The studio was shrouded in a heavy, indigo darkness. The only light came from the neon signage of the bodega across the street, casting long, rhythmic pulses of artificial pink and blue across the paint-stained floor. Lyra sat on the edge of her tattered velvet sofa, her head in her hands, while the silence of the room felt like a physical weight on her chest.
Maeve moved through the shadows, eventually sitting beside her. She didn't say anything at first; she simply leaned into Lyra, offering the solid, grounding warmth of a friendship that had survived every storm they had faced since middle school.
"He's going to rot in there, Maeve," Lyra whispered into her palms. "I can still see the look on Mom's face when the lawyer told her about the collateral. It was like watching someone turn to stone."
Maeve wrapped an arm around Lyra's shoulders, pulling her close. "We'll keep looking, Ly. There has to be a firm that takes pro-bono cases for things like this. Or maybe we can start a campaign, get some eyes on it..."
"There isn't any more time," Lyra interrupted, finally sitting up. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but the frantic energy of the morning had been replaced by a dull, terrifying clarity. "And there isn't another way. I know because I've already been offered one."
Maeve pulled back, her brow furrowing in the flickering neon light. "What are you talking about? What did the CEO say to you last night?"
Lyra took a shaky breath. This was the moment the secret would become real, the moment she would have to admit out loud what her brother's freedom was worth. "Elias didn't ask for money. He told me he knew we didn't have it. He said he was willing to prioritize a 'different kind of value' over the missing capital."
"Value?" Maeve's voice was sharp with suspicion. "What does that mean? Does he want you to work for him? Some kind of indentured servitude in his art department?"
"He wants me to marry him," Lyra said.
The words hung in the air, absurd and heavy. Maeve stared at her, her mouth dropping open in a silent gasp. For a long moment, the only sound was the distant hum of a siren on the street below.
"He wants... what?" Maeve finally managed to choke out.
"A contract," Lyra said, her voice growing stronger as the desperation took hold. "For two years. He needs a wife, someone to fix his image, someone to appease his parents and the board of directors. He wants a partner who is completely beholden to him, someone who won't have her own agenda because her entire world depends on his silence. He told me if I sign the papers, the charges against Dorian vanish. The debt is erased. Dorian goes free tonight."
Maeve stood up, pacing the small clearing between the sofa and the easel like a caged cat. "That is the most twisted, Victorian, psychopathic thing I have ever heard! Lyra, that's not a 'settlement.' That's a ransom! He's kidnapping you in broad daylight!"
"I know what it is!" Lyra cried, standing to face her. "But look at the alternative, Maeve! You were there today! You heard Sarah! Twenty years. Ten million dollars. We couldn't raise that in ten lifetimes. If I say no, Dorian is gone. Mom is gone. Everything we are ends in a courtroom."
"But at what cost to you?" Maeve grabbed Lyra by the shoulders, her green eyes fierce. "The man from the museum, the one you thought had a 'violet layer', he's a monster, Ly. He's using your heart as a bargaining chip. You think you can just 'play a part' for two years? You're an artist! You live for the truth of things. How are you going to wake up every morning in the bed of a man who bought you?"
"I won't be in his bed," Lyra snapped, though a flush of heat rose to her neck. "It's a business arrangement. A legal fiction. I'll have my own room, my own life. I'll just... belong to the Thorne name for a while. It's two years, Maeve. I can do two years standing on my head if it means my brother doesn't die in a cage."
"You say that now," Maeve whispered, her anger softening into a profound sadness. "But men like that... they don't just want your name on a document. They want to own the air you breathe. They want to turn you into one of those cold, marble statues in their foyers."
Lyra looked at the painting she had slashed, the black line cutting through the gold. She realized she had already begun the process of self-destruction. The moment she had walked into that office and seen Elias Thorne's face, the girl who painted sunsets had started to die.
"I've already decided," Lyra said, her voice dropping to a calm, dead level. "I spent the walk home from Mom's thinking about every possible outcome. Every door is locked, Maeve. Elias is the only one holding a key. I can't let Dorian rot because I wanted to keep my hands clean."
Maeve looked at her for a long time, searching Lyra's face for any sign of hesitation. She saw the set of Lyra's jaw and the hardness in her eyes, the resolve of a woman who was willing to walk into a fire to pull someone else out.
"You're really going to do it," Maeve said, the realization finally settling in.
"I have to."
"And what about your art? What about your life here?"
"I'll tell Mom that I found a wealthy patron, that he's helping with the legal fees in exchange for... I don't know, a series of commissions," Lyra said, already weaving the lie. "I'll tell her Dorian is coming home. That's all she needs to know."
Lyra walked over to the kitchen counter and picked up her phone. Her hand was steady now, the adrenaline of the decision providing a strange, numb armor. She pulled out the business card Ellis Woods had given her.
"Wait," Maeve said, reaching out one last time. "Just... think for one more minute. Is there nothing else? No one else to call?"
"The time for calling is over," Lyra said.
She pressed the dial button. The ringing sound seemed to echo through the studio, a countdown to the end of her life as she knew it. After three rings, a voice answered, smooth, professional, and entirely devoid of warmth.
"This is the office of Ellis Woods."
"It's Lyra Sinclair," she said, her eyes fixed on the neon pink light dancing on her easel. "Tell Mr. Thorne I've made my decision. I'm ready to meet and discuss the terms."
"Very well, Miss Sinclair," the voice responded. "A car will be at your address at nine a.m. tomorrow. Please be ready."
The line went dead.
Lyra set the phone down and turned to Maeve. The room felt colder, the shadows longer. She felt a strange sense of mourning, as if she were standing at her own wake.
"He won, didn't he?" Maeve whispered.
"No," Lyra said, though she didn't believe it. "I'm the one saving my brother. That means I'm the one with the power."
But as she lay in bed that night, listening to the city breathe outside her window, Lyra didn't feel powerful. She felt like a bird watching the cage door swing open, knowing that if she flew inside, the lock would click shut for a very, very long time.
She thought of Elias Thorne's grey-blue eyes. She wondered if he was sitting in his glass tower right now, watching the lights of the city and waiting for his newest acquisition to arrive. She wondered if he remembered the taste of the peppermint, or if he had already scrubbed that small, human moment from his memory to make room for the contract.
"Two years," she whispered to the darkness. "I can survive two years."
But the darkness didn't answer. It only deepened, swallowing the last of the marigold light as the moon disappeared behind the clouds.