Regina's POV
He looked at me with furrowed brows and roared sharply, “Why won’t you just apologize? If you’d admit it, everything would fall into place. But no—you had to screw things up now of all times. Was it really that hard to help out? Are you really that selfish? So obsessed with your pride that you had to humiliate her like that?” he roared.
My heart, already broken beyond repair, still managed to ache.
Then my eyes drifted to his neck—faint red marks, unmistakably fresh, deliberately left visible.
Something about it made my stomach turn. I forced my voice to stay steady. “One painting doesn’t prove anything. If she doesn’t have the skill, she won’t be able to fake it forever.”
Darell’s expression darkened instantly.
“Margot is still young. I can help her grow at her own pace," he reasoned. “That painting was just a birthday surprise. She likes attention, so I pulled a few strings to give her a moment in the spotlight. Nothing wrong with that.”
Then he looked me over, cold calculation in his eyes. “But your little comment just now gave me an idea.”
He let out a slow, chilling breath. “My dear sister. Margot doesn’t have your natural talent… so she might need you to help her out a few more times.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He gave a cold, empty smile and grabbed my wrist.
“You’ve been living in my house all these years. Consider this my way of collecting rent. Fair, don’t you think?”
I struggled to break free, but his grip didn’t budge.
Pain surged through me, and with it came tears I couldn’t stop. I didn’t know how to respond—how to make sense of this version of him.
I was twelve when Mom and I first moved into this villa. I was shy, quiet, and scared. And he was the one who smiled and said, “Don’t be afraid. This is your home now.”
Those memories crashed into me like a tidal wave, blending with the cruel reality in front of me.
Maybe it was the tumor messing with my mind. Maybe that’s why everything felt so blurry and surreal.
“Be good, little sister,” he said, his tone soft but laced with threat. “All I’m asking is that you paint a few more pieces. I’ve taught you for years—it’s time to see what you’ve really learned.”
He was right. He taught me how to paint. I owed everything I knew to him.
So if he asked me to pay him back… how could I say no?
He led me into the basement storage room, where abandoned easels gathered dust.
Darell’s voice was calm as he said, “Margot and I will be staying in the country for the next two months. During that time, you won’t have to do anything else. Just paint.”
“I’ll have food and clothes brought to your room. When you’ve turned in work I’m satisfied with—when your debt is paid—I’ll give you money, and we’ll be done,” he added with a blank face.
It hurt. Like every nerve in my body was screaming.
But I kept my head high, stared straight back at him, and said, “We’ll be done? Fine. I’ll paint for you these two months—and after that, we’re even.”
It wasn’t such a bad deal.
A fair trade, almost.
He gave a cold nod. “That’s more like it. That’s the sister I know.”
Just then, his phone rang. He answered, and a sticky-sweet female voice came through the line.
“Darell, when are you coming back? I cooked a whole meal just for you. I even made your favorite—spicy crawfish. But I burned my hand in the process. You’ve been gone forever just to grab your ID. I miss you.”
Darell’s cold expression melted instantly, his voice tender. “I’m already on my way back, baby. Why didn’t you tell me you got hurt? I’ll take you to the hospital as soon as I get home.”
He didn’t spare me a glance as he walked out, and the door to the basement clicked shut—and locked.
There were no windows.
Facing a blank canvas, I picked up the brush, and the first stroke landed with a hollow sound.
That night, I tore up painting after painting, until the tears ran out and all I felt was empty.
