Chapter 4

Julian Sterling finally managed to make a sound: “Ste…Stella…”

“Wrong name,” I corrected him with a smile.

“Now, I’m Blair Thorne. Stella Nova was burned to death by your and Seraphina Hayes’s own hands in that fire three years ago.”

He instinctively reached out to me, wanting to touch my face, but his fingertips stopped an inch short in mid-air.

Not because of its ugliness.

But because that beauty, fractured to its extreme, once again ignited the twisted possessiveness deep within him.

His eyes began to gleam, his breathing grew quick and shallow, and that familiar madness reignited in his pupils: “Even… even more perfect…”

I watched the familiar, twisted fervor in his eyes and finally couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

“Julian Sterling, you truly are still that pervert.”

“No, *this* is true art!” His voice held a sick fascination.

“Stella, look, the marks the flames left on you are more perfect than any sculpture. This beauty, reborn from breakage, is practically God’s masterpiece!”

I looked at his gleaming eyes, and a wave of nausea rolled in my stomach.

He was starting again.

Three years ago, he had looked at my skin the same way, with that collector’s appraisal.

“Come back to me!”

He stretched out his hand, his voice laced with commanding fervor.

“I’ll make you a unique collection piece, grander than ever before!”

“I’ll build a larger exhibition hall for you!”

“Let the whole world come and admire this priceless treasure!”

“Enough.”

I took a step back, my voice as cold as a blade.

Julian Sterling was unmoved; instead, he laughed with even greater abandon.

“Are you still angry?”

“That’s all in the past.”

“Seraphina was just a replacement, a failed imitation.”

“You are my true love, my most precious collection.”

He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

As if being flayed was my honor.

I pulled out my phone from my pocket and played an audio recording.

Dr. Maxwell Vance’s clear voice echoed from the phone.

“Object-induced Art Phobia is a rare psychological condition.”

“Patients develop extreme fear of specific art pieces.”

“This fear often stems from traumatic memories and can be activated through specific trigger words…”

Julian Sterling frowned, scoffing.

“Playing mind games.”

“You think these psychology tricks can scare me?”

I turned off the recording and said softly.

“Are you sure?”

Then, I spoke the hypnotic command phrase Dr. Maxwell Vance had carefully designed, word for word.

“The operating table is on fire.”

The effect was instantaneous.

Julian Sterling’s body froze.

His breathing grew ragged, his eyes wide with terror.

“No… impossible…”

He began to cough violently, clutching his head with both hands.

“Scalpel… fire… fire everywhere…”

I watched silently as he fell to his knees.

Trembling uncontrollably.

This once arrogant collector was now like a startled wild animal.

“How do you like it, Mr. Sterling?”

“Now do you know what fear feels like?”

His eyes were filled with incomprehensible terror.

His lips quivered, unable to form a word.

I stood up, looking down at him.

“This is just an appetizer.”

“Every day from now on, you’ll live in this fear.”

“The moment you see a scalpel, the moment you smell disinfectant.”

“Even just hearing the word ‘surgery’.”

“You’ll remember that fire.”

“What… what did you do to me?”

Julian Sterling barely managed to squeeze out the words, his voice utterly hoarse.

“You tell me?”