A vulnerable moment.

CAMILA

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It was sometime past midnight when I made up my mind.

The house was silent except for the soft ticking of the antique grandfather clock downstairs, each tick hammering at my nerves like a countdown to something I wasn’t ready for.

I slipped out of bed quietly, pulling on a pair of socks to mute my steps against the marble floors.

My heart was thundering so loud in my chest that I was sure someone could hear it through the walls.

This was insane.

This was stupid.

But curiosity burned hotter than fear.

I had to know.

I crept up the main staircase, wincing at every tiny creak. As I came face to face with the door everyone has warned me not to open, my heart pounded even more louder.

I hesitated, my hand hovering just inches from the brass doorknob.

‘Don’t do it.’ The voice in my head screamed louder now, but Katherine’s words rang just as strong:

“You want the truth? You’ll find it there.”

I closed my eyes and sucked in a breath.

Then, with trembling fingers, I gripped the cold handle and I twisted it slowly.

Locked.

Of course it was locked.

But then I remembered the strange set of keys Claire once left absentmindedly on the kitchen counter earlier that day. I’d grabbed one — just one, for reasons I couldn’t even explain to myself — and it was now burning a hole in my robe pocket.

Hands shaking, I slipped the key into the lock. It slid in smoothly. I turned it—

Click.

The key was halfway in the lock when I heard it.

*Creaaaak.*

I froze.

The sound came from the hallway, like someone was moving towards me. My heart leapt into my throat. Someone was coming.

Without thinking, I yanked the key out, clutching it tight, and bolted down the hallway on my toes, praying the shadows would hide me.

My room. I needed to get to my room. If I could just make it—

“Camila?”

I skidded to a halt so suddenly that the air whooshed out of my lungs.

King was standing a few feet away, right outside his own room. My heart slammed so hard against my ribs, I thought I’d pass out.

He must have seen me. He must have known. I was so done for. I whipped around to face him, expecting that terrifying coldness, the biting scorn.

But instead…

He looked different.

His hair was tousled like he had been tossing in bed. His white shirt clung loose to his frame, wrinkled and half-unbuttoned. But it wasn’t the messiness that struck me.

It was his face.

There was something raw about it.

Tired.

Haunted.

His dark eyes weren’t sharp and cold the way they usually were — they looked… lost.

“I…” His voice faltered, and he dragged a hand through his hair. “I can’t sleep.”

I blinked, my mind still racing, trying to catch up.

“I thought maybe…” he paused again, swallowing hard. “If you’re not too tired… would you let me paint you?”

Silence stretched between us.

The only sound was the slow ticking of the old clock downstairs.

He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t furious.

He was just… a man who looked like he was at the very edge of himself.

I opened my mouth, closed it again.

This wasn’t the King who slammed doors and barked orders. This was someone else entirely.

Someone vulnerable and in need.

“I—” I cleared my throat. “Okay.”

He nodded once, sharply, and turned without another word, heading for the studio.

I stood there for a second longer, stunned by everything. In a span of five minutes, I had almost broken into a forbidden room and was now agreeing to be painted at God-knows-what hour.

What was wrong with me?

I shook my head and followed after him.

Maybe… maybe I wanted to see what pieces of him cracked open when he thought nobody was watching.

Maybe I just needed to know.

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The studio was dimly lit, just a single warm lamp by the easel casting a halo of gold into the space.

King said nothing as I sat down on the chair where he directed me, shifting a little under his gaze as he adjusted the lighting.

It was quieter tonight, heavier, like even the air knew not to breathe too loud.

“Lean back slightly,” he instructed, his voice low and somehow rough around the edges.

I did as he said, folding my hands delicately on my lap.

“Turn your face a little… to the left. Good.” He stepped back, assessing, his eyes narrowing with the focus of a predator sizing up its prey — or maybe an artist falling too deep into his muse.

The brush in his hand trembled, almost imperceptibly.

Minutes passed with nothing but the soft scratch of brush on canvas and the sound of our breathing.

I tried not to fidget. Tried not to drown in the strange tension that bloomed between us.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, I found myself whispering, “King…?”

He didn’t look up. But something in him stiffened — a sharp intake of breath.

I pressed on, quietly. “Are you okay?”

The brush halted mid-air and the room went still. I could see the tightness in his jaw, the slight tremble in his fingers. He didn’t want to answer. But I couldn’t stop myself.

“You said she left…” I pushed gently, “Why? Did something happen?”

Still, he said nothing.

“I just…” I tried to sound softer and careful, “I just want to know if you’re okay, it’s not big deal.”

King closed his eyes, the brush slipping from his fingers onto the floor. And just when I wanted to give up the whole conversation, he spoke;

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking.

I blinked, startled.

He rubbed a hand over his face, like he was trying to wipe himself clean of the outburst. “I shouldn’t have…” he muttered. “You didn’t deserve that.”

The apology, for a moment, melted some of the fear in me.

“I just…” He lifted his gaze, and for once, there was no shield between us. Only a kind of desperate honesty. “Sometimes, some past are meant to stay buried. Dragging them out doesn’t fix anything. It only breaks you more.”

I swallowed thickly, my chest aching with emotions I didn’t even know how to name.

“I didn’t mean to probe further,” I whispered.

“I know.” His mouth curved into the faintest, saddest smile.

He stooped down, picking up his brush again, but when he straightened, he didn’t go back to painting immediately.

Instead, he looked at me — really looked at me — as if seeing me for the very first time.

“You know…” he started quietly, “I paint women not because I want to own them. Or hurt them. Or use them.”

I stayed silent, sensing how hard it was for him to say this.

“I paint women because somewhere in me, it… it brings something back to life. Something I thought I’d lost a long time ago.”

My breath caught in my throat. And for a moment, I felt every emotions he was trying so hard to silent.

“And you,” he said, stepping closer, his voice almost a whisper, “you’re different.” He stopped right in front of me now, the brush dangling forgotten in his hand. “You’re not just anyone, Camila.”

I swallowed hard, feeling the burn of his gaze like fire against my skin.

“You’re special.”

The words hung between us, trembling, dangerous. And for a long, long second, we just stared at each other, the room spinning softly around us.

Then, almost shyly, I turned my head and glanced toward the glass wall. I could feel my heart racing faster than a moving train.

The sky was breathtakingly cool and beautiful tonight, almost like it blended with the soft tension in the room.

“The sunset…” I said softly, feeling my lips curve into an involuntary smile. “It’s beautiful tonight.”

King’s eyes didn’t leave my face. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice like velvet. “Just like you.”

The heat rose to my cheeks so fast, I couldn’t hide it. Before I could say anything, before I could even think, he dropped the brush entirely and crossed the last step between us.

And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t rough or demanding like I’d feared. It was slow. Careful. As if he was giving me every chance to pull away.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

His hand cupped the side of my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss.

I felt myself melt into him — into this strange, broken man who was slowly piecing himself back together with each stolen brushstroke, each stolen moment.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.

Neither of us said a word.

We didn’t need to.

Because for once, the silence between us wasn’t heavy.

It was full.

Alive.