6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Ophelia
I t's opening night at my friend, Emilien Marchand’s, gallery. I’ve never missed one of his openings, and although he's been begging me for years to let him put my art on display, I just can't. It's not good enough.
I straighten my earrings and adjust the high collar of my jumpsuit. I’ve been trying to cover the ‘Mark’ as I’m calling it, but nothing is working other than clothes. When I tried to put makeup over it, it literally melted off, as though there’s some sort of heat source inside it. I’ve tried scrubbing, wiping, scar serums, the only thing I haven’t tried was burning it off and scar removal surgery.
His name is burned into my very being.
The pressure in the room plummets, the air growing dense, suffocating, pressing down on my skin like something unseen is closing in. My lungs tighten, my pulse skitters, a slow, creeping awareness settling deep in my bones. The mirror trembles, a ripple moving across the glass—slow, deliberate—like a breath exhaled onto frozen air, like something stirring beneath the surface.
It shifts again. The reflection warps, bending inward, stretching like liquid metal, its edges pulling in on themselves. It should stop there, should snap back to normal, but it doesn’t. Shadows coil at the edges, thick and shifting, blurring the line between real and fantasy, smearing the glass like ink bleeding into water. My chest tightens, my fingers curling against my sides as my stomach twists, and for a second, I think it’s a trick of the light, some distortion from my own movement—until I blink and realize that my reflection is gone.
A slow dread creeps over me, settling deep, a weight in my chest that refuses to let go. The mirror moves, the glass swirling like a storm caught beneath the surface, silver and black churning together. The frame vibrates, a faint hum rising from it, not from the walls or the floor but from the mirror itself, a pulse, an exhale, something waiting on the other side. The center darkens, stretching open, swallowing the light in the room. My heart pounds against my ribs as I step back, my legs locking in place, because this isn’t normal, this isn’t possible. But it is happening, whether I understand it or not.
It looks like an office. The hazy flicker of bookshelves, the gleam of dark wood, shadows pooling where they shouldn’t be. The image distorts, as though I’m looking through water, shifting between clarity and something else entirely. My pulse hammers, breath unsteady, body locked between the instinct to run and the pull to stay.
Julian.
I stop breathing.
Not the Julian I know. His eyes are deep red, swirling like molten fire, shifting like embers caught in an unseen wind. His features are too sharp, too sculpted, as though carved by forces older than time. Not human. Not even close. The air around him distorts, a slow ripple, like heat rising off pavement, but it’s cold, the temperature in the room plummeting as though something is draining the warmth from the air itself. The shadows behind him pulse, shifting, coiling, like they have a mind of their own.
Julian Duvain. In my mirror. Watching. Waiting.
I whip around, searching the room, my breath a sharp, uneven thing scraping against my ribs. But I’m alone. No one is here. Just me. Just him. Just the impossible weight of this moment pressing into my chest. Slowly, I turn back.
He’s still there.
The glass no longer looks like glass. It moves like water, shifting with the weight of something pressing against it, something stretching the boundary between his world and mine. The swirling blackness pulses, its edges curling, shifting, pressing outward, bending, waiting. My throat tightens, my stomach twists, because suddenly I know what this is.
He’s mirroring me.
A tremor rolls through me, my breath unsteady as my fingers rise—hesitating, hovering—before instinct wins over reason. Every part of me screams don’t, don’t touch it, don’t do this—but the moment my palm meets the glass, the world shifts.
The air crackles—electric, charged, alive. The mirror pulses, bending inward, not just reflecting but pulling. The weight of it tugs against me, threatening to tip me forward, and I stumble, barely catching myself before I fall through.
Heat. Skin. A grip like steel catching my wrist before I slip away.
I feel him.
The Mark flares violently. White-hot pain explodes across my chest, searing through me like fire in my veins. I choke on a cry, clutching my ribs, my vision blurring at the edges as something inside me pulls too hard, too fast. The mirror flickers, the image warping, Julian’s face shifting between the man I met and something else, something darker, something not meant to be seen. The Mark ignites, burning so bright it spills light across the room, illuminating the crimson fire in his gaze as it flickers downward.
His expression sharpens. His voice is low, edged with something I don’t recognize.
“A portal—” Julian breathes, and for the first time, I don’t think he knows what comes next.
He’s gone. The mirror ripples once, twice—before snapping back to normal, like nothing ever happened. The last thing I see before he disappears isn’t a smirk. It’s something else. Shock. Almost… fear.
And I know—he’s coming for me. I don’t need to see him to know. I can feel it in my very soul.
I turn and run out of the room. I need air. Space. The apartment is closing in on me, walls too tight, shadows pressing in. I don’t stop moving. I just leave.
Emilien’s gallery will help me decompress. Hopefully.
The gallery is beautiful—a tapestry of color and movement, captured in stillness. The walls are lined with carefully curated chaos, bold strokes clashing with delicate details, each piece demanding to be seen. Frames stretch across stark white walls, the scent of oil paint and varnish still clinging to the air. Conversations hum softly in the background, footsteps muted against sleek floors.
It’s elegant. It’s alive. It’s everything a gallery should be.
Emilien is bustling around, excitedly greeting people. He sees me, and a grin lights up his face.
"Lia!" he says, running up to me.
When he wraps his arms around me, I melt into the embrace. Emilien has been one of the few I've shared my art with. He knows that it's changed. He knows it’s tied to my emotions, how it basically sucks now.
"I want your pieces hanging here," he says, walking over to the empty spot on the wall. A whole section, actually.
"You know where I stand, Emilien," I say.
"I know, but you should be showcasing your work," he whines, dragging out the words with an exaggerated sigh, like the mere thought of effort physically pains him.
"Not happening."
"Come on, just think about it. It’s been years. Your work deserves to be seen."
I stay firm. "No, Emilien. I told you. Not now. Not ever."
"You’re wasting your talent," he sighs.
Talent. Right. I don’t even know if I have any left. How can I be wasting something that isn’t there?
There’s no color anymore, no feeling. Just gray. Everything I try to paint looks the same—flat, lifeless, and hollow. I keep waiting for something to change, for it to come back, for that thing inside me to spark again. But it doesn’t. It just sits there, locked away, out of reach.
What if it’s gone completely? What if I lost it? What if I open myself up, put my work on these walls, and it’s just proof that I have nothing left to give?
What if everyone sees it? What if they look at my work and feel exactly what I feel—nothing?
God, I hate this. I hate that I can’t even explain it, that I can’t tell Emilien that it’s not about fear or rejection or even the attention. It’s about the fact that the one thing I’ve ever been good at doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
I exhale sharply, shoving the thought down.
"Not wasting it," I mutter. "Just not interested."
"You’re killing me, Lia!" he exclaims. "I know that you're interested!"
"I'm really not," I say. "I like what I'm doing now."
"What? You like working for hacks who don't care about you? Who hire you and claim your work as their own?" he asks.
"That's not how being a ghost artist works, Emilien. And you know that," I admonish.
"Explain to me how it works," he counters.
I sigh, pressing my fingers against my temples. "It’s not about being used. It’s about not being seen."
Emilien folds his arms, unimpressed. "You think that sounds better?"
"I think it’s the only thing that makes sense right now," I snap back. "You know how it works. Commission work, digital art, concept pieces—it’s everywhere. Some artists put their name on everything they create. Others sell it off. No attachment, no recognition, no pressure. You think every painting in a billionaire’s collection was actually painted by the guy who signed it? Or that every brand, book cover, or game concept comes from the name stamped on it? Half the time, someone else made it. Someone like me."
He exhales, shaking his head. "But that’s the point, Lia. You’re hiding." I stiffen. "You could have your own section in this gallery, your name up there in lights. But instead, you’re letting other people take credit so you don’t have to deal with it."
"It’s not about credit," I mutter. "I don’t care about my name being out there."
"Bullshit. It’s because you don’t think you deserve it."
My throat tightens.
"You don’t paint for yourself anymore. You don’t even try. You just bury it. You don’t have to care if a commission piece has no soul, right? It’s just a job. It’s safe."
I swallow hard, ignoring the way my fingers twitch at my sides. He’s too close to the truth, too close to touching something I’m not ready to deal with. "It’s what works for me right now," I say, voice steady.
"No," he corrects softly. "It’s what you think is easier."
I hate that statement, but I hate even more that he’s right. It is easier. But what’s worse? Doing this for a living—taking commissions, ghost painting, staying in the background where it’s safe—or putting my work out there again, just to get ripped apart? I already know the answer. I don’t even have to think about it.
Melanie is in the spotlight. She thrives under it, shines in it, moves through crowds like she was made for them, like she belongs. The cameras love her. People love her. She always knew how to be the person everyone wanted her to be—perfect, effortless, flawless. And me? I was always the one in the background. And when I wasn’t—when my art was supposed to speak for me—it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
I clench my jaw, forcing down the lump in my throat. Emilien doesn’t get it. He sees me as I was. He doesn’t understand that the person who painted with color, with passion, with something real—she’s gone. Because what happens if I try again? What if they look at it, tilt their heads, squint a little, and move on?
I think that would kill me more than anything, it wouldn’t just be a failure. It would be proof. Proof that I lost whatever it was that made me an artist in the first place. Proof that the gray is all I have left.
The thought sinks in too fast, too heavy. The edges of my vision blur. The room starts to spin, shifting around me, tilting at the edges. I think I'm going to pass out. I may be sick. I don't know, but suddenly, I feel weak.
The lights are too bright. Voices become garbled together. The ground starts to tilt beneath my feet, and I know I'm going to go down.
Before I can reach out and catch anything, I feel Emilien's arms around me.
"Are you okay?" he asks, lifting me to my feet.
I start to regain my footing. "I'm fine," I say.
I’m starting to feel better, but his arms are still around me. I'm grateful he's making sure I don't fall, but I can’t even express that.
A sudden presence presses against my back—warm, unshakable, impossible to ignore. Arms wrap around me, pulling me away from Emilien with a force that isn’t just possessive—it’s absolute. I don’t need to turn around. I know who it is.
His scent reaches me first—dark, spiced, electric, curling through my senses, searing itself into my bones. The room doesn’t just quiet, it stills, every conversation and movement dissolving into nothing.
"Don’t touch her." His voice cuts through the silence, low and edged with danger. Emilien stiffens. Everyone does. The gallery feels frozen, like the air itself is holding its breath.
Julian doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone is a warning, his words sharp enough to slice through the air. My pulse slams against my ribs, my breath hitching as the Mark flares beneath my skin, reacting to him, to his fury, to the invisible force rippling through the space.
Emilien swallows hard, eyes darting to me, but he doesn’t touch me again."We're leaving, Ophelia," he says.
He pulls me out of the gallery. I only have time to give Emilien a small wave—not like he noticed. His mouth is still hanging open.
"We need to talk," I tell him.
Now where to go? I am not taking him to my apartment—my place to be me—and this conversation needs to be held on neutral ground.
The Larkspur Theater has been abandoned for at least a decade, but people come here all the time. No one really watches it, no one really cares. It’s private. Hidden. The perfect spot.
The doors hang slightly off their hinges, the once-grand entrance warped by time and weather. Faded marquee letters cling stubbornly to the facade, the ghosts of old film titles barely visible beneath years of grime. Inside, dust coats the velvet seats, and the scent of mildew and forgotten memories clings to the air. The stage, though cracked and crumbling, still holds an eerie presence—like it’s waiting for a performance that will never come.
We get to the middle of the theater, and I don't wait a second longer. I turn around and stare at Julian.
He's waiting, like he knows I have something to say. I can't read him at all. I'm pissed, and I want to show it. I yank my jumpsuit to the side and show him the Mark. It’s glowing in all its fucking glory.
"You need to explain what the fuck you did to me!" I scream.
Wait. I screamed. I showed him emotion. But I can't think about that little revelation now.
"I don't know what you mean," he says leisurely.
"You—what?" I shout. "You know what I mean! This!" I say, pointing at the Mark, rage is burning inside me.
"I think I do," he says.
"Stop being so fucking cryptic," I snap.
"Fine, sweetheart," he starts, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smirk, eyes flickering with amusement, challenge, maybe both. "I’ll tell you what that is because I have one too."
He pulls up his sleeve, and there, on his left forearm, is a Mark that looks exactly like my own.
"The Mark of Duvain," he murmurs. "You belong to me now, whether you like it or not. You’re my soulmate."