Page 49 of Doomed
There’s something comforting about sitting across from someone who understands—really understands—what it means to carry the weight of parental failure. People often discuss failure to thrive in terms of children, but it applies equally to parents who simply fail to parent. The gallery owner I’ve known for months suddenly feels more human, more real than the polished businessman who critiques my paintings and negotiates with wealthy clients.
“You know what’s funny?” I swirl the ice in my drink. “For years, I painted these bright, cheerful landscapes because that’s what my dad said would sell. Even after I left, I was still trying to please him.” I shake my head. “It took moving here, meeting you, getting that first show to finally paint what is truly inside me.”
“The darkness,” Elliot nods. “The desire.”
“Exactly. The stuff my father would calldisturbing.” I make air quotes with my fingers.
“My mother would call itsinful,“ Elliot adds with a wry smile. “She’d probably organize an exorcism if she saw half the art I display.”
We both laugh, and it feels good - genuine in a way that few things have felt lately.
“To escaping judgmental and absent parents,” I raise my glass toward him. “And forging our own paths.”
Elliot clinks his whiskey against my gin and tonic. “To creating the lives they couldn’t imagine for us.”
We drink, and something shifts between us—the professional boundary between gallery owner and artist softening into something closer to friendship.
17
BIANCA
Istare at the package sitting on my coffee table. It arrived by courier an hour ago—a sleek black box tied with a red ribbon that matches the invitation I received for the Hollow’s Hunt. Tomorrow. My stomach twists with anxiety that becomes more intense with each passing hour.
With trembling fingers, I pull the ribbon loose and lift the lid. Nestled in black tissue paper lies a porcelain mask, hand-painted in blue with delicate gold filigree scrolling. It’s exquisite—the craftsmanship evident in every delicate curve and line. Half-face, designed to cover from the nose to the forehead while leaving my mouth and jaw exposed.
A small card sits beside it:
“Every prey must wear its mask. It’s tradition. Wear it well, Bianca. I’ll be looking for you. —K”
I lift the mask, testing its weight. It’s lighter than it looks, with satin ribbons to secure it. The thought of wearing it while being hunted sends a chill down my spine. This is real. I actually agreed to this insanity. My thighs clench in anticipation.
“What the hell am I doing?” I whisper to my empty apartment.
The lure of danger, of the unknown, and Knox’s determination to catch me make it impossible to back out now. I need this as much as I need air.
My phone vibrates on the counter, startling me. Unknown number. I consider allowing it to go to voicemail, but curiosity wins.
“Hello?”
“Getting cold feet yet, Hayes?” Knox’s voice slides through the speaker, smug as ever.
My heart jumps. “How did you know I was looking at your gift?”
His laugh is low, intimate. “Do you like it?”
“It’s... beautiful.” I trace a finger along the mask’s edge. “Why are you calling from a withheld number? More games?”
“Would you have answered if you saw my name on your screen?” Knox asks.
I sigh, setting the mask back in its box. “No, probably not. You’re insufferable enough in person.”
“And yet here we are, talking anyway.” I can practically hear his smile through the phone. “Fate has a funny way of pushing us together, doesn’t it?”
“I’d call it harassment more than fate.” Despite my words, I find myself curling up on the couch, phone pressed to my ear.
“I have a suggestion for you. A way to prepare for tomorrow,” Knox says, his voice dropping to that dangerous low register that makes my skin prickle.
“I’m not interested in your suggestions.”
