Chapter 29 #2
He looks at me, his expression calm but his eyes burning. "They deserved to be seen, Ophelia. Your darkness isn't something to be hidden in a sketchbook on a canvas in the office and bedroom. It's art. It's the most honest thing in this entire castle."
I look back at the paintings, and I see the guests. They aren't just glancing; they're mesmerized. They're leaning in, whispering, admiring the raw, unhinged pain I’ve poured onto the canvas. They see the horror I live with, and they love it.
A man in a velvet waistcoat approaches us, gesturing toward a painting of a skeletal saint. "These are breathtaking. The technique is raw, almost visceral. Tell me, Mr. Castellan, will these be part of the auction tonight?"
Rhys doesn't even look at the man. His gaze is locked on me. "They are all on the auction tonight," he answers smoothly.
He turns to me, his voice softening but remaining firm. "Is that okay with you, love?"
I blink, stunned. "Auction? Rhys, you can't just—"
"It will make you a fortune, Ophelia," he interrupts, stepping closer. "I don't want you to be just 'my' girl. I want you to have a career of your own. I want the world to know your name and fear your vision."
I look down at my hands, thinking of the life I almost had. "I... I always figured I'd have to go back to school eventually. Maybe be a doctor, or something. I was smart, Rhys. I loved studying. I loved to read. I love reading my mother's books... I thought that was the only way to be someone."
Rhys lets out a low, scoffing laugh, his hand cupping my jaw. "A doctor? You'd be bored to tears curing people of their little ailments. You don't need a fucking degree to tell the world how it feels to be broken."
"But I don't know if I'm good enough," I whisper.
"Look at them," he commands, gesturing to the crowd of rich gits staring at my work with hunger in their eyes.
"They don't want a doctor. They want a piece of the void.
You can create things that people would give their fucking souls to own, Ophelia.
No teacher, no university, no textbook could ever teach you how to paint the taste of blood and the scent of old graves.
You have a gift for the macabre that is once-in-a-generation. "
I look at the painting of the sea beneath the Abbey, and for the first time, I don't see a nightmare. I see power. I see a way to turn my trauma into something that makes other people tremble.
"You really think they'll pay for this?" I ask.
"Pay?" Rhys smirks, his thumb brushing my lip. "They'll fight over them. You'll be the most talked-about artist in the city by tomorrow morning."
I feel a surge of pride, a dark, intoxicating heat. I lean into him, a wicked smile crossing my face. "Fine. Auction them. Let's see how much these posh pricks are willing to pay for my madness."
"That's my girl," he growls.
Just as the words leave my lips, a staff member in a crisp black uniform steps forward, ringing a small silver bell.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please follow me into the auction room. The bidding is about to commence."
As the guests begin to filter out, the rest of the staff move in with practiced efficiency, carefully lifting my paintings from the walls and carrying them toward the auction room. I watch my nightmares being carried away, knowing that tonight, my darkness is becoming a commodity.
We enter the auction room, and the vibe is fucking oppressive in the best way possible.
It’s a massive, vaulted chamber with deep crimson curtains and gold-leaf molding that looks like it’s peeling away from the sheer weight of the darkness in the room.
The lighting is dim, provided by heavy crystal chandeliers that cast flickering, jagged shadows across the faces of the crowd.
Rhys leads me to a private booth toward the back, a plush velvet semi-circle that gives us a perfect view of the stage.
He slides in beside me, his thigh pressing firmly against mine, his hand resting possessively on my hip.
On the stage, the backdrop is a void of black velvet, and my paintings are lined up like trophies of a war I didn’t know I was fighting.
Standing beside them is the auctioneer—a skeletal man in a sharp, midnight-blue tuxedo, his voice a dry rasp that sounds like dead leaves skittering across a pavement.
I lean closer to Rhys, my voice a low whisper. "So, how’s this working then? We splitting the take fifty-fifty?"
Rhys lets out a soft, dark chuckle, his fingers digging slightly into my skin. "Fifty-fifty? Don't be fucking insane, Ophelia. Every single cent these paintings make belongs to you."
I frown, looking up at him. "But Rhys... you bought all the canvases, the oils, the brushes. Everything I used to paint this shit was paid for by you."
He turns to me, his eyes burning with that psychotic intensity I’ve grown to crave.
"I didn't invest in supplies, love; I invested in you. I won't take a single fucking penny from this. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with—it’s fucking boring. I’d much rather my future wife be just as rich as I am.
I want you to have your own power, your own hoard of gold.
It’s more satisfying knowing you’re a success in your own right, even though technically my bank account is yours anytime you want it. "
I’m stunned, my heart doing a weird little flip. He’s a possessive bastard, but he’s my possessive bastard.