Nina Caldwell paced the expanse of her penthouse, her heels clicking on the marble floor like strange music. Evening sun spilled in through the large windows, casting elongated shadows across the den. Behind Nina, a small group of caterers moved quietly along the back wall. They murmured to one another but remained mostly silent.
Nina was a cocktail of emotions as she walked back and forth—from the den to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the foyer, then back into the den. Once in the den, she would stop walking for a moment and look at the wall. Her gaze was fixated on the painting that hung with quiet dignity on the far wall, a place that had remained empty for a very long time because she’d known this painting would eventually occupy the space.
It was an arresting piece, mostly muted colors swirling together in a dance of light and shadow, a masterpiece that had captured her heart as a child. The hum of activity behind her faded into insignificance; none of it mattered next to this work of art that had been a permanent fixture in her memory for most of her life.
Nina's breath hitched as she drew closer to the artwork; she could hardly believe it was now in her home. It was almost surreal. Her eyes traced the lines and curves she had memorized long ago during those treasured trips to Paris with her mother. They would stand before it in the museum, hand in hand, lost in its beauty. Now, years later, the painting was hers, hanging in her own home. But the joy of the moment was undercut by a well of emotion that threatened to spill over.
Her mother would be weeping with joy right now. Sadly, she passed away two years ago, from breast cancer. But as Nina stared at the painting, she could nearly feel her mother there with her. It was an odd feeling—one that brought both joy and pain in equal measure.
"Ms. Caldwell?" a voice called from behind her.
Nina didn't turn, couldn't tear her eyes away from the painting or the memory of her mother. "Yes?" Her voice was barely a whisper, carried away by the vastness of the room, a large room in a large apartment that she had no one to share with.
"We’ve finished setting up the food," the caterer said. There was a note of respect in his tone for the woman who had made a fortune before most people figured out any part of their lives. Nina Caldwell had made her first million at twenty-eight and then her first ten million at thirty.
“Thank you,” Nina said.
"Is there anything else you need?" he tried again, a bit louder this time. “It’s not a lot of food for a party.”
Nina finally turned, offering a smile. “It’s not really a party, just a few friends coming over.”
“Oh, I see.” But his expression still seemed confused. And Nina understood it, she supposed. What sort of oddball hired caterers just for a night at home with four friends? But there was no way to explain it. This painting meant a lot to her. She wanted to share it, to share the stories about her mother and their trips to Paris just to stand in front of this painting.
"Thank you," Nina replied again, her words automatic, her mind elsewhere. "That will be all."
The caterers exchanged glances, sensing the weight of their employer's mood. With nothing more to do, they quietly gathered their things and filed out of the penthouse, leaving Nina alone with the painting.
The door clicked shut, and Nina was left in the gathering dusk. Something about the way the scant evening light spilled into the den's muted colors made her think of a very large blanket: warm, inviting, soft. Soon, her guests, friends of influence and affluence, would arrive to revel in the success that seemed to trail her like a shadow. But in this moment, with twilight caressing the edges of the room, Nina wished for nothing more than to share the triumph with the one person who could no longer join her.
"I wish you could see this, Mom."
As she stood in front of the painting, she began to feel like the room had grown larger somehow, quieter. She checked the time; her phone told her it was 7:30 p.m. Half an hour until her guests would arrive. Just a few friends, but friends whose opinions mattered in the circles she moved. Friends she wanted to share this moment with, not just to subtly brag about the expensive painting she’d managed to acquire but because it truly was a work of art worth sharing.
She crossed the penthouse to the minimal lines and angles of her kitchen, its modern appliances gleaming under recessed lights. Opening the stainless-steel refrigerator, she smiled at the row of champagne bottles. Yes, there would only be five of them, but they would certainly enjoy themselves and maybe deal with small headaches tomorrow morning.
Nina selected one—a vintage brut, the label elegant in its simplicity—and removed the wire cage. She held her breath as she twisted the bottle, feeling the cork give way with a muffled pop. The sound seemed loud in the quiet of her home, and she exhaled slowly, watching the mist escape the bottle's neck.
Pouring the champagne with care, the liquid fizzed and bubbled into the flute. As the bubbles settled, she lifted the glass, the cool crystal against her lips offering a momentary distraction.
"Here's to you, Mom," she whispered, her voice little more than a breath. The crisp taste of the champagne brought back a flood of memories: Parisian summers, laughter echoing through art galleries, her mother's warm hand clasping hers as they marveled at the masterpieces. Those days seemed distant now, wrapped in the golden haze of nostalgia. How her mother would have loved to see her, hosting an event in her own penthouse with a prized painting they had once admired together.
Nina took another sip, allowing the bubbles to dance on her tongue. She turned to glance back at the painting, pleased to find that it still felt as if she was seeing it for the first time. Art had always spoken to her in this way, but this painting in particular was powerful.
The canvas was five feet tall and four feet wide. It showed four workers in a hay field. Three were in the distance, turned away, while the fourth was extremely close to the viewer. His head was cocked down, as if studying the ground he was cultivating. The setting sun cast light like fire across the field, giving off one of the eeriest yet calming tones of yellow Nina had ever seen.
For her, this wasn't just art. It was a piece of her soul, a link to a past that grew more precious with each passing year.
Nina placed the flute on the counter, the crystal chiming softly against the granite. She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it back into place, checking her image in the reflective surfaces of the appliances. She looked the part: the successful entrepreneur, the gracious hostess. Yet beneath the surface, there was a tremor of something else; was it excitement? Anxiety? Or perhaps the stirring of old ghosts, which often happened when she focused on memories of her mother?
Her gaze was momentarily broken by the sound of the front door opening. It wouldn't be any of her friends; they would knock. It was likely one of the caterers, returning due to something left behind. Without turning to face the direction of the door, she said, "Did you forget something?"
It took a handful of seconds for her to realize no one answered. When she did realize it, the silence that followed was thick, heavy with anticipation. Nina's brows furrowed, a crease forming between them as the quiet stretched on, unbroken. Slowly, she turned, her gaze sweeping across the expansive den toward the entryway.
"Hello?" Her voice was firmer now, edged with concern. The champagne glass she’d picked up again felt cool and fragile in her grasp as her heartbeat quickened a bit.
And then she saw him—a stranger framed by the doorway. Not a caterer, but a man whose presence was as dark and imposing as the shadows that stretched behind him. His eyes found hers, and for a moment, time seemed to suspend itself, the air charged with an electric current. Everything about the man screamed danger.
"Lovely painting," he said, his voice low and smooth, a serpent's hiss wrapped in velvet. The words slithered into the room, wrapping around Nina like barbed wire.
Her heart stumbled, then raced, pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The glass in her hand wavered, droplets falling to the floor like tiny, shattered stars.
"Who are you?" The question emerged as a whisper, a futile attempt to mask the fear that clawed its way up her throat. Every instinct screamed at her to flee; but this was her home, so fleeing seemed strange.
Not that it mattered; before she could move, before she could even think to scream, he was upon her. His movements were swift, a blur of motion that left no time for resistance. There was only the sharp intake of breath, the glint of malice in his eyes, and then the blinding flash of pain that started at her neck and seemed to avalanche its way through her body.
The champagne glass shattered on the floor, the sound lost amid the chaos. And as Nina Caldwell's world spun wildly out of control, the fourth figure standing closest to the viewer in her painting—her beautiful, beloved painting—watched on as a silent witness to the violence unfolding below.