor. With each step, the tension in the room tightens, coiling around us both like a living thing. She doesn’t look back, doesn’t need to. Her confidence, her resolve—it's all on display, as if she’s already accepted what’s ahead, already knowing the dangerous path she’s chosen.

The door opens with a slow creak, the sound almost mocking in its defiance of the stillness. She steps into the hallway, her silhouette framed by the faint glow of the corridor’s light. But before she disappears, she pauses.

"Don’t underestimate me," she says, her voice steady and sure, every word a promise. She doesn’t wait for a response. The door clicks shut behind her—a final, quiet echo—leaving me standing alone in the dim glow of the room as her words settle over me like a shadow.

I sit back down, staring at the empty space where she was just moments ago. For the first time in years, I feel a change. Not fear. Not even respect. But anticipation.

Chapter 3 - Isabella

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