Page 64 of Ruined By Protection
CHAPTER 19
Hazel
Lucrezia moves through the gallery as though the art speaks directly to her. I hang back, watching her transform before my eyes. Her face lights up, her hands gesture animatedly as she discusses brush techniques with a blue-haired artist whose installation dominates the center of the room.
"The juxtaposition of industrial materials against organic forms creates this beautiful tension," she explains, her voice passionate and knowing.
I nod, pretending to understand, but truthfully I'm just trying to blend into the background. The abstract paintings swirl with colors that might mean something profound to others but remain mysterious to me.
"What do you think of this one?" Lucrezia asks, gesturing to a large canvas splashed with red and gold.
"It's... interesting," I offer lamely.
She laughs, not unkindly. "You don't have to pretend. Art is subjective."
"I wish I could see what you see," I admit, studying her face instead of the painting. "You come alive in here."
Lucrezia's eyes soften. "I've always found refuge in galleries. Even when everything was falling apart I could lose myself in someone else's vision of the world."
I drift toward a quieter corner of the gallery, away from the cluster of people admiring the main installation. A small painting catches my eye—a simple scene of a woman sitting alone by a window, her face turned away.
"Do you paint?" I ask when Lucrezia joins me.
"Yes," she says, a hint of shyness in her voice that I haven't heard before. "Nothing like these masters but it helps me navigate things."
I feel a pang of envy—not bitter or resentful, but wistful. "I don't think I have anything like that. No passion or hobby."
"You never found something you loved to do?"
I shake my head. "I was always working. Three jobs sometimes. Then when I married Elliott and stopped working..." My voice trails off. "He had opinions about how I should spend my time."
Lucrezia's expression darkens momentarily before she composes herself. "Well, now you get to discover what Hazel likes. It's never too late."
I nod, not sure if that is completely true. I can't imagine finding a hobby when I’ve never had one.
I've called my family twice since the first call I made to them. Each time, my mother's voice carried the same worried edge, asking if I'm really okay. Elliott hasn't contacted them—a small mercy—but I know it's just a matter of time. He won't let it go like this.
My eyes catch on the gallery entrance where Fabio stands, scanning the room with vigilance. His presence reminds me of my reality—I'm hiding, running, afraid.
"Let's look at the sculptures," Lucrezia suggests, guiding me toward another room.
I follow, grateful for the distraction, but my mind keeps circling back to Matteo. Every time I close my eyes I see his face when he discovered my bruises. I can't be around him without feeling completely undone, without remembering how his lips felt against my skin, how his hands knew exactly where to touch.
I drift behind Lucrezia into the sculpture room, where abstract forms twist in metal and stone. The pieces reach toward the ceiling like frozen dancers, casting strange shadows across the polished floor. Each sculpture tells a different story—some violent, others peaceful—but all commanding attention.
"This artist works primarily with reclaimed materials," Lucrezia explains, gesturing to a towering piece made of twisted copper pipes and salvaged gears. "She believes in giving discarded things new purpose."
I nod, trying to focus on her words but something shifts in the air around me. A prickle crawls up my spine—that unmistakable sensation of being watched. Again.
My breathing stalls as I scan the room, pretending to admire the art. Nothing seems out of place. Just other gallery patrons moving between exhibits, sipping complimentary champagne, murmuring appreciatively about the sculptures.
You're being paranoid. I whisper to myself, gripping my purse strap tighter.He doesn't know where you are.
But the feeling intensifies, wrapping around my throat like invisible fingers. I've felt this gaze before—cold, calculating, possessive. Elliott's eyes.
I turn slowly, scanning faces more carefully now. The room suddenly seems too bright, too loud. A tall man in a dark suit moves between two large sculptures, his back to me.
Then he turns slightly and my blood freezes.
