CHAPTER 112: 112

I stood before the mirror, giving the final touches to my dress, smoothing a wrinkle that wasn’t even there. My reflection stared back at me too composed, too calm almost like she wasn’t the same woman who nearly collapsed from a panic attack just the day before.

It was finally time to return to Italy.

And I swore to myself...

This would be the last time I ever set foot in this country.

If I stayed any longer, my fears might become reality and he might find out.

And I couldn’t afford that

I reached for my handbag, drawing in a steady breath. Nix had already instructed the maids to pack both my things and Nyxella’s earlier that morning his efficiency always felt like a double-edged sword.

I inspected myself one last time. A fitted black pencil skirt that hugged my waist, paired with a crisp white button-down tucked neatly beneath a tailored blazer. The heels were modest but sharp, clicking softly against the polished floor each time I shifted. My hair was packed into a sleek low bun, and my makeup was minimal just enough to hide the exhaustion swirling beneath my eyes.

I looked ready. Even if my heart wasn’t.

Just as I turned to leave, a sound ripped through the quiet.. it was gunshots.

My breath caught and I froze, the echo vibrating in my chest before instinct forced me forward. Slowly, I cracked the bedroom door open and peered out.

And silence welcomed me.

There was no maids bustling through the hallways, no distant voice calling orders no Nyxella’s tiny footsteps. And not even a hint of Nix.

The air felt wrong and heavy, as if the whole house had paused its breathing.

I stepped out cautiously, every sound amplified the rustle of my clothes, the soft tap of my heels, the faint pounding in my ears.

Halfway through the corridor, my world stopped.

One of the maids lay sprawled on the floor lifelessly in her blood pooling, staining the marble tiles beneath her. Her eyes stared wide open, frozen in terror.

A cold chill wrapped around my spine.

But the fear clawing up my throat wasn’t for the body in front of me...

It was for my little girl.

Something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

The gunshots echoed again but closer this time.

I swallowed hard and followed the sound, moving through the hallway with careful, trembling steps. My heartbeat drummed violently as I slipped past overturned furniture, shattered glass, and the metallic scent of blood spreading through the air.

Every step felt like walking into a nightmare I wasn’t prepared to wake from.

Then I reached the threshold of the west garden..

and everything in me stopped.

The trail of gunfire was leading me to the greenhouse.

The same greenhouse Nix had converted into a painting studio for me when I first arrived.

The one place I had filled with color, safety, and memories I wished I could forget.

Now it stood before me like a trap.

My breath hitched.

My feet refused to move.

But the screams inside my head for the fear for Nyxella

forced me forward.

And with a shaky hand, I reached for the door.

I followed the sound

one gunshot... then another...

each louder, sharper, pulling me forward like a hook buried in my chest.

My breathing turned ragged.

My legs moved before my mind caught up.

And then I ran.

I sprinted across the garden path, gravel crunching under my heels, thorns scraping my calves as I pushed through the hedges. My heart hammered so violently it blurred out every other sound except the relentless firing coming from inside the greenhouse.

But when I got closer...

The greenhouse wasn’t a greenhouse anymore.

No.

It was bigger.

Wider and taller.

Almost as if the building had swallowed the garden whole.

My trembling hand pushed the door open

And I froze.

The moment I stepped inside, the world shifted.

What once used to be a small, sunlit painting room

had become an enormous gallery.

A gallery of my life.

Canvas after canvas covered the walls some hanging neatly in rows, some propped against pillars, some still wet.

Every painting I had ever drawn...

my strokes, my mess, my pain...

everything I ever created finished or abandoned

stared back at me.

The room smelled of acrylic, charcoal, and something faintly metallic.

The lights flickered, casting long shadows that danced across the floor.

My steps were slow carefully and almost reverent.

I saw my landscapes, my portraits, the pieces I painted in secret.

Even the ones I thought I had torn apart in frustration.

He had kept all of them.

But my eyes stopped and locked on one painting.

A painting I never wanted to see again.

A painting I knew I destroyed.

The one I painted back at the orphanage.

Not because of its message

not because of its symbolism but because of the time, the desperation, the fear woven into every brushstroke.

I moved closer, my throat tightening as memories rushed in.

The painting was exactly as I remembered.

Dark, layered, too emotional and too raw for the world to behold

And yet somehow...

still intact.

"Impossible..." I whispered, reaching out.

My fingers brushed the edge of the canvas...

And I felt it.

A faint bump beneath the surface.

My pulse stopped.

No.

"No, no... it couldn’t be".

My hand shook as I pressed deeper, tracing the concealed slit in the fabric.

The dagger.

The dagger was still there.

The same one I hid years ago.

The same one I used to protect myself.

The same one I had buried inside that painting because hiding it was the only way to stay alive back then.

I swallowed hard, gripping the edges of the canvas as a wave of dread crashed over me.

If the dagger was still here...

That meant someone had known.

Someone had found it.

Someone had brought it back.

Before I could think and breathe

another gunshot shattered the air. This one was inside the gallery.

And I spun around, gripping the painting frame so tightly my knuckles turned white.

The gunshot echoed through the gallery like thunder trapped in a cage.

My whole body jerked.

For a moment, there was only ringing in my ears...

then the heavy, suffocating silence that followed.

I pressed myself against the frame of the painting, forcing my breath to quiet, my heartbeat to settled at least enough for me to hear what was happening around me.

The gallery felt alive.

Like the walls were breathing with me.

Like the footsteps I swore I heard were lurking just behind the next row of canvases.

I stepped backward, one slow shuffle at a time, my hand instinctively reaching toward the hidden slit in the painting.

My fingers brushed the cold metal.

The dagger.

I slid it free with a soft scrape, the brittle sound slicing through the silence.

The weight of it in my hand felt both foreign and familiar.

Like touching a ghost from my past.

Like holding a version of myself I hoped I had buried.

But there was no time to think.

Another sound followed and a low, dragging footstep

came from deeper inside the gallery.

Someone was here.

I turned sharply, gripping the dagger tighter. My throat tightened, as fear crawling up my spine like cold fingers. I tried to steady my breathing, but all I could think of was..

Nyxella.

Please. Please let her be safe.. I pleaded with any diety that could hear me as the footsteps grew louder.

I moved through the rows of paintings, the dim lights flickering above me, casting broken shadows across the floor. My heels clicked too loudly on the tiles, making me flinch with every step.

"Who’s there?" I called out before I could stop myself my voice cracking, trembling. "Show yourself!" I demandeed but all I got was a suffocating, mocking silence.

Then A sharp metallic click echoed behind one of the standing canvases.

I froze.

That was no footstep.

That was someone reloading.

My grip on the dagger tightened so fiercely my hand began to ache.

I forced myself forward, weaving between aisles of paintings, each step heavier than the last. My heart was racing so wildly it felt like it was shaking the floor beneath me.

I rounded the corner

And stopped dead.

The room opened into a larger chamber I had never seen before.

Paintings on every wall...

broken frames scattered on the floor...

a trail of footprints smeared in blood leading deeper in.

My pulse spiked.

No.

No, please

The next gunshot erupted from the far end of the chamber.

And this time, I heard a voice.

A voice I knew.

A voice I feared too much to admit.

Not Nix.

Not Zamile.

But someone I thought I’d left behind years ago.

"Come out," the voice whispered low, taunting, almost amused.

"I know you’re here, Carmela."

My blood ran cold.

No one exceopt I and father know of my true identity so who how come..

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted as the door to the greenhouse slammed shut behind me, the bang echoing through the vast space like a warning bell.

I spun around instantly, but the handle wouldn’t budge locked, sealed, almost as if the building itself had decided I wasn’t leaving While I was still trying to handle that te lights began to flicker and then the entire greenhouse plunged into smothering darkness.

The air didn’t just shift but thickened and the scent of soil, old paint, and something metallic seeped into the atmosphere.

Iron.

Blood.

My heart hammered so loudly I swore whoever was in here could hear it.

I turned my head sharply at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from somewhere in the blackness. My breath hitched. I took two steps back, raising the dagger, steadying myself for impact.

The footsteps stopped right in front of me.

I didn’t think and just attacked.

Or maybe I would have.

Because the moment I swung my hand forward, someone caught my wrist mid-air a strong grip locking me in place. Then another hand clamped around my other wrist, pinning both arms above my head.

I tried to twist, to strike, to pull back

but I couldn’t move.

And the smell of iron grew stronger... much stronger.

The lights snapped back on.

And I found myself staring directly into Nix’s eyes.

His expression wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t shock.

It wasn’t even disappointment.

It was... heavy.

Weighted with something I didn’t understand.

Something that felt like fear, realization, betrayal woven all together in a way that made my stomach drop.

My eyes trailed downward

And that’s when I saw it.

Blood.

dripping down his hand...

because he had caught the blade with his bare palm.

A small gasp escaped me. I dropped the dagger immediately, stepping back in horror. My hands trembled violently as I stared at the crimson staining his fingers staining the floor.

I tried to speak, but nothing came out.

He didn’t even flinch.

He didn’t look at his wound.

He only looked at me.

And in that voice the one that sounded too calm, too quiet, too controlled he asked

"Should I refer to you as my sister-in-law..."

His eyes darkened, searching mine, cutting through me like truth itself.

"...or my wife?"