Isa wandered through Chris's house, her fingers gliding carefully across surfaces. From the living room to the dining area, through the kitchen and down the hallway, her eyes darted around like a hawk scanning for prey.
Anything, she thought. Even a family photo might say something about him.
She remembered meeting Steven's parents once—back in school, during a sports day. He had introduced her, and they'd been just as warm and kind as he was. Isa smiled faintly at the memory as she turned another corner, her fingers brushing along the wall. But the walls offered nothing—no photos, no art, nothing personal. The hallway was so silent, she could hear the soft echo of her own footsteps.
How can someone live like this?
Isa's instincts stirred uneasily. They were often right. If this really was Steven, it made sense that he'd pretended not to recognize her—he was definitely hiding something.
But if I'm right… what happened to his parents? What turned him from that lively, cheerful boy into this cold, withdrawn man?
She hadn't expected this. In her mind, he'd become a charming adult, still wearing that boyish smile, eyes sparkling, admired by everyone. She couldn't deny it—she'd once been one of them. She had imagined him thriving, while she remained stuck, bitter over her own setbacks.
At the end of the hall, Isa noticed a door left slightly ajar. Tilting her head, she stepped closer. Her hand touched the knob, and she gently pushed it open.
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. It was a studio. The scent of paint hung thick in the air. Half-finished canvases leaned against the walls, brushes lay stiff with dried colour, and the floor bore the marks of scattered creativity.
Wonder lit Isa's face as she stepped in. It was her first time in a real painting studio. She wandered between the canvases, examining brushstrokes and tones. She ran her fingers across one, feeling the mix of smooth and gritty textures, then rubbed her fingertips together to wipe off the smudged paint.
One painting caught her attention. It was incomplete—the colours faded, the surface dull, as though abandoned. The shapes of heads emerged in the composition, but they were vague, like shadows erased or buried beneath newer strokes. A strange image flashed through her mind—a man caged within his own world. But she shook off the thought and moved toward a long table where the painting tools were neatly arranged.
It's true, she thought, gazing up at the slanted ceiling and the soft light bleeding in through the high windows. Even in darkness, there's still a flicker of life. Even if it's only pretending.
She turned slowly, letting her eyes sweep the room. It felt like the only place in the house where Chris allowed himself to breathe. As large as the house was, this room held warmth. Life. But it was buried deep, hidden like a secret—light veiled in shadow.
Then her eyes landed on a shelf.
Abandoned. Dusty. Out of place. It stood untouched, almost like it didn't belong to the room at all. Isa squinted, noticing a small key dangling from the lock.
"What could it be?"
Her heart thudded as she cautiously approached. She felt like she was about to commit a sin. Her mind screamed for her to walk away—it wasn't hers. But her body didn't listen. It was as if the shelf was calling her.
Her fingers trembled as she grasped the key and turned it. She pulled the drawer open—
A hand slammed it shut.
Before she could react, Isa was yanked away from the shelf and dragged out of the room so fast her feet barely touched the ground. Down the hallway, through the house—
Until she was thrown into the sitting room.
She caught herself just in time, gripping the arm of a chair, gasping for breath.
"What are you doing here?" Chris's voice thundered. "How dare you roam around my house?"
His hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned red.
A chill shot through Isa. The air had shifted. She could taste the tension—thick and bitter. She clenched her fists, fury rising like heat through her veins.
I saved his life. I stayed all day to make sure he was okay,Isa thought.And this is what I get? Ingrate.
She raised her head. Their eyes met.
The air cracked like firewood between them. Neither moved. Neither blinked. They just stared—emotions burning, unspoken, between them.
Chris broke the stare first. His expression darkened. Then he smirked, and his gaze turned cold.
Isa's guard faltered as he stepped closer. With each step, her heart pounded harder, and her feet instinctively shuffled back—like prey sensing the approach of a predator.
"You dare look me in the eye, Miss Smith?" he said, voice low and sharp. "You had the nerve to enter my home… after ruining everything I worked for? The projects I lost sleep over?"
Isa turned her face away, hiding behind strands of hair. Her fingers dug into the chair. Her knees weakened beneath her.
"Did you think I'd forgive you just because you showed up?" he continued. "That I'd be grateful for your concern, when you're the reason it all went wrong?"
Her arms trembled. Breath hitched in her throat. Words failed her. Even lifting her head felt impossible.
"You're no longer working for me."
The words shattered her. Her legs buckled, and she collapsed to her knees. Gasping, she gripped the hem of her shirt tightly. Tears slipped down her cheeks.
"You're fired!" Chris barked, then turned his back. "Leave. Now!"
"Please… have mercy!"
Chris froze in place.
Her cry echoed through the room—raw, desperate—the same sound she'd once made when she'd begged him before.
"Please…" Her voice cracked. "I… I can't leave. I have nowhere to go."
Isa pressed her palms together, rubbing them hard. At that moment, nothing else mattered—not her pride, not her shame.
She just couldn't fail again.
She couldn't go back to that look on her mother's face. Couldn't face the neighbours' smug stares. This life, for all its struggles, was still better than being labelled a failure.
"Please help me," she whispered. "I know I'm not good enough. I know I mess things up. But I don't want to disappoint my mother again."
Chris looked at her—but quickly turned away, his face twisting like he'd tasted something sour.
"I promised her I'd never quit again. That I'd make her proud." Isa's voice trembled. "I don't want to go back to her like the failure I've always been. Please… save me… help me…"
Her throat tightened until she couldn't speak. She buried her face in her hands, sobs muffled, shoulders shaking.
Chris turned to her again. His fists were pale, drained of colour. His chest rose and fell heavily. His eyes flickered—like a candle fighting against the wind, unsure whether to burn brighter or go out completely.