Staring back at him, Anya felt a cold dread settle deep in her gut. Elias’s control had slipped. She saw it, a raw, naked terror in his eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared.
He blinked.
His face smoothed, a mask of indifference sliding back into place.
"Something wrong, Miss Petrova?" he asked, his voice even, too even.
Anya’s chest tightened. That flicker, that brutal orange she’d seen — it wasn’t just grief. It was something else. Something festering beneath his composed exterior.
"You saw something," he stated, not asked. His gaze bore into her, a question and a warning combined.
Her throat felt dry. She clutched the palette knife. The vibrant energy of Lena’s art still resonated, a ghost of color clinging to the air. But Elias’s dark aura, that agonizing orange, had eclipsed it.
"I saw *you*," she countered, her voice surprisingly steady.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He didn't look away.
"You see a canvas," he corrected, his tone sharpening. "Nothing more."
But Anya knew better. Her synesthesia wasn't a trick of light. It was a window. She’d seen the agony, the brutal truth behind the perfect façade.
"Lena… her energy, it’s still here," Anya pushed, testing the waters. "It's so vibrant, so alive. Full of passion."
His eyes narrowed. The corners of his lips pulled into a thin, unreadable line.
"She was a passionate artist," Elias conceded, his voice devoid of emotion. "A remarkable talent."
"But then… there's this other color," Anya continued, her heart pounding. "A brutal, agonizing orange. It's violent. It clashes with everything she was."
Elias’s posture stiffened. He unconsciously took a step back, a subtle retreat.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, his voice flat.
"It's from you," Anya whispered, the accusation hanging heavy in the air. "That agony. That violence. It's coming from you, Elias."
His hands clenched at his sides. Knuckles turned white. His eyes, usually so guarded, now held a dangerous glint.
"You're imagining things," he stated, his voice low, a ripple of warning beneath the surface. "You're projecting."
"Am I?" Anya challenged, taking a step forward. "Or are you just so good at hiding it, even from yourself?"
"This is unprofessional, Miss Petrova," he snapped, his composure fraying at the edges. "We are here to discuss the portrait, nothing else."
"The portrait *is* you," she insisted, gesturing with the palette knife. "It's Lena, and it's you. It's the story of what happened."
He flinched. A barely perceptible movement, but Anya saw it. It fueled her resolve.
"Lena's death wasn't just a tragedy, was it?" she pressed, her voice soft but firm. "It was... brutal. And you carry that brutality. You carry the agony."
Elias's breath hitched. His chest rose and fell rapidly. For a moment, his steely gaze faltered, dropping to the floor.
He ran a hand over his perfectly slicked-back hair, a gesture of agitation. His usual meticulousness was momentarily abandoned.
"You know nothing about Lena's death," he ground out, his voice a low growl. "You were not there."
"But I see the colors," Anya retorted, her voice gaining strength. "I feel the echoes. And what I see from you isn't just sorrow, Elias. It's a wound. A deep, festering wound that's poisoning everything around you."
He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that echoed in the vast studio.
"A wound?" he scoffed, lifting his gaze to meet hers again. His eyes were cold, distant. "You're a painter, Miss Petrova, not a psychiatrist."
"Sometimes, a painter sees more than a psychiatrist ever could," she countered, refusing to back down. "I see the beautiful light Lena was. And I see the dark, suffocating shadow you cast over it."
His jaw tightened, a hard knot forming beneath his skin. His eyes narrowed to slits.
"You think you understand?" Elias sneered, a flicker of something raw and furious in his gaze. "You think you can just waltz in here, with your 'colors' and your 'feelings,' and comprehend what I've been through?"
"I don't need to comprehend the details," Anya said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "I just see the pain. And the way you're holding it. It's destroying you, Elias. And it's destroying her memory."
"Her memory is sacred," he hissed, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "Don't you dare speak about her memory as if you know anything."
"I know it's trapped," she stated, her conviction absolute. "Just like you are. Trapped by whatever really happened."
His fists clenched tighter. His knuckles were bone-white against his dark suit. He looked like he was fighting an invisible battle.
Anya saw the struggle in his eyes. The raw emotion, the vulnerability, was almost terrifying in its intensity. He was on the brink.
"You think you're so perceptive," he scoffed, his voice laced with venom. "You think you've uncovered some grand secret."
"I see the truth," Anya insisted, holding his gaze. "Or at least, the color of it. And it's screaming."
He took another step back, his face contorting into a mask of pure anguish for a fleeting second. The agony she’d seen in the orange pulsed in the air around him.
He inhaled sharply, as if pulling himself back from a precipice. The raw vulnerability vanished, replaced by a glacial mask.
"You need to stop," he commanded, his voice regaining its dangerous control. "You are overstepping. Grossly."
"Am I?" Anya challenged one last time. "Or are you just afraid of what might come out if you let go?"
A dark flush crept up his neck, contrasting sharply with his pale skin. His eyes, now hard and glittering, bore into hers.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His presence felt suddenly overwhelming, suffocating.
"Listen to me, Miss Petrova," he warned, his voice a low, menacing rumble that vibrated through the studio.
His jaw tightened, a rigid line of control returning to his features. His eyes, once flickering with panic and agony, hardened into cold, impenetrable obsidian.
"Stay away from things you don't understand," he warned, his voice laced with a dangerous undertone that promised severe consequences.