My right hand was wrapped in layers of gauze. The doctor said that even if it healed, I would never be able to do fine, delicate work again.
For example, drawing.
Ian said he would take care of me for the rest of my life. He moved me out of the studio and into the master bedroom, hired the best private nurses to look after me.
He came to see me every day, bringing all kinds of supplements and gifts.
He treated me well, so well that it was meticulous, almost tender.
As if the person who had personally pushed me into the abyss had never been him.
He thought this was enough to make up for everything. But he didn't know that his gentleness hurt more than any blade.
Half a month later, Jemma's new design collection was a massive success.
Riding on the designs I had poured everything into, she swept the most prestigious "Rising Designer" award in the country.
For a time, she was unstoppable. The media called her a once-in-a-century prodigy.
The celebration banquet was extravagant, attended by nearly every notable figure in the city.
Ian stood by my bed, personally selecting an evening gown for me.
"Tonight is Jemma's celebration," he said. "You're coming with me."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.
"I'm not going."
I looked down at my numb right hand, my voice hoarse.
"Margot, stop being difficult," he warned, his patience clearly wearing thin. "You have to go."
"Why?" I asked, lifting my head to meet his gaze. "To watch her stand on my work and accept everyone's praise? Or to watch you spend lavishly, celebrating her triumph?"
Ian's expression darkened.
"I'm taking you so you can see clearly," he said coldly, "who the final winner really is."
He grabbed my chin, squeezing hard enough that my bones nearly cracked.
"To kill whatever foolish hope you still have," he added.
I was forced into the banquet hall. The room was filled with glittering gowns and clinking glasses.
Jemma stood at the center of the stage in a custom haute couture dress.
She held the trophy in her hands, her smile radiant, blinding.
Under the spotlight, she looked like a queen.
"Thank you all, thank you to the judges," she said. "This award means everything to me. And most of all, I want to thank my muse, my love, Mr. Ian Wade."
She glanced in Ian's direction.
Thunderous applause erupted across the hall.
Ian stood right beside me. He forced my head up, making me look at Jemma onstage.
He even forced me to clap along with the crowd.
I raised my left hand and clapped, once, then again, mechanical and hollow.
I watched the woman glowing under the lights.
I watched the signature piece she was wearing. The centerpiece gown I had spent three sleepless nights designing.
Every detail, every fold, was carved into my memory.
Now it bore someone else's name, transformed into a badge of someone else's glory.
I reached for my right hand, wrapped in gauze, completely numb.
The fire inside me slowly went out.
Anger. Resentment. Hatred. In the end, there was nothing left but emptiness.
That was fine. This was fine.
From this moment on, I felt nothing—no love, no hope—for drawing, for design.
It was you, Ian.
You were the one who personally killed the Margot who once had light in her eyes.
