C12 THE PAINTER WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

The Painter Who Knew Too Much

The last new lover was Ozan, a redheaded painter with eyes like unwashed skies and lips like apology.

He didn’t ask questions at first. Just traced her skin with his paint-stained fingers. They made love in his studio, where the walls smelled of linseed, turpentine, and lust.

But unlike the others, Ozan was curious—dangerously so.

“You dream in names,” he said one morning.

“You say Talisa like it’s a spell. You moan Leyla like you regret it.”

She sat up, naked under his canvas, trying to deny it. But his gaze held her.

“You’re not a collector,” he said. “You’re a haunted gallery.”

It hit her like a slap from silk.