The day before the deadline, only the final set of detailed drawings for the main design remained unfinished.
I had been up all night. My eyes burned, dry and aching.
Jemma arrived unusually early that morning.
She wasn't carrying coffee like she usually did. Instead, she wore a white dress, which was almost identical to mine.
She circled me restlessly, an excitement flickering in her eyes that I couldn't quite decipher.
"Almost done, Margot?" she asked.
"Mmh."
I didn't look up.
"Once you're finished, does that mean I'll never see you again?"
There was a strange note of disappointment in her voice. I ignored it.
All I wanted was to finish the drawing and end all of this as quickly as possible.
"Margot, if your hand were broken, if you could never draw again, do you think Ian would still keep you?" she said suddenly. My heart jolted. My grip on the pen faltered.
I looked up and met her eyes. She smiled, innocent and cruel all at once.
"Do you think I'd get hurt if I ran into that sculpture?" she continued lightly, pointing at the waist-high metal sculpture in the corner.
Before I could react, she let out a scream and rushed straight toward it.
Everything happened too fast. All I saw was a blur of white lunging toward me.
Almost at the same instant, the studio door was slammed open.
Ian burst in.
"Jemma!" he roared and, without a second thought, shoved me aside with brutal force.
I was thrown hard to the floor.
Scattered across the floor were shards from a porcelain vase Jemma had broken days earlier.
I hadn't cleaned them up, only swept them into a corner.
Now my right wrist came down squarely onto the jagged fragments.
Rip.
A dull, sickening sound as flesh split open.
Then came pain beyond description. Blood poured out instantly, staining the floor a violent red.
My vision darkened. I nearly passed out.
Through the haze, I saw Ian carefully pull the shaken Jemma into his arms, soothing her in a low, gentle voice, "It's okay. I'm here. Don't be afraid."
Jemma trembled against his chest, then, when he wasn't looking, she cast me a victorious smile.
Only then did Ian finally notice me. He saw the deep gash in my wrist, bone faintly visible. And he saw the blood covering the floor. He frowned.
He made a phone call. A family doctor arrived quickly and gave me emergency treatment.
As the doctor examined my wound, his expression grew increasingly grave.
"Mr. Wade, Miss Norris' right wrist tendon is severed," the doctor said.
"What does that mean?" Ian asked coldly.
"It means…" the doctor wiped sweat from his forehead. "This hand is done. She'll never be able to hold a paintbrush again."
The studio fell into deathly silence.
I lay on the cold floor, staring at the ceiling, a loud ringing filling my ears.
Then Ian's voice sounded above me—flat, indifferent, "If it's ruined, it's ruined. I'll support her for the rest of her life anyway."
There wasn't a trace of emotion in his tone.
I couldn't help it. I laughed.
And as I laughed, tears streamed down my face.
"Ian, you're truly heartless." I said inwardly.
