Page 6 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

A week has passed since I entered Dominic Castellano’s world, and I still don’t know what to make of it. Instead of socializing and having fun with friends, I spent the day working on my unfinished pieces and making sure Demitri stays out of trouble. The letter I received yesterday, reminding me to relocate to the Castellano estate until my work is completed, was chilling. Like I could forget. The prospect of spending who knows how long under the watchful eye of a man like Dominic was unsettling. Still, I have no choice. His hold on me is firm, and I can’t afford to lose my brother.

The car that arrives to collect me is sleek and black, so polished it almost gleams under the overcast sky. As I step out onto the curb of my apartment building, I can feel the stares of my neighbors. The kind of car that pulls up like that doesn’t belong on my street. There’s something both unnerving and oddly thrilling about the attention it draws. I don’t know why, but for a brief moment, I consider running. Maybe I can slip away, disappear into the city before Dominic’s empire swallows me whole.

But then I’m reminded of my brother, and I know there’s no escaping this.

I give one last glance at my small, cluttered apartment—a place filled with memories, half-finished paintings, and burnt coffee. It's my sanctuary, but it’s also the place where I learned just how fragile safety can be. The black car beckons me to leave it all behind, to cross the threshold into a life I don’t understand.

The car ride feels too short, the silence inside broken only by the muffled sound of the engine. The view of the city is fading in the rearview mirror, and as I look out the window, I notice the skyline melting away, replaced by darker, more desolate stretches of land. The road begins to wind, and I know we’re nearing the estate. I don’t know how far we’ve traveled, but the further we go, the heavier my chest grows.

When we turn down a long, tree-lined driveway, a wall of trees on either side that seems to swallow the car whole, I feel a jolt of panic. I don’t want to admit it, but the mansion I see in the distance is enough to send a shiver down my spine. I’ve been here twice before but today it looks sinister. It’s massive, dark, and looming, almost like a predator watching me approach.

I don’t get a chance to collect my thoughts before the car slows to a stop in front of the estate. The gate opens silently, and the vehicle rolls forward, coming to a halt in the circular driveway.

The moment the door unlocks, I step out, my movements careful, measured. A man in a dark suit waits for me just beyond the car, his posture rigid, his piercing blue eyes unreadable. There’s a coldness to his face, but something about him commands attention. Maybe it’s the way he stands—so confident and assured—or perhaps it’s the quiet danger that clings to him like a second skin.

I swallow the nervous lump in my throat as he motions for me to follow. The last thing I need is to appear weak.

The guards stationed near the gates glance at me with barely a twitch of acknowledgment. Their eyes are trained, focused on some invisible threat, and for the first time, I feel like an outsider. I feel like I don’t belong here.

The man in the dark suit scans me for a second before he turns around abruptly like I’m not worthy of the attention. He starts walking and I follow him, taking big strides to keep up with his tall figure. The grand hallway stretches before me, with wooden floors that echo under our footsteps. The walls are lined with portraits—dark, almost haunting portraits—of men and women dressed in elegant, dark clothing. Their eyes follow me, unnerving me more than I’d care to admit.

“This is your new home for the time being,” the man says as we ascend the staircase. “Your room is on the second floor.”

I nod stiffly, unable to muster a response. The emptiness of the hall wraps around me like a thick fog. Every detail, from the polished floors to the quiet whispers of the servants, gives the impression that I’m walking through a museum rather than a home.

At the top of the stairs, the man opens a wooden door to a large room, and I step inside. The space is unwelcoming and sterile compared to my apartment. The walls are stark white, with simple lighting that casts everything in sharp relief. There’s an easel in the center of the room, surrounded by a long wooden table covered in supplies. The smell of paint and turpentine envelops me, but it’s not as comforting as I hoped. It’s too clinical, too orderly.

“Mr. Castellano will meet you shortly.” The man says and leaves, before I can ask any questions.

I glance around the space, noticing every detail. There’s a small bed in the corner and I walk towards it, plopping my small suitcase on it. I unzip it and take out my comfort blanket and a small frame I packed with my family’s picture. I put it on thenightside beside the antique lamp that’s already there. A sigh leaves my lips just when I hear the door open behind me.

Dominic.

He steps into the room, and the air shifts. It’s like everything around me takes a step back to make room for him. His eyes lock onto mine, but the way he moves—his calm, assured demeanor—tells me this man knows exactly what he’s doing. I’ve never been in a room with someone so confident, so unnerving. And as he steps closer, his gaze sweeping over me, I have to fight the urge not to take a step back.

“You’ve settled in, I see,” Dominic says, his voice smooth, steady. “I trust everything is to your liking?”

I swallow hard, trying not to appear too rattled. “It’s fine,” I say, my voice coming out steady despite the tightness in my chest. “I can work here.”

He looks at me for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze lingering. I feel as if he’s seeing right through me, and it unsettles me.

“I trust you can be productive,” he says, his voice laced with menace.

“I’ll do my work.” The words are out before I can stop them, and I regret them immediately. There’s a challenge in my voice, an undertone I didn’t mean to show. But it’s too late to take it back.

Dominic doesn’t react right away. Instead, he steps toward the table, his eyes scanning the canvases laid out before him. He picks one up, turning it in his hands with a careful attention that feels almost too personal.

“I’ve seen your gallery pieces,” he says, his voice low but not unkind. “You’ve got talent.”

I blink, taken aback. “How did you see them?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

His eyes shift toward me, a brief glint of amusement. “I have access to everything, Isabella,” he says, his tone almost casual. “People talk. I watch.”

The way he says it makes my skin crawl. I know he’s not just talking about my artwork—he’s talking about everything. I force myself to swallow the uneasy knot in my stomach. “I don’t like being watched,” I murmur, my voice quieter than I want it to be.

Dominic’s lips curl into a small, knowing smile. “You don’t have an option. But you’ll get used to it. I expect something exceptional from your artwork,” he says, his voice flat, unyielding.

I nod, though my heart races. I knew this was coming, but I still don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what he wants from me.

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