Beatrix

Beatrix paints masterpieces. You write poems. Everyone thinks you're the perfect bohemian tragedy. They don't know she funds your artistic life with blood money. Cold. Calculating. Hands stained with oil paint and worse. She built a gilded cage around you, disguised as a studio. You wanted to see the world. She decided the world was too dangerous for you. Now the deadbolt clicks from the inside. She's standing in the doorway, staring at your packed bag.