Chapter 21 - Lucy
LUCY
Iprobably got two hours of fitful sleep last night, and I could feel the bags under my eyes before I even saw them in my bathroom mirror.
Knox had left last night, and I couldn’t blame him. I yelled at him. I showed him exactly how much like my father I was—like the people that Knox has said he hated from the very start, because of our selfishness and shortsightedness.
He was right.
I’d tricked him, somehow, into thinking I wasn’t a product of my upbringing, but when push came to shove, I folded. And now Knox was gone.
His things were gone entirely from his bedroom, the bed partially made because that was all he ever bothered to do, and even his toothbrush was gone from the bathroom.
Only his jacket remained in the coat closet by my door, and that was probably because he couldn’t spend another second in this place with me.
I should have been happy to have my studio back—once I put my supplies back in there—but I felt hollow.
The apartment was silent, a deafening, suffocating thing, and even Jackson was tiptoeing around me. He meowed at Knox’s door an hour ago, looking for someone I’d run off from both of us.
The lock turned, and I whipped around.
“Knox?” I strode quickly—jogged, if I was honest with myself—toward the door.
My dad pushed the door open.
My heart fell into my stomach, and I stopped in my tracks.
“Dad.”
Dad stepped inside and held the door open for Cordelia to strut in behind him.
“Lucian,” he hissed, “have you seen the news?”
I swallowed roughly. “No. I haven’t looked yet.”
“Open it.” His voice was like steel as he stepped toward me.
I stepped back, my heart hammering in my chest. “Dad?”
“Open. It.” He repeated.
He poked me hard in the chest, and I stumbled back onto the arm of the couch.
I scrambled with my phone, getting the password wrong twice before I managed to unlock it.
Cordelia’s smirk behind my dad didn’t help me in the slightest. She held my painting in her hands, and my heart lurched.
Paintings weren’t supposed to come out of galleries for the entirety of the exhibit, but here it was, almost mocking me as it dangled from her fingers.
It was every shred of what remained between Knox and me.
The only memory I would have of him now.
I pulled up the news. Right on the front page was a picture of an angry Mr. Vendor and his distraught wife, who had apparently taken my painting as a curse on her, so her eyes were glossy and her hands were on her heart, looking every ounce of the grieving woman.
PAINTER LUCIAN STERLING MOCKS VALENTINE’S EXHIBIT
The headline was enough of a punch to the gut, but it didn’t stop there. There were quotes from attendees, Mr. Vendor, and...my family.
“Attendees stated that Sterling’s painting caused an uproar amongst guests,” the article stated.
“With exhibit owner, Atlas Vender, stating, ‘what Mr. Sterling did was unacceptable. To not only bring that nonsense of a painting, but to have the nerve to suggest that it was a proper representation of my wife. It’s blasphemy. I will never again work with the Sterling family, and I implore you not to either,’ and his wife stating, ‘it was such a shock to see. I swear I nearly had a heart attack on the spot. So much darkness on a day that’s supposed to be about love and romance. ’”
What hurt the most, though, was Cordelia and Dad’s quotes. Had they spoken to the reporter?
“Mr. Lysander Sterling commented, ‘I cannot believe that this is what made its way to the exhibit. I’m shocked and embarrassed that Lucian has chosen this to be his display of teenage rebellion. Mr. Vender has my sincerest apologies, and our family hopes to make amends and work with him again in the future.’ When asked about his son’s future, the elder Mr. Sterling responded, ‘Lucian will be pursuing other interests for a while, I think, while he experiences a few more years of adulthood.’”
“Lucian Sterling’s sister, Cordelia, added, ‘Lucian has been struggling recently, so it was remiss of us to agree to something as important as Mr. Vender’s exhibit. I hope he finds a way to take a step forward and join the rest of us in the real world.’”
I bit my lip and looked up at Dad, who was fuming.
“What do you say to that, Lucian?” His voice was little more than a harsh whisper. “What do you think of how you’ve blacklisted our family? How you’ve singlehandedly put us in this horrible place where we have to grovel for forgiveness for your actions?”
My hands shook hard enough that my phone fell out of them, clattering to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, panic overwhelming me where I sat. “I didn’t mean to–”
“Enough,” he snapped, hand waving again with a threat I didn’t want to accept. “This is the end. You will never hold another paintbrush, Lucian. After today, you will grow up. You will work, beg, and plead to become half of what I am, half of what I wanted you to be. No more of this nonsense.”
I gasped. “No! Dad, painting is everything to me!” I shot to my feet. I was ready to beg. Grovel. Whatever it took. If I didn’t have painting, it was like I didn’t have anything left of me either.
“No. No more chances, Lucian.” He took the painting—everything of Knox and me—and waved it.
I flinched away.
“This has ruined us.”
A horrible shredding sound, and my canvas was torn right down the middle.
My ears rang, and he simply tore more pieces of my canvas away before throwing it at me.
“No more!”
I could barely hear him over the single high note that pierced my ears, and I could only watch, numb, as he stormed over to my painting corner, what I had left of my studio, and tore it limb from limb.