Chapter 24 – Roman #2
By sundown, I searched the house for her, and one of the maids told me where to find her. The room where my late mother used to paint. At first, it came as a shock to me, and I was almost mad at her for daring to visit that place.
What business did she have being there? I wondered. But before my anger would kick in, I recalled the first time I saw her in that city restaurant. She’d corrected me about a painting on the wall, a testament to her knowledge of art.
It suddenly made sense that she’d find my late mother’s art gallery fascinating. It also explained where she was and why she’d disappear for hours.
Curious to find out what she was up to, I headed straight to the private area on the upper floor. The distant sound of poignant music drifted through the air as I walked to the room at the end of the hallway. The closer I got to my destination, the louder the music became.
I dipped my hand into my pocket, slowing as I approached the room. The door was slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of the world beyond. I spotted her sitting on a stool, her back against the entrance as she worked on a canvas mounted on a tripod easel.
She was so engrossed in her artwork that she didn’t hear me come in. Plus, the background music drowned out every sound. For a moment there, I felt like I was looking at my late mother—same posture, same hand movements.
Memories I’d long buried came flooding my mind at once as images of my late Mother flashed in my head. My eyes scanned the wide room, brightened by the hanging chandelier and the moonlight streaming in through the window.
I noticed she’d completed a few of my mother’s unfinished paintings, and that warmed my heart. My gaze returned to the canvas she was working on, a small grin tugging at my lips. I couldn’t understand what the painting was about, but the mix of colors and brushstrokes hinted at a mind in turmoil.
To get her attention, I conspicuously cleared my throat, but the music was too loud. So, I stepped forward, extended my hand, and touched her shoulder from behind.
Startled, she yelped, jolting out of her chair, and in the process, she knocked over her color palette. It crashed to the floor, splashing paint everywhere.
She stared at me in wide-eyed shock, her chest heaving with her paintbrush in her hand. Her apron was streaked with several colors, faint smudges of green and red dotting her face.
“Oops,” I said softly, attempting to tease her a little.
“Jesus Christ!” she let out a quiet exclamation. “Don’t fuckin’ do that again.”
My lips curled into a small smile. “What’re you working on?” I asked, my voice filling the awkward silence.
She hesitated for a moment, then gave a cold response. “Something.”
I glanced at the canvas. “It doesn’t have a name?”
“Not yet.”
I sensed the attitude, and the frown on her face was a clear indication of her anger. Quietly, I stepped forward, drinking in the sight of her work. “Impressive,” I said, standing in front of one that looked like a woman trapped in a dark cage.
“Thank you,” she said, almost grudgingly.
It seemed like that particular painting was inspired by her short time in my dungeon. At least something beautiful came out of it.
“What’re you doing here, Roman?” she asked, her voice laced with disdain and a tinge of pain. “Don’t you have a guest to entertain?”
My heart stopped for a second.
“You know,” she continued, her tone lower than average, “you could’ve locked the damn door—would’ve saved me from walking in on that.”
I turned around, my pulse spiking as opposed to the composure I exuded.
“Next time you wanna fuck someone in your study, at least have the decency to do that behind closed doors. I did not need to see that.” The pain in her voice was clear.
I paused, trying to find my voice and put my words together. “Scarlett, listen—”
“Save it,” she cut me off, her tone sharp and dismissive. “It’s obvious all you care about is yourself. As long as there’s a woman to scratch your itch, everyone else be damned.”
Her words cut deeper than a knife, and I could already feel the anger swelling inside me.
“I don’t know why I expected more from a monster,” she continued, her voice dripping with disdain. “You should be proud of yourself. You kidnapped an innocent girl, turned her into a sex toy, fucked her whenever you liked, and then discarded her like a worthless piece of shit.”
Her accusations pierced my heart like a thousand arrows to the chest. As much as I wanted to explain myself and crush her doubts, I decided to crush her spirit instead. She’d crossed a line by making false allegations against me.
Keeping a straight face, I said coldly, “You’re right. And I’m glad you finally see yourself for what you are.”
Her paintbrush fell out of her hand, and her brows rose in disbelief, shocked at my response.
I watched her lips tremble as unshed tears filled her eyes.
She stood frozen in place, like she was still processing my words—maybe she didn’t hear me right.
I could almost hear the sound of her heart shattering into a million pieces, and it unsettled me in more ways than one.
Dang it.
I shouldn’t have said that.
She took off her apron, tossed it on the nearest table, and then, without a word, she stormed out of the room, sobbing.
“Fuck,” I mumbled, combing my fingers through my hair.
My jaw clenched, the bitterness of my own words burning inside me.