Rion Vale's POV___
I walk slowly through Evan Lee's house, every step echoing against the marble floor. The place is quiet—no servants, no luxury, just the subtle trace of his presence lingering in the air. The scent hits me the moment I enter.
Fresh rain on black orchid.
God, that scent. It seeps into my lungs, down to my bones, flooding every nerve with memory and want. It's so clean, so Evan. So maddeningly addictive that even the air feels heavier because of it.
My gaze drifts to the walls—each one lined with paintings. Every stroke is deliberate, silent, and heartbreakingly lonely. I stop in front of a large canvas, the colors muted, the composition delicate yet filled with quiet grief. My father, Kirez Blackwood, once told me that true artists hide their sorrow in their work. That pain becomes their signature, even when they never sign their name.
And this one bleeds sorrow.
There's no artist's mark, no name, no clue to who created it. None of them have.
