Chapter 2 — Colors in the Margins

Elliot

Elliot Grayson stood in his study, his world wrapped in the sterile hum of precision. The soft, even light from recessed fixtures reflected off polished steel accents and the monochromatic expanse of his desk. Among it all lay the paint-spattered messenger bag, an intruder in his temple of order. The worn canvas, splashed with vibrant hues of cobalt, crimson, and sunflower yellow, radiated a quiet defiance. Its presence was jarring, like a riot of noise in a soundproof room. A faint scent of paint and aged fabric curled in the still, immaculate air, refusing to be ignored.

He shouldn’t have touched it. He knew that. Privacy was a boundary he rarely crossed—the unspoken rule that kept his world tightly contained. Yet, the bag seemed almost alive, its messy vibrancy taunting him. A part of him had felt challenged by it, as if its mere existence dared him to acknowledge something he’d long buried. And so, despite himself, he had opened it.

The sketchbook rested on the desk now, its textured cover softened by years of handling. His fingers brushed the spine, hesitant. He should close it, return it to the bag, and leave it by the door for Margot to deliver. That would be the appropriate response, the controlled one. Yet his hand lingered.

He exhaled sharply, his breath cutting through the silence, and flipped it open.

The first page caught him unprepared. Faces, hands, and abstract shapes intertwined, chaotic yet purposeful. The tension in the lines intrigued him—the way jagged edges collided with curves, only to resolve into surprising harmony. It wasn’t chaos; it was intention. It was raw, untamed possibility, and it made him feel profoundly still, like the eye of a storm.

The next page turned almost of its own accord.

His breath hitched.

There, rendered in bold, unapologetic strokes, was his mansion. Only it wasn’t his mansion—not as he knew it. The sharp, sterile lines had softened; the cold glass and steel glowed with warmth. Cascading vines draped the façade, their leaves alive with greens and golds. The meticulously trimmed hedgerows had been overtaken by wildflowers, their untamed beauty spilling across the paper in a riot of reds, blues, and yellows. Warm light poured from the windows, as though the house itself exhaled life.

He leaned closer, his fingers tightening on the edges of the page. The image unsettled him—not because it intruded on the fortress of control he’d built, but because it revealed a version of it he’d never considered. His mansion was a sanctuary, a place designed to contain and protect. But here, in these sketches, it was something else entirely. It was open. Inviting. Alive.

A memory stirred, unwelcome and sharp: the weight of a palette knife in his hand, the scent of linseed oil, the satisfying drag of a brush across canvas. He shoved the thought away, his jaw tightening, and turned the page.

The phoenix demanded his attention.

It soared across the imagined wall, its wings dissolving into fiery streaks of red, orange, and gold. The lines teemed with energy, alive with movement and intensity. It was as though the bird might burst from the page and scatter embers into the sterile confines of his study. His chest tightened, a visceral reaction knotting his stomach. The image was too wild, too uncontrolled. And yet, beneath the discomfort it stirred, there was something deeper—a pull he couldn’t name.

His fingers hovered over the page, trembling slightly. The phoenix’s fire unsettled him, but it also whispered something he wasn’t ready to hear.

He turned the page again.

The sketches unfolded into an audacious rebellion. A rooftop garden overflowing with sunflowers and ivy. A mosaic of shattered glass and mirrors, transforming a stark wall into a radiant kaleidoscope of light. A courtyard alive with people—laughing, talking, connecting beneath lanterns strung between trees. Each image chipped away at the mansion’s cold symmetry, replacing it with motion, warmth, and unapologetic life.

Elliot slammed the sketchbook shut, his palm flat against the cover. The tightness in his chest deepened, as if the air itself had grown heavier. These sketches shouldn’t have affected him. They shouldn’t have slipped past the barriers he had so carefully constructed. But they had. They had exposed something fragile, something he’d spent years suppressing.

His gaze dropped to the smooth desk surface, the sterile perfection of his surroundings suddenly suffocating. The life depicted in those pages was alien to him. It didn’t belong in his world. His mansion wasn’t meant for chaos or connection. It was meant to contain. To shield.

And yet.

A soft knock broke through the tension, sharp and sudden against the heavy silence.

“Come in,” Elliot said, his voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside him.

The door opened, and Margot stepped in, her sharp eyes immediately landing on the sketchbook. She moved with her usual deliberate grace, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

“Calla was looking for her bag earlier,” she said, her tone calm but pointed. “I assured her it would turn up. I assume that’s it?”

Elliot nodded, his fingers brushing the strap of the bag. “I found it near the entrance,” he replied evenly.

Margot’s gaze didn’t waver. “She seemed quite anxious about it. I told her you wouldn’t pry.”

The words struck like a subtle rebuke, and Elliot stiffened. “I didn’t pry,” he said, though the presence of the sketchbook on his desk told a different story. His hand shifted to cover it, a futile attempt to shield it from her knowing eyes.

Margot tilted her head, an almost imperceptible gesture that carried a quiet challenge. “Of course not,” she said, her voice soft but edged with meaning.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and taut. Margot’s presence was calm, but it pried at him in a way that no one else ever dared. She wasn’t invasive, but she saw too much. Always had.

“She’s… talented,” Elliot said finally, the admission slipping out before he could reconsider. His voice was quieter now, as though speaking the words aloud made them too real.

Margot’s lips curved, ever so slightly. “That she is. And more than that, she’s perceptive.”

“Too perceptive,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Margot’s expression softened, her voice dipping into something gentler. “Perspective has a way of finding us when we least expect it. It’s one of the few things we can’t outrun, no matter how hard we try.”

He didn’t respond. Her words lingered nonetheless, sinking into the cracks the sketches had already started to expose.

Margot gave him a long, appraising look before turning toward the door. “She’ll be relieved to have it back,” she said, quietly closing the door behind her.

The room felt colder in her absence. Elliot stared at the sketchbook for a long moment before opening it again, his gaze returning to the phoenix mural. The bird seemed to shimmer on the page, alive with defiance. It was a challenge, he realized. A provocation. And though he wasn’t ready to face it, he couldn’t look away.

With deliberate care, he slid the sketchbook back into the bag. He rose, the strap heavy in his hand, its colors bleeding into the edges of his thoughts like sunlight piercing through glass. The impulse to leave it by the front door for Margot lingered, tempting him with its simplicity.

But simplicity had never been satisfying.

With a sharp exhale, Elliot turned and walked toward the library, the bag swinging at his side like an unanswered question.