Chapter 6 Altars and Embers

Chapter 6 Altars and Embers
The words hang in the air like cigarette smoke with no source.
My half brother.
Of course.
Of course my life is a cheap sitcom with an oversized budget.
I don’t move. Not a metaphor. My muscles seem to forget how to function. My fingers are locked around the stem of my glass, shoulders frozen, knees threatening to complain if I dare shift even an inch. The only thing working is my eyes, and even they’re set to one target: him.
Rafael.
Close. Too close for someone I buried six years ago.
His gaze sweeps over my face slowly, precise, like a hand zipping a dress all the way up. It drops to my mouth for a second, then climbs back to my eyes. For a fraction of a heartbeat, something sparks there. Shock. Anger. Or a trick of the spotlights. I pick the last option if I want to stay on my feet.
Luca presses his palm lightly against my back, a small alarm that says, react, baby. I’m still blank. If this were a movie, someone would be shouting “cut” because the lead actress just glitched.
Rafael moves first.
He shifts his whiskey glass to his left hand and turns fully to face us. His black shirt is neat, top button undone, sleeves rolled to show forearms traced with fine veins. The watch on his wrist catches the light, but not as sharply as the line of his jaw.
“Nice to finally meet you,” he says, voice calm and low, not a single crack in it. His English is smooth, but the Italian accent that used to thicken whenever he got angry now only lingers as a thin trace on a few consonants.
He holds out his hand.
Just like that.
As if we’re two strangers being introduced at a charity event, not two people who almost traded vows at an altar before one of us got caught using another one.
I stare at that hand. Veins standing out across the back. Long fingers, knuckles a little red like he’s just gripped something too hard. Once, that same hand pressed into my waist, hooked around my neck, combed my hair back as he said, “Relax.” Now it hangs in the air between us, formal, polite, sterile.
Playing dumb. Of course.
Luca clears his throat softly beside me, and I realize I’ve been staring at Rafael’s hand for way too long by normal social standards.
If he wants to play the part, I can be the best co-star he’s ever had.
I loosen my shoulders half an inch, tilt my chin a little, and shift my glass to my left hand. My hand touches his.
Warm. Still warm, damn it.
“Likewise,” my voice finally comes out, a little raspy but steady. “Thank you for coming to the exhibition, Mr. Bernardi.”
His fingers close around mine. Not the weak shake of pure formality, but not the possessive squeeze from before either. Something in the middle, like he’s testing out a new setting that fits: not fiancé, not stranger, something in between.
“Your work is impressive,” he says, still in that neutral tone that makes me want to throw my drink at his head just to see if anything cracks beneath the surface. “Moreau has said a lot.”
I’m the first to pull my hand back. My palm throbs oddly. I want to wipe it off on my satin dress, but that would be too obvious, so I just lock my fingers around the stem of my glass again.
“Smile,” Luca murmurs at my ear, teasing. “You look like you’re about to file a lawsuit.”
The line almost makes me laugh, but it only manages to tug one corner of my mouth up.
Rafael glances briefly at Luca, a flicker of something flashing across his face that I can’t quite read. There’s a shift when his gaze lands on Luca’s hand still resting comfortably on my waist, something tightening along his jaw before it smooths out again.
“Luca said your work was bold,” he says, turning back to me. “He didn’t quite cover the… disturbingly honest part.”
Luca chuckles. “I just said she paints the kind of thing that makes people think twice before turning the lights off to sleep.”
“Flattering,” I mutter, sipping my champagne just so my mouth has a job. The bubbles burst on my tongue, suddenly flat. “I only aim to make people stop at ‘so pretty’ and not just walk straight past.”
Rafael shifts his weight onto one leg. Small move, but it changes something in the air. Like he’s settling in. Getting comfortable.
“Well,” he says, rolling the whiskey in his glass, the golden liquid swirling, “it worked. There’s one painting that’s… hard to ignore.”
I know which one before he says it.
“The Altar.”
Of course.
The name alone is enough to prickle the back of my neck.
I lift a brow, feigning casual. “You have… questionable taste.”
A small smile appears at the corner of his mouth. Not a soft one. More like a thin line that knows too much.
“Altars are rarely built without a reason,” he says quietly, his eyes fixed on my face, not his glass, not the floor. “That painting doesn’t seem like an exception.”
He pauses, giving the words space to fall and crash into old bones.
“Is there a particular story behind it?” he asks, tone light, like this is just an abstract chat about aesthetics. “Something that was sacrificed there?”
The question slides out flat, but I can hear another sound threaded underneath it. The memory of an office door opened a fraction too wide. A white dress that never got worn. A ring I slipped off and left on a marble desk without a note.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
I swallow slowly. My throat feels tight. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Daniel standing a little ways off, pretending to be busy checking the guest list while very obviously eavesdropping. A few other collectors steal glances in our direction, probably assuming this is some kind of business conversation.
Luca shifts his thumb, a small stroke over the bone of my hip, like a quiet marker: I’m here.
I pull in a breath, let the air slide in slow. A few answers line up on my tongue:
One: Oh, it’s about the asshole ex I buried alive in my head. Honest, efficient, wildly impolite.
Two: It’s just art, don’t be weird. Safe, stale, boring.
Three: something I can use to stab back without looking like I’m the one holding the knife.
I pick number three. Obviously.
“I had brutal insomnia a few years back,” I say, rolling the glass in my hand, staring at the champagne like there are subtitles floating in it. “Pretty standard stuff: too much caffeine, too many voices in my head, too many things that just… never got finished.”
I lift my gaze again, deliberately locking my eyes on his. If he wants to draw a line, I can draw mine too.
“Sometimes when you can’t sleep, your brain builds rooms that don’t exist in the real world,” I go on. “Places where you stash everything that should’ve stayed dead. People. Promises. Versions of yourself that used to be way too stupid.”
Rafael’s brows twitch, just barely. It used to be the tell that he’d taken a hit he didn’t see coming.
“The Altar is just one of those rooms.” I give a small shrug. “I painted it so that if I ever get tempted to feel nostalgic, I can look at it and remember why some things deserve to burn.”
I can hear Luca’s smile in the air, short and dry. “And you all think I’m the dramatic one,” he comments, but his hand on my waist tightens a fraction, like he’s proud.
Rafael is quiet for a few seconds. He doesn’t look at Luca, doesn’t look at any other painting. His pupils are a little wider, maybe from the light, maybe not. The edge of his jaw moves slowly, grinding around something he can’t swallow.
“Interesting,” he says finally. “It feels… very specific for ‘random imagination.’”
His tone isn’t accusing, but it’s soft enough to feel like the first touch of a blade against skin.
I let out a low laugh, one beat, short. “Everyone’s got an altar, Mr. Bernardi. The difference is I’m just rude enough to hang mine on a wall.”
“And sell it,” Luca adds lazily. “Don’t forget that part.”
“Right.” I take another sip. “If I’m going to pay for therapy, I might as well get a return on it.”
A couple of small laughs bubble up around us, either from Daniel still pretending to be busy or from two guests passing by who caught the last punch line. From a distance, the scene snaps back to crowded, social, normal, but something stays taut between me and Rafael. Like a thin wire strung high in the air, invisible until you step too close.
Rafael raises his whiskey a little, like a small toast in my direction. “Then I hope you get a return worthy of that kind of sacrifice.”
The line misses the sorest spot by a millimeter. On purpose.
I smile, cold. “So far, my life’s been a lot cheaper since I stopped buying flowers for other people’s altars.”
Luca glances over at me now, clearly enjoying the little hits he thinks are just my regular sarcasm. He has no idea this is actually a heavyweight boxing match disguised as art talk.
Rafael exhales a short breath through his nose, almost a laugh he doesn’t let out. “Touché.”
Daniel uses the opening to slip in. “Mr. Bernardi, the auction will start in fifteen minutes,” he says politely. “If you’d like us to mark any pieces as reserved…?”
Rafael’s gaze breaks from mine and shifts to Daniel. He doesn’t answer right away, like he’s running numbers in his head I’m not invited to see.
“Start with The Altar,” he says, not even glancing toward the painting. “And two others in the next room. I’ll confirm the catalog numbers with you later.”
Daniel nods quickly, almost relieved to have concrete instructions. “Of course, sir. I’ll get that ready.”
It means: he’s buying it.
Or at least putting a hold on it.
Of course he is.
Even after all of this, Rafael Bernardi still wants first rights to anything that brushes against my life. Even when it’s just pigment and canvas.
Something tightens in my stomach. Not awe. Not pleasure. More like the feeling of seeing an old fire you thought was dead still hiding embers under the ash.
“Well then, congratulations,” Rafael says again, now looking at me, his expression that of a man who just closed a deal, not one who just scraped open someone’s wound. “Your work just became a little more… unavailable.”
The sentence echoes in a way that’s deeply annoying.
I drain my champagne and set the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray.
“Story of my life, apparently,” I reply lightly. “Unavailable things are always a favorite with rich people.”
Luca laughs, ducking his head a little, hiding something there. “In that case, you should’ve raised your prices, baby.”
“Trust me, I will,” I shoot back.
Rafael looks at the two of us. There’s something almost like irony in his eyes, but it disappears too fast.
“Well,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to take too much of your time before you become the center of attention again.”
“She already is the center of attention,” Luca cuts in, easy.
Rafael ignores that, or pretends to. “I hope tonight goes the way you… expect, Ms. De Cruz.”
My last name sounds strange in his mouth. He used to say only my first name, in a way that made it sound like both a prayer and a threat in the same breath. Now the formality feels like a sheet of glass. Clear, cold, but still a wall.
I lift one corner of my mouth. “Expectations give people migraines. I’ll be happy enough if tonight ends without anyone fainting in front of my paintings.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” he says, that brief ghost of a smile tugging at his lips again. “Some people could use a little… fainting.”
Our eyes hold for a fraction of a second longer than polite. There are so many lines I want to throw into that tiny space:
Did you go under when I left?
Did you ever wake up and wonder why our altar was empty?
Do you still remember the color of the dress I never wore?
None of them make it out.
“Rafael.” A woman’s voice calls from the right, American East Coast accent, sharp and spoiled. I glance over. A woman in a long black dress, red mouth, lifts her hand in a wave, champagne flute dangling from her fingers. “They’re asking for you.”
Of course he didn’t come alone.
Rafael turns, nods once, then looks back at us.
“Duty calls,” he murmurs. “Luca, don’t let her run off before the auction. Moreau will kill us all.”
“Relax,” Luca grins. “If she runs, I’ll carry her.”
Rafael nods once, then looks at me one last time for the night. Or, at least, for the beginning of it.
“Maya.” My name leaves him softly. Not a request, not a greeting. More like an acknowledgement that I’m actually here, solid, real, not just a ghost living inside that altar painting.
I answer by lifting my brows a little. “Rafael.”
He turns away. That black-clad back moves off, swallowed by the crowd, the woman in the black dress immediately sliding up beside him, her hand curling around his forearm with the kind of ease that’s too familiar. They disappear past a cluster of laughing collectors.
Only when he’s completely gone from my line of sight do my knees remember how to wobble.
Luca leans in, his lips almost at my ear. “I know you like dramatic,” he murmurs, “but… what the hell was that?”
I let out a breath I apparently have been holding, staring at the empty champagne flute that suddenly feels wildly insufficient.
“Option one,” I say quietly, not looking at him. “He’s just a rich patron who likes to overanalyze art.”
“Option two?”
“A universe with a really shitty sense of humor.”
Luca laughs once, short, but his eyes, when I catch a glimpse of them, aren’t fully amused. There’s a thin line of suspicion there, but he doesn’t have enough puzzle pieces yet to see the picture.
Not yet.
“In that case,” he says, grabbing a fresh glass from a passing tray and setting it in my hand, “we drink to both. Rich patrons and a screwed-up universe.”
I take the glass, my fingers still shaking a little.
In another room, The Altar hangs quiet on the wall, its corner already tagged with a small “reserved” under the name of someone I once loved. The canvas doesn’t move, but I can feel something shifting in my life, subtle as the first step onto a spiral staircase whose end you can’t see.
“Cheers,” I murmur, touching my lips to the rim.
If Rafael wants to play pretend-we-don’t-know-each-other, I’ll play until the floor burns.