I was locked inside the studio on the third floor of the villa.
This place used to be my favorite. Now, it was my cage.
My phone was confiscated. Ian said it was so I could focus on creating, free from outside distractions.
I knew the truth. He wanted to cut off every possible line between me and Leland.
The studio had its own bathroom and a small resting area. Three meals a day were delivered by servants on schedule.
Aside from not being allowed to leave the room, everything looked the same as before.
But only I knew something had shattered beyond repair.
Jemma became a regular visitor.
She came every day, officially to supervise, in reality to humiliate me.
She would hold a cup of coffee, stroll back and forth in front of my finished designs, then "accidentally", her hand would slip, and the coffee would ruin the entire drawing.
"Oh no, I'm so sorry, Margot," she would say, covering her mouth, her eyes glittering with smug delight. "But you draw so fast anyway. You can just do another one, right?"
Expressionless, I would take out a fresh sheet of paper and start again.
When she saw I wasn't angry, she switched tactics.
She would sit across from me, filing her newly done nails, speaking in a syrupy-sweet voice about her blissful moments with Ian.
"Ian took me stargazing last night. He said my eyes are brighter than the stars," she'd gush.
"Oh, and he bought me a new necklace. The same one you stared at in that magazine forever."
The words went in one ear and out the other.
Ian would come by occasionally. He never acknowledged Jemma's behavior. He would simply walk up to me, pick up my drawings, and frown.
"Why are you working so slowly? Jemma is waiting for these."
There was only Jemma in his eyes. Never me. I looked up at the man I had loved for two lifetimes.
Whatever pathetic hope I had left was finally ground down, day after day, until nothing remained.
I stopped resisting. I stopped arguing.
I became a machine that drew.
If Jemma spilled coffee, I would replace the paper. If she said something vicious, I pretended not to hear it.
I worked fast, one sheet after another, until the studio was buried in designs.
Ian was pleased. He thought I had finally learned my lesson, finally been tamed.
He even rewarded me with a new drawing pen.
I took it, watching the expensive barrel catch the light, and felt nothing but irony.
He didn't know that with every stroke I drew, the hatred inside me deepened.
What was inspiration?
Inspiration was the blood I bled. The soul that had already died.
