Xavier was alone in his room.
After leaving Asher in the visitor's room, he had returned to his own corner of the villa, desperate for a moment of silence. A moment where he could breathe without feeling like his chest was being crushed.
His fingers tightened around the keys Asher had left behind.
Without hesitation, he unlocked the door to his drawing room.
No one entered this place.
It was his sanctuary.
His prison.
His escape.
Every canvas, brush, paint tube, and sketchbook was hidden away from curious eyes. It was the only place where he could pour out the things he could never say aloud.
Blood still dripped from his hands from the shattered glass earlier.
The cuts were deep.
Painful.
Yet he barely felt them.
Compared to the agony in his heart, the wounds were insignificant.
Walking toward a blank canvas, Xavier grabbed it and placed it on the stand.
Then he began to paint.
Not with paint.
With blood.
His own blood.
