Griffith POV:
The door to Beryl's apartment was unlocked. I pushed it open, the silence within prickling with an unsettling energy. I heard her voice, light and giddy, from her studio. "...and the best part is, she's gone! Permanently! Who would have thought that pathetic orphan would be so easy to get rid of? Griffith really delivered her on a silver platter. Now, darling, my 'New Life' installation can truly shine, free of her vulgar intrusion!"
My blood ran cold. She was celebrating. Celebrating Adelia's death. My Adelia's death.
I stepped into the studio. Beryl, draped in a flimsy silk robe, stood before a canvas, a paintbrush in her hand. She turned, her smile faltering as she saw my face.
"Darling! You're back! What a surprise!" she cooed, her voice a sickly sweet imitation of concern. She tried to embrace me, her hands reaching for my neck.
I held her at arm's length, my eyes burning into hers. "You told me she was playing games," I said, my voice dangerously low. "You convinced me to ignore her call. You orchestrated her death."
Her face went pale. "Griffith, what are you talking about? Don't be ridiculous! It was an accident! Those drug dealers-"
"Don't lie to me," I snarled, my grip tightening on her arms. "Your assistant confessed. You paid them to kill Adelia. You wanted her out of the way. You wanted her child for your grotesque 'art'."
Her eyes darted nervously. "Griffith, no! It's not true! She's lying! She's trying to sabotage me!" She tried to pull away, her voice rising in panic. "I love you, Griffith! We can be together now! No more distractions! We can get married! That's what you always wanted, isn't it? I held back before because of Adelia, but now..."
The words were a hammer blow. Married. With her. The thought sent a wave of nausea through me. I raised my hand and slapped her, hard. The sound echoed in the cavernous studio. Her head snapped to the side, a crimson mark blooming on her cheek.
"Don't you ever," I breathed, my voice shaking with fury, "ever mention Adelia's name again with such filth. You are not worthy of speaking her name. You are not worthy of existing in the same world she graced."
Beryl stumbled backward, clutching her cheek, tears welling in her eyes. "Griffith, you monster! How could you?! I told you I loved you! She was nothing! A common orphan! You said so yourself!"
"And I was a fool," I roared, grabbing her by the throat. My fingers closed around her delicate neck, squeezing. "A blind, arrogant fool. She deserved so much more. And you? You deserve to burn."
Her face turned purple. Her hands scrabbled at mine, her eyes wide with terror. I saw the fear, the desperation, the raw, primal instinct to survive. It was pathetic. Just like her "art."
I released her, pushing her away with a disgusted grunt. She fell to the floor, gasping for air, clutching her throat. "No," I said, my voice cold, devoid of emotion. "Death would be too easy for you. You will live. And you will become the 'art' you so desperately crave."
I turned to my men, who had followed me in, their faces grim. "Strip her," I commanded, my voice flat. "And take her to the gallery. To the 'Postpartum Reality' exhibit. Let her be the centerpiece. Let her taste true humiliation. Let her experience her own 'art'."
Beryl' s eyes widened in horror. "No! Griffith, please! Don't do this! I beg you! Not that! Not naked! Not in public!" Her pleas were desperate, raw.
I looked at her, my eyes devoid of pity. "You used a helpless woman. You used her body. You used her child. You called it 'art.' Now, you will be the art. You will feel every ounce of the shame and degradation you inflicted upon Adelia. You will be her monument."
"I confessed!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "I told them about Adelia's whereabouts! I did it for you! For our love! I loved you, Griffith!"
"You loved my money. My connections. My status," I scoffed. "You loved yourself. And you hated Adelia because she was everything you pretended to be. Pure. Talented. Real."
"You destroyed her yourself!" Beryl screamed, hot tears streaming down her face. "You called her cheap! You called her boring! You made her abort your child! You were just as much a monster as I was! You were tired of her! You came to me because you wanted something new! Something exciting! You're a hypocrite!"
Her words, though venomous, struck a painful chord. She was right. I had been a monster. I had loved her. And I had destroyed her.
"She called your name," Beryl continued, her voice laced with a cruel triumph, "when you locked her in that dark closet! She screamed for you! While you were in my arms, laughing about her 'hysterics'! You threw her away, Griffith! You are just as guilty! And you will die alone! Just like she did!"
Her curses, her words, twisted a knife in my gut. She was right. All of it. Every agonizing word.
"Take her," I ordered, my voice barely a whisper. "Let the world see Beryl Aguirre, the 'artist,' as her true masterpiece."
My men dragged Beryl out, her screams echoing through the studio. I sank to my knees, the strength drained from me. Hot, bitter tears streamed down my face. I had lost her. The only woman who had ever truly loved me. And I had been the one to throw her away. I had been the one to facilitate her murder. I had been the one to kill my own child.
My world, once built on ambition and ruthless self-interest, was now a pile of ash. I had gained everything I thought I wanted: success, status, a "sophisticated" partner. But I had lost the one thing that truly mattered. Adelia. And I could never get her back.
